🎀🎀

bf!toji becomes totally obsessed with this—knowing he can make you lose control just by touching you makes his ego go through the roof. the sweet boyfriend who hates to see you cry in public completely disappears behind closed doors. in bed, your tears mean he's doing a good job.

bf!toji gets really smug and loves to tease you about it. he’ll purposely slow down, touching the exact spot that makes you crazy, watching your eyes fill with tears while he smirks.

"look at you," he’ll whisper, wiping a tear away with his thumb. "crying already? you're so sweet for me. keep going, let me see how good it feels."

bf!toji loves to push you over the edge by building the friction until you can't take it. he’ll pin your wrists above your head, spreading your legs wide so he can look right at you while he slides all the way inside. every time he thrusts deep and hits your sweet spot, a fresh wave of tears leaks from your eyes, and he just stares down at you with a dark, heavy grin, loving how loud you gasp and sob under him.

bf!toji who will change positions just to make you cry harder. he'll flip you onto your stomach, pulling your hips up high so he can slide in from behind. the angle is deep and intense, and as he grips your waist hard enough to leave marks, you're burying your face in the pillows to muffle your crying. he'll lean down, his chest pressing against your back, and talk right into your ear.

"baby, let me hear it—turn your head and look at me—god, look at how wet your face is just because i'm stretching you out like this."

bf!toji decides that if you aren't crying by the end of the night, he didn't try hard enough. it becomes a game to him. he will deliberately push you over the edge, using his dick and his dirty mouth to keep you completely overwhelmed until you're shaking and crying in his arms.

The burning pain is so concentrated, it's too overwhelming to focus on anything else. He told you to breathe through your nose and relax your body, but it seems your body is at odds with those very instructions.

It feels as if he’s ripping you open from the center, no pleasure laced with the pain despite how he rubs your clit in perfect circles with his thumb.

After a moment, the pain disappears; left in its place is only an ebb of pain as evidence that he was there at all.

Something warm and wet bumps against your clit, making your thighs twitch involuntarily. It soothes the ache, making your inner muscles clench around nothing in anticipation.

You look between your legs to find Toji rubbing his swollen cock head against your clit in circles. The veins in his hands press against his skin from beneath, making your mouth water.

“You’re still too tight,” he says, his dark, low-lidded eyes on yours. “Gotta loosen up for me.”

You chew on the inside of your cheek as warmth creeps up your neck. “You’re too big,” you scold. “It isn’t my fault. That thing is a monster.”

He smirks, raising a brow before thrusting his hips so his cock rubs upwards against your most sensitive spot in a repetitive sliding motion that makes your head spin. He glances down for a moment before spitting on your cunt, his saliva landing just above your opening. “I worked you open. Made you cum twice with my fingers and tongue.” He slaps his cock against your pussy a few times, his amusement growing at the sound and sight of your arousal sticking to his cock head.

He starts humping your pussy, sliding his cock between your cunt while bumping your clit with each thrust. The sensation completely erases the prior discomfort from before as pleasure seeps into your body, making you dizzy.

“It's still not…” Your eyes flutter, and your lips part as your legs tighten around his waist.

“Hmm?” Toji leans over you, grabbing your jaw with one hand while bracing his weight on the mattress beside you. “Still not what?” he prompts.

Your gasps turn breathy as the pleasure slowly leaks into your stomach. The warmth blossoms like a flower spreading its petals, becoming an all-encompassing bliss you can hardly think through. “Fuck, Toji,” You gasp. “Oh, fuck.”

He hisses through his teeth before biting his lip and glancing between the two of you to watch how his cock rubs against your pussy. His head appears from between your lips with each thrust, shining with your conjoined arousal. “Fuck, that’s pretty.”

He glances back up at you. Squishing your cheeks together, he leans down until your lips are nearly touching. “Gonna cum like this? Hm? While I fuck that sore little clit?”

“Oh my—” Your nails dig into his back. Your hips begin to match his rhythm, thrusting up in time with his movements. “Yes. Yes. Shit, Toji. That feels so good.”

He releases a sound half between a sigh and a groan before he presses his lips to yours with urgency. He wastes no time in gently introducing his tongue and rather forces his tongue into your mouth, squeezing your jaw with his fingers.

Your moans get lost in the kiss, mingling with his as his throat becomes more frantic. He’s grunting into the sloppy kiss, his breath tickling your cheeks.

He breaks the kiss to moan against your lips. His eyes roll back in his head. “Mmm—” His cheeks are flushed red with arousal. “I’ll fuck you another day,” he groans. “I need to shoot all over this pretty cunt.”

“M-hmm,” you agree while your bottom lip finds its way between your teeth. “Please. Oh god. I’m so close, Toji.”

The noise he releases is so raw and honest that it makes the heat shoot through your entire body. He keeps fucking his cock right where you need it, rubbing your clit over and over again so perfectly. Your nails dig into his back harder as your back arches.

Toji groans in response, his hips canting in reaction to the pain. “Mean fucking hands, baby,” he groans, biting his lip. “Harder. I wanna see it tomorrow.”

The tips of your fingers go numb from how hard you dig your nails into his shoulder blades. Your body tenses, dragging your fingers upwards and leaving angry red marks in their wake. Distantly, somewhere in your semi-conscious mind, you feel a trickle of wetness against his skin.

“More p-pressure, Toji,” you gasp. “I’m right there. ‘m right there, please—”

Toji reaches between you and presses on his shaft, increasing the pressure of his cock against your clit. He leans down by your neck and pulls your lobe into his mouth with his teeth, biting teasingly before sucking to ease the pain. “Let me feel that tight pussy cum for me.”

Your mind splinters with the power of your orgasm. You cry out into the room, your abdomen jerking repeatedly as the tension inside you snaps. “Fuck- Fuck- Fuck-” You repeat the curse as a mantra as he works your orgasm out of you, pressing his thumb against the head of his dick right over your clit.

Toji grits his teeth and groans before pulling back his cock and aiming it at your cunt. His eyes are downwards at your pussy as the first rope of cum shoots from his dick, landing over your pussy in an obscene show of his satisfaction.

His eyes roll with every wave of his release, the tips of his ears burning red.

You catch your breath and run your arms down his biceps, soothing his tense muscles in long strokes as the last of his orgasm flows out of him.

“You made a mess,” you tease through a smile, looking down at where his cum is splattered all over the outside of your cunt and lower stomach. You can feel him dripping down your ass and know he must’ve made an even worse mess that you can’t see.

Toji grunts, wiping the head of his softening cock through said mess before pressing the head to your opening.

You grit your teeth at the soreness of his earlier attempts.

“Yeah,” he grunts hoarsely. “A very pretty mess.” He doesn’t attempt to push into your opening, just teases you there, but it’s enough to make you tighten up in anticipation—something Toji feels that makes a smirk dimple the corners of his lips. His pleasure-droopy eyes look up to find yours knowingly.

“Shut up and get off me,” you groan, pushing at his bare abdomen.

“All this and you’re still scared to take me in here,” he chuckles.

You tuck your legs to your chest and attempt to roll out from under him, but his massive body doesn’t allow it. Your gaze snaps to his with a pout.

Instead of deterring him, his smile only grows. He pinches your cheek condescendingly, eyes darting across your face. “No one should look so unhappy after coming so many times and so hard.”

“You’re so full of yourself,” you say, but the words are slurred, courtesy of the massive bastard holding your cheek hostage. “I need to stop fucking you.”

He gives you a knowing look.

“I said I need to,” you emphasize. “Not that I will. Because I am very, very stupid.”

You don’t think.

You pounce.

The ice cream hits the floor. The spoon clatters. You’re across the living room in three strides, launching yourself at him so hard he actually stumbles back against the door with a surprised laugh that dies the second your mouth crashes into his.

“Missed you,” you pant between kisses, hands already shoving his hoodie up. “Missed you so fucking much, Jude — weeks, it’s been weeks—”

“I know, I know,” he murmurs, but his hands are already on your ass, squeezing the soft, full curves like he’s trying to memorize them again. “Fuck, you feel good. Look at you—”

You don’t let him finish.

You bite his bottom lip, tug his hoodie off, and push him toward the couch. He lets you. Of course he does. He’s smirking against your mouth but his hands are greedy — sliding under the hem of his shirt on your body, palms dragging up the sides of your waist, thumbs brushing the undersides of your heavy breasts.

The back of his knees hit the couch and he drops down. You follow instantly, straddling him, knees sinking into the cushions on either side of his hips. Your panties are already soaked. You can feel it. He can definitely feel it when you grind down against the growing bulge in his sweats.

“Baby—” he tries, voice rough.

“No talking,” you whine, yanking the shirt over your head. Your tits spill free, full and soft and bouncing with the movement. Jude’s eyes drop to them immediately, a low curse leaving him.

“Fuck, I missed these.”

You don’t give him time to worship. You’re too feral.

You shove his sweats down just enough to free his cock — thick, heavy, already leaking at the tip. The sight of it after weeks apart makes your mouth water. You don’t even bother with foreplay. You hook your panties to the side and sink down on him in one smooth, greedy motion.

The stretch burns so good.

A broken moan rips from your throat. Jude’s head falls back against the couch, eyes squeezing shut for half a second before they snap open again — locking onto yours.

“Eyes on me,” he orders, voice suddenly deeper. One hand slides up your throat, not squeezing yet, just resting there. A reminder. “That’s it. Look at me while you take this dick, yeah?”

You nod frantically, lips parted, breath already ragged as you start moving. Rolling your hips in messy, desperate circles, riding him like you’ll die if you stop. The wet slap of skin fills the room immediately. Your tits bounce with every movement and Jude’s free hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise, guiding you, helping you fuck yourself on him.

“Good girl,” he praises, voice wrecked. “Such a good fucking girl for me. Look how wet you are — all that for me?”

“Yes,” you whimper. “Only you. Missed you so much—”

“I know, baby. I know.” His thumb strokes the side of your neck. “You’re squeezing me so tight. This pussy missed me, huh?”

You moan louder, grinding down harder, taking him deeper. The eye contact is almost too much — his dark eyes boring into yours, watching every flicker of pleasure across your face. He looks like he wants to devour you.

His hand on your throat tightens — just enough to make your breath catch, just enough to make your walls flutter around him.

“Tell me who this pussy belongs to.”

“You,” you gasp. “You, Jude — fuck—”

“That’s right.” He thrusts up suddenly, meeting you halfway, and your eyes almost roll back. “Nobody else gets this. Nobody else gets to see you like this — all pretty and feral and creaming on my cock. You hear me?”

You nod, tears pricking your eyes from how deep he is, from how good it feels, from how much you missed him.

He loosens his grip on your throat and slides his hand down to slap your ass — hard. The sting blooms beautifully across your soft skin.

“Ride me properly then. Show me how bad you needed it.”

You do.

You brace your hands on his shoulders and fuck him like you’re trying to break him. The couch creaks underneath you. Your moans mix with his grunts. He keeps praising you the whole time — “That’s it, just like that… fuck, you’re so beautiful… look at those tits bounce for me… good girl, good fucking girl” — until you shatter.

Your orgasm hits you so hard your vision whites out. You cry out his name, thighs shaking, pussy pulsing around him as you soak his lap. Jude doesn’t stop. He grips your hips with both hands and fucks you through it, deep and relentless, eyes never leaving yours.

Only when you start to slump does he slow down, pulling you down for a filthy, open-mouthed kiss.

But you’re not done.

Not even close.

You’re still clenching around him when you whisper against his lips, “Shower. Now.”

He laughs — low, dark, delighted — and stands up with you still impaled on his cock. Your legs wrap around his waist automatically. He carries you like you weigh nothing, mouth still on yours, cock still buried deep as he walks you both to the bathroom.

The shower is barely warm by the time he presses you against the tiles.

He fucks you there too — slower this time, deeper, one of your thick thighs hooked over his arm so he can watch every inch of him disappear inside you. Water cascades over both of you. Your curls are ruined. His are plastered to his forehead. Neither of you cares.

“Look at me,” he demands again, forehead pressed to yours. His hand comes back to your throat — light, possessive. “Eyes on me while I fuck you deep, baby. Want to see you fall apart again.”

You can’t look away even if you wanted to.

He praises you through the entire second orgasm — telling you how perfect you are, how tight, how wet, how no one else will ever make you feel like this. You come with his name on your tongue and his eyes locked on yours, his cock hitting that spot so perfectly you see stars.

He pulls out before he finishes, stroking himself once, twice, and painting your belly and tits with hot stripes of cum. The sight alone almost makes you come again.

You both wash up quickly after that — sort of. There’s a lot of touching, a lot of kissing, his hands soaping up every curve of your body like he’s rediscovering it.

But the second you’re out of the shower?

You don’t even dry off.

Jude throws you onto the bed while you’re both still dripping wet. The sheets soak instantly underneath you. He climbs over you, caging you in, water droplets falling from his curls onto your chest.

“One more,” he murmurs, voice rough. “Need to feel you one more time.”

You nod frantically, legs spreading for him immediately. He slides back inside you in one smooth thrust — so deep your back arches clean off the bed.

“Fuck, Jude—”

“I’ve got you.” He leans down, elbows braced on either side of your head so he can keep that heavy eye contact. “That’s it. Take all of me, such a good fucking girl.”

His hand finds your throat again — firmer this time, thumb pressing just under your jaw so your head tilts back slightly. Not cutting off air, just holding you there. Owning you.

You’re so wet from the shower and from two orgasms already that the sounds are obscene. Every deep stroke makes a filthy wet smack. Your tits jiggle with every thrust. Jude can’t stop looking at you — eyes flicking between your face, your bouncing chest, and where you’re stretched around him.

“Missed this pussy so much,” he groans. “Missed how she grips me. Missed how pretty you look when you cum. Give me one more, baby. Come on. Let me feel it.”

You’re already so close.

The praise, the eye contact, the way he’s fucking you so deep it feels like he’s in your stomach — it’s overwhelming.

His free hand slides between you, thumb finding your clit, rubbing tight circles.

“What did I say baby? Eyes on me,” he reminds you when your lids flutter. “Don’t look away. Want to watch you fall apart while I’m inside you.”

You cum harder than you have all night.

Your whole body locks up, walls spasming around his cock so tightly he curses. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, eyes wide and locked on his the entire time. Jude fucks you through it, hips losing rhythm, praise spilling from his lips like a prayer.

“Fuck — that’s it, baby. So good. So perfect. My girl. My fucking girl—”

He buries himself to the hilt and comes with a broken moan, flooding you deep. You feel every pulse, every spurt, and it makes your orgasm drag on impossibly longer.

For a long moment the only sounds are your ragged breathing and the wet drip of shower water still sliding off your bodies onto the ruined sheets.

Jude collapses half on top of you, careful not to crush you, but close enough that you feel surrounded by him. His hand slides from your throat to cup your face. His thumb strokes your cheek.

“You okay?” he whispers.

You nod, dazed and blissed out, a lazy smile tugging at your lips. “Missed you.”

He chuckles softly and kisses you — slow, deep, reverent this time.

“Never leaving you that long again,” he promises against your mouth. “Not when you jump me like that. Fuck, I think I’m ruined.”

You laugh, the sound bright and happy, and pull him closer.

The sheets are soaked. Your bodies are sticky. Your thighs ache in the best way.

And you’ve never felt more loved — or more thoroughly fucked — in your life.

Then the fans started up with “Hey Jude” and you had to look away quickly, blinking hard. The pride you feel swells up so huge it doesn’t fit in your chest, it spills over into these stupid tears every single time you hear the song, no matter how many times you see him do something like this.

“He looks exhausted,” Denise says quietly, her arm still hooked through yours, squeezing a little.

“I know. Bless him. I don’t know how he’s still standing out there. He gave that absolutely everything.”

You take some deep breaths with his parents, gushing over his performance as usual and wait for him to finish with everything else he has to do after the final whistle.

Soon enough, you watch him walk over showered and changed into the usual post-match tracksuits, his hood half up already like he’s already trying to shut the world out. Even from a distance you can see the heaviness in his shoulders, the way he’s moving a bit stiffer than usual, his tall frame carrying the weight of a country for ninety-plus minutes. He looks happy though. So, so happy. His dark eyes scan the stands until they find you three, and you can see the sparkle in them as soon as he spots you. 

He hugs his mum first, extra tight, murmuring something that makes her laugh and pat his back. All week she’d been saying watch your language, watch your tackles, watch your face so he wouldn’t get booked. You could see how proud she was of him, her eyes closing when they hugged. It almost made your heart burst. 

Then his dad, the two of them clapping each other on the shoulder like they always do, that quiet father-son thing that always makes your chest warm. Mark kisses his cheek, and your smile mirrors Jude’s bashful one. Only after that does he turn to you.

“There she is,” he says, voice a little rough from the game, his accent coming through even stronger when he’s tired. He smiles down at you, exhausted but sweet, and you stand up to meet him.

You cup his cheek, thumb brushing his sharp cheekbone, your other arm sliding round his broad back. He’s warm, solid, still carrying the smell of the grass mixed with fresh shower gel. “I’m so proud of you, Jude. That looked so tough out there.”

He leans down and kisses you, soft and quick. He’s never one for big PDA with the cameras hovering, but he never lets you feel unloved. Then his hand comes up, gentle as anything, tucking a bit of hair behind your ear. His eyes go all soft as he looks at you, the intense match-day fire dialled right down just for you. “Thank you, baby. Yeah… it was hard. Proper hard. But we got there. It was rough though, I’m shattered.”

You sit back down and he drops straight onto the seat next to you, no hesitation. His head finds your shoulder immediately, heavy and trusting, like he’s been waiting for this exact spot the whole night. You slide your hand up to scratch lightly at the back of his neck, the way he likes, and feel him let out a long breath, sinking further into you. The relief in his body is so obvious it makes your heart twist.

His mum and dad chat lightly for a minute — something about the referee, how proud they are, the usual post-match debrief — and Jude mumbles along, half in it, half gone. His hand finds yours in your lap, fingers threading together lazily.

After a bit he turns his head, lips brushing your ear as he lowers his voice. “Are you gonna come visit me tonight?”

You snort, playfully nudging his head away. “You look like you’ve been hit by a bus, babe.”

He laughs then, loud and bright, teeth flashing, his eyes lighting up with the loving mischief that always gets you. “What? I can’t get cuddles from my girl? After that?”

You raise an eyebrow, fighting your own smile. “Cuddles?”

His lip twitches, smirk spreading slow and dangerous. “Cuddles,” he repeats, all innocent like. “And a couple of kisses. Just three or four…”

You tilt your head, giving him a look. He’s dead on his feet, shoulders slumped, yet still managing to look at you like that. You ignore the heat pooling in your stomach from the way he's looking at you and try to think logically. The semi-finals are midweek. “You’re gonna cramp up at some point and whatever idea you’ve got of cuddles and kisses is gonna be straight out the window.”

“Can I not enjoy my recovery with my girlfriend? Is that against the law now?” He huffs dramatically, but his hands are already stroking up your sides, warm and familiar.

You huff at him, already giving in. “You’re so spoilt.”

He grins wider, leaning in to kiss your cheek. “You can never say no to me.”

And it’s true. You can’t say no to him. Not when he looks at you like that. Cuddles. Right. 

It wasn’t long before you found yourself being led by Jude back to his room in the team hotel in Miami. They’d just had a squad dinner, winding down after the match. As soon as players started to retreat he’d texted you and met you in the lobby. Other England camps weren’t like this in the past, you were so grateful the rules had been changed to let you see him, even if he should be resting.

He’d showered again, you could already tell by the cologne and body wash mix you could smell as you followed him down the quiet corridor. His hand was warm around yours, thumb brushing your knuckles every few steps. He still moved a little stiff from the game, the beautiful body of his carrying the bruises and the exhaustion, but there was this restless energy in him too, the win still buzzing under his skin.

Once the door clicked shut behind you, he didn’t stop talking. He kicked his slides off, flopping back onto the bed as he kept going, voice low and rough but nonstop the way it always gets when he’s over-excited.

“...and then after the equaliser, I swear the pitch felt like it was moving, the humidity was mad out there. But the lads were buzzing, it was so loud on the pitch. Harry pulled me over after and was saying something about the run we’re on now, and I was just thinking the whole time about that last chance, how I nearly messed up the touch but it just fell right. Then extra time, my legs were gone but you just dig deep, don’t you? Mum’s texts were killing me the whole week about watching my face and my language, I nearly got booked just for breathing heavy at the ref at one point—”

He laughed at himself, running a hand over his damp hair, eyes bright even though his shoulders were sinking deeper into the pillows. You perched on the edge of the bed, watching him, the usual warmth spreading in your chest.

He reached out and tugged you closer by the wrist, still mid-story. “—and then I was like, nah, we’re not losing this one. You get me babe? And then I was like—”

“Jude, take a breath, love. I was there and watching the whole thing,” you chuckle, adjusting to lie next to him on the bed. His arm slipped under your head straight away, pulling you in like it was the most natural thing in the world. His thumb moved slowly across your cheek, warm and a little rough.

“I know, I know, I’m sorry,” he murmured, half-laughing at himself again, voice dropping lower. “I’m just… excited. I don’t know. We left everything out there and…”

He trailed off for a second, eyes half-closed, but his fingers kept moving, tracing your jaw, then down the side of your neck, like he couldn’t quite settle even though his body was heavy with tiredness. Up close like this you could see every little detail: the faint sheen of sweat still at his hairline from how warm it was in Miami, the way his chest rose and fell a bit quicker than normal, a fresh bruise along his jaw starting to darken. You breathed in his warm skin scent that always made your stomach flip.

He shifted closer, leg hooking over yours casually, voice going soft and a little rough with emotion. “It’s mad innit? One minute you’re out there thinking your legs are done, next minute the ball drops and it just… happens. And now we’re in the semis. Semis, babe.”

His grin came back, tired but bright, the one that always made your heart do stupid things. He pressed his forehead to yours for a second, breathing you in like he needed it more than air. “Couldn’t have done it without knowing you were up there. Makes it all feel different.”

“I love you,” you whisper softly, thumb brushing his cheek, “and I’m so proud of you.”

“How proud?” he beamed, raising an eyebrow, a playful spark lighting up his exhausted face.

“Very proud. Like… prouder than you can even imagine. I think I’ve cried at nearly every game—”

Jude giggles, almost giddy, the sound low and warm in his chest. He loved praise, especially from you, it always turned him soft and a little cocky at the same time. “I know, my little crybaby,” he cooed, voice teasing and fond as he leaned in, pressing little kisses all over your cheeks, the tip of your nose, the corner of your mouth. Each one gentle and sweet, like he was savouring being close after the chaos of the match.

“Shut up,” you laugh quietly, trying to sound stern but failing completely. “You need to calm down, baby. You have to sleep.”

“My body’s tired,” he mumbles against your skin, kissing your cheek again, then lingering lower near your jaw, “but the adrenaline is just making me wired, man.”

You stroke his side, up and down in a slow, steady rhythm, feeling the solid warmth of him under your palm, the faint tremor of leftover energy in his muscles. His tall frame was heavy against you, one leg tangled with yours, but his hands kept wandering. Sliding under the hem of your top to rest against your lower back, thumb tracing lazy circles there. 

After a moment he shifts, propping himself up on one elbow so he’s looking down at you properly. The lamp on the bedside table casts a soft glow over his face, his beautiful brown eyes and pink lips slightly parted. He looks unfairly good for someone who just played extra time in a stadium that felt more like a sauna.

“So…” he starts, a smirk creeping back in. “About those kisses I was promised.”

You raise an eyebrow, fighting a smile again. “I don’t remember promising anything.”

“Oi, don’t lie to me..” He leans in closer, nose brushing yours, breath warm against your mouth. “I distinctly remember talking about three or four. Minimum.” His hand slides higher under your top, palm flat and warm against your ribs, thumb stroking just under the curve of your breast. “Come on, baby. I earned them, didn’t I? Scored two, dragged us to the semis… least you can do is give your man some proper kisses.”

He’s grinning again now, all cheeky and tired and completely devastating to your self-control . Before you can answer he dips his head and presses one slow kiss to the corner of your mouth, then another just below your ear, lingering there like he knows exactly what it does to you. 

“You’ve just wasted two kisses…and you look like you’re about to fall asleep.”

He groans in joking frustration, eyebrows furrowing to give you a little puppy dog look that always gets him out of trouble. “I just want cuddles and kisses before i sleep-”

He stops as you tilt your head at him, giving him another look.

“I swear, I swear! Baby, please…”

The pleading look on his face already has your stomach flipping, mouth a little dry. He’s so unfairly gorgeous like this. Tired eyes, messy damp curls,his toned body stretched out next to you, still radiating heat from the match. The way his tracksuit top has ridden up to show a sliver of toned stomach… it’s ridiculous how much you want him even when he’s half-dead on his feet.

“Fine,” you say, trying to sound stern but your voice comes out softer than you mean it to, “but you need to try and sleep too…”

He shifts slightly so you’re fully facing each other, one hand moving to your lower back, his leg still draped heavy over yours. “I can fall asleep kissing you.”

The kisses start off sweet and slow. Gentle presses of his lips against yours, his hand stroking your lower back under your top. His other hand in your hair, fingers loose and tired. Then they deepen.

Jude lets out a quiet, relieved sigh into your mouth as his lips part wider, tongue sliding in slow and warm. The kisses turn sloppy fast. Wet, lazy, unhurried in an exhausted way that somehow makes it hotter. His tongue moves heavy and deep, tangling with yours in long, messy strokes, licking into your mouth like he’s too tired to do anything but feel you. Every so often he sucks softly on your tongue or your bottom lip, pulling it between his before going back in deeper, slower, wetter. You can taste the faint mint from his post-dinner toothpaste mixed with the warm, familiar taste that’s just him. His breaths are heavier now, little groans vibrating against your lips as the kisses grow filthier. Your tongues sliding slow and slick, mouths open and messy, spit-slick lips catching every time you pull apart for air only to dive right back in.

He’s genuinely exhausted, you feel it in the heavy weight of his body against yours, the way his movements stay soft and sleepy even as they get more desperate. His hand in your hair tightens slightly, holding you there as he kisses you like he’s trying to melt into you. Deep, lazy swirls of his tongue, slow sucks, the occasional sleepy grind of his hips against your thigh. He’s half-asleep and completely turned on at the same time, and it’s doing dangerous things to you.

Your hand slides under his top to rest on his ribs, and the soft, needy sound he makes against your tongue makes you shiver hard in his arms.

“M’so hard for you,” he whispers against your lips, breathing heavily. He presses his hips forward, grinding slowly so you can feel exactly how turned on he is, the thick, heavy outline of his cock straining against his joggers.

“You need me to help you, baby?” you murmur, letting your hand trail down his stomach until your palm cups the hard bulge. He’s so warm, so fucking hard already, twitching eagerly under your touch.

Jude’s breath hitches, hips jerking up into your hand as he lets out a soft, desperate whimper. “Please…”

“But you’re so tired, Jude.” You stroke him slowly through the fabric, teasing, because you love when he gets like this…all soft, sleepy, and whiny for you.

“Baby—” he whines, the sound high and needy, forehead pressed to yours. His hand moves down to squeeze your ass, fingers digging in just a little. “M’never too tired for you… fuck, please touch me properly. I need it. Need you so bad..”

You push his joggers down just enough to free him and wrap your fingers around him. Jude’s whole body shudders, a broken moan spilling from his lips as you start stroking him. You start slow, firm pulls from base to tip, thumb swirling over the slick head every time. He’s so thick and hot in your hand, veins pulsing, leaking steadily now. You’re transfixed by the sight of him.

“Fuck… yes, just like that,” he whimpers, voice all sleepy. His head tips back against the pillow, eyes fluttering shut, mouth open as soft, desperate little sounds keep falling out of him. “Your hand feels so good, baby… don’t stop, please. I’ve been thinking about this for hours.”

You twist your wrist on the upstroke and he jolts, hips bucking lazily into your fist, chasing the pleasure even though his body is heavy with exhaustion. Every whimper is quieter, needier. He’s almost submissive in the way he lets you take control, thighs trembling, fingers clutching at your waist like you’re the only thing anchoring him.

You lift his shirt higher so you can see his toned stomach, selfishly maybe, but he looked so pretty. You keep going, stroking him faster, tighter, watching the way his abs clench and his chest rises and falls quicker. “So pretty Jude,” you whisper, and Jude lets out a broken whine, biting his bottom lip.

“Baby… I— fuck, I’m so close already,” he pants, voice cracking. “Your hand is gonna make me come if you keep— ah—”

You slide down his body before he can finish, taking him into your mouth in one slow, wet glide. Jude’s back arches off the bed with a loud, guttural moan, one hand flying to your hair, holding on tight as his fingers tremble.

“Oh my god— your mouth, fuck—” He’s losing it completely now, sleepy whimpers turning into desperate, broken sounds as you bob your head, tongue swirling around him, sucking him deep. “So warm… so fucking good. Baby, please— I can’t— you’re gonna make me come down your throat if you keep sucking like that.”

His hips twitch up gently, like he’s trying so hard to be good and not fuck your mouth, but his control is slipping. Whiny, breathy moans fill the room as you take him deeper, hollowing your cheeks, tongue pressing along the underside. Jude’s thighs shake, hand tightening in your hair, voice hoarse.

“Baby… slow, please, I’m so sensitive— fuck, I love your mouth so much…”

You slow down and look up, making eye contact with him. His eyes are glassy, half-lidded with exhaustion and pure bliss, lips parted, chest heaving. The sight of you between his legs like this seems to ruin him even more.

“You’re so beautiful,” he moans, voice cracking, thumb stroking your cheek gently. “My beautiful girl.”

He keeps watching you with that dazed, adoring look, hips rocking up in tiny, helpless movements as you suck him slow and deep. You swirl your tongue around the head, then take him all the way again, relaxing your throat until your nose brushes his stomach. Jude’s whole body trembles.

“Fuck— baby, look at you,” he whispers, voice hoarse and reverent. “Taking me so well… even when I’m this tired. You’re perfect. So fucking perfect for me.”

His praise comes out soft and broken, each word punctuated by a shaky breath or a little whimper. You can feel how close he is, the way his cock throbs heavier on your tongue, the constant little twitches of his thighs, the way his fingers keep flexing in your hair like he’s fighting not to lose it. But he stays so good for you, letting you control everything, just moaning and whining softly every time you swallow around him or suck a little harder.

“Gonna make me come if you keep doing that…” he pants, eyes fluttering. “Your mouth is too good, love. Too warm and wet and— shit—”

You pull off with a wet pop, strings of spit connecting your lips to his cock as you stroke him slowly with your hand instead. Jude lets out a wrecked, needy sound at the loss, hips chasing your mouth for a second before he catches himself. Before you can say anything, he’s tugging at you weakly, desperate.

“Too far away… come back up here, please.”

You crawl back up his body and he immediately pulls you in, kissing you deep and messy, tasting himself on your tongue with a low groan. His hands are everywhere, sliding under your top, squeezing your waist, your hips, like he needs to feel all of you at the same time. The kiss goes on and on, lazy and filthy, tongues sliding slow while he whimpers softly into your mouth every time you stroke him.

You keep working your hand over his cock, slow and slick, and Jude’s hips rock up to meet every stroke, his breathing getting shakier. He breaks the kiss just enough to rest his forehead against yours, panting.

“You don’t want to come yet?” you whisper against his lips, still stroking him lazily.

He shakes his head, eyes fluttering. “Wanna be closer to you baby, wanna make you feel good.. wanna.. wanna— fuck.”

His sentence cuts off into a broken moan. For a long moment he just kisses you again, deeper this time, one hand cupping the back of your neck while the other slides down your body. His palm smooths over your stomach, then lower, teasing along the waistband of your shorts like he’s giving you time to feel the anticipation. His fingers finally slip under the fabric, pushing your shorts and panties down your thighs in one clumsy but eager movement. He helps kick them the rest of the way off, big hands gentle on your skin the whole time.

Once they’re gone he settles between your spread legs, still kissing you slow and deep. His fingers drag through your folds and he curses softly against your mouth.

“You’re so wet for me, fuck…” He circles your clit slowly, almost lazily, but the way his breath catches tells you how much it affects him. “All this for me? After I played like shit for half the game?”

You laugh breathlessly, rolling your hips against his hand, and he smiles a tired, crooked grin before leaning in to kiss you again. His fingers keep moving, slow circles on your clit, then dipping inside you just enough to make you gasp into his mouth. He’s still so hard against your thigh, twitching every time you moan.

Jude buries his face in your neck, kissing and sucking softly while his fingers work you open. “Need to be inside you,” he mumbles against your skin. “Please, baby. Wanna feel you around me. Wanna make you come first… then you can ride me slow while I hold you. I just— I need you close. So fucking close.”

He curls his fingers just right and you arch into him, moaning his name. Jude whimpers in response, pressing his cock against your hip like he can’t help it. 

“Please, baby,” he breathes against your neck, voice hoarse and shaky. “I need to be inside you. Can’t wait anymore.”

You nod, pulling him up for another deep kiss as he lines himself up. “If you get tired just say, Jude,” you whisper against his lips. He looked so exhausted — eyes heavy, shoulders slumped — and part of you still felt a pang of guilt that he was going to be the one putting in all the effort tonight.

“You’re such an angel,” he whispers softly, pecking your forehead with heartbreaking tenderness, then leaning down for another deep kiss. “As if I could ever be too tired to fuck you.”

The head of his cock nudges against your entrance, hot and slick, and you both moan into each other’s mouths as he starts pushing in. He’s so slow and careful, even though you can feel how badly he wants to bury himself.

“Fuck… so tight,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours, eyes squeezed shut in concentration. Inch by inch he sinks into you, stretching you open until he’s fully seated, hips flush against yours. The sound he makes is relief mixed with pleasure, a long, broken moan that vibrates through his chest.

For a moment he just stays there, buried deep, breathing hard against your lips. His arms wrap around you, holding you close, desperate for the full body contact. You can feel how tired he is, the way his muscles are trembling from the long match and the effort it’s taking just to hold himself up. “You feel so good,” he groans. “Just for me, yeah? Tell me this pussy belongs to me. ”

“It belongs to you, baby. Only you,” you moan softly, clenching around him. “I belong to you.”

A shaky breath leaves him. He buries his face in your neck, sucking softly on your skin while he gives one slow, grinding roll of his hips. “Good girl… all mine,” he mumbles, the words slurred with tiredness. “I don’t share you with anyone.”

Then he starts moving with slow, lazy rolls of his hips, grinding deep instead of thrusting hard. Every stroke is deliberate, like he’s savouring every second even though exhaustion is weighing on him. His breaths are heavier, his arms shaking slightly as he holds you, sweat beading on his forehead and sliding down his temple. Still, he doesn’t stop. You wrap your legs around his waist, pulling him even deeper, and Jude lets out a soft, whiny sound again that makes you clench harder around him.

“Baby… yeah, just like that,” he pants. “Feels too good. You’re squeezing me so tight— fuck.”

His mouth finds yours again, the kiss sloppy and tired, tongues sliding lazily while he keeps that slow grind going. One hand stays gripping your hip, the other slides up to cup your breast through your t-shirt, thumb brushing your nipple almost absentmindedly, like even his hands are running out of energy but he refuses to stop touching you. He’s so vocal, whimpering your name, telling you how perfect you feel, how much he needs you.

You can feel him getting closer, his thrusts losing their steadiness, becoming a little more desperate. “I’m so close,” he whines against your mouth. “Come with me, baby. Please. Wanna feel you come around me.”

One of his hands slips between you, fingers finding your clit and rubbing slow circles. The combination of his cock dragging deep inside you, his fingers, his soft sleepy moans, pushes you over the edge first. You clench around him hard, crying out his name as pleasure crashes through you.

Jude follows right after with a broken groan, burying his face in your neck as he comes deep inside you, hips stuttering. “Fuck— love you, love you so much,” he mumbles against your skin, trembling through it.

Afterwards he collapses on top of you, heavy and warm, still buried inside. His arms wrap around you tightly, face tucked into your neck as he catches his breath. Soft kisses press against your shoulder, lazy and sweet.

“Best recovery ever,” he murmurs with a tired little laugh, voice muffled. “But I’m never moving ever again.”

You run your fingers down the muscles of his back, smiling as both of your breathing starts to even out, his body finally giving in to the exhaustion. You kiss his temple, open your mouth to respond, but he's snoring softly before you can even reply.

his strokes are frantic and jerky, all pent-up frustration and yearning. his thumb swipes over the leaking slit with every upward pull, spreading the slickness, and the wet, obscene sound of it fills your quiet room. choso is biting his lip so hard he tastes copper, trying to muffle the sounds that are clawing their way out of his throat.

it’s not enough. it’s never enough.

“fuck,” he breathes, the word a shaky, broken whisper.

choso’s hips jerk up into his fist, chasing the friction. his mind is a haze of you; your laugh, the way your hand felt on his arm the other day; so casual, so innocent, while he’d felt like his skin was on fire, your smile; that stupid, perfect smile.

he buries his face in the pillow that smells like your shampoo, inhales deep, and his hand moves faster. he’s imagining it’s your hand, your mouth, your body pressing him down into the mattress, finally, finally wanting him back.

a sob gets caught in choso’s chest.

it’s so pathetic. he’s so pathetic — he’s twenty-three years old, and he’s in his best friend’s bed, wearing their clothes, jerking himself raw because he’s been in love with you for so long it’s become a fundamental part of who he is.

oh, choso is close, he’s so so so close, his balls drawn up tight, and a high-pitched whine building in his throat, his hand a complete blur of motion—

and then he hears the front door open, and the world stops.

choso’s entire body locks up, a cold wave of horror crashing over the heat in his veins. his hand freezes on his cock, still slick, still painfully hard, and his eyes fly open, wide and wild in the dim light. choso hears your keys jangle as you drop them on the hall table, he hears your familiar footsteps, your pretty voice, a little tired, calling out;

“cho? you home?”

he can’t move. he can’t breathe. he’s a deer in headlights, trapped in your bed, wearing your hoodie, with his cock out and glistening in the low light.

your footsteps approach your bedroom door. choso opens his mouth to say something — to warn you, to lie, to do literally anything — but his voice has completely deserted him.

the door swings open.

you’re standing in the doorway, silhouetted by the hall light, and you’re looking at him. at the scene. at him, in your bed, in your clothes, hand frozen on his flushed, leaking cock.

choso’s face drains of all color, then floods with a burning, mortified red. his eyes are already stinging, the shame so potent it’s a physical weight crushing his chest.

“fuck,” he chokes out, the word cracking.

he scrambles to pull your hoodie down, to cover himself, to do anything, but his limbs feel like they’re made of lead.

“no, no, no, wait—this isn’t—i’m so sorry—”

choso’s voice is trembling, on the verge of tears. he can’t look at you. he can’t bear to see the disgust, the anger, the loss of everything he’s ever cared about written on your face.

“please,” choso whispers, and a tear finally slips free, tracing a hot path down his pink cheek. “please, i’m so sorry. i’ll—i’ll move out, i’ll go, just—please don’t hate me, please, i didn’t mean—i’m so sorry—”

he’s babbling, a steady stream of apologies as more tears fall, his whole body shaking. choso can’t breathe. the room is spinning. he’s ruined it. he’s ruined everything.

but you’re not saying anything, and you’re not leaving.

choso forces himself to look up, blinking through the blur of tears. you’re still in the doorway, but you’re not looking at him with disgust, no, your eyes are dark, focused, and there’s a flush creeping up your neck that he’s never seen before.

you step into the room, and you push the door closed behind you. the soft click of the latch feels deafening.

“cho,” you say, and your voice is different; low, a little rough.

choso flinches, another apology ready on his lips, but you’re moving closer. you walk to the side of the bed, and he’s frozen, watching you with wide, tear-filled eyes. you just look at him for a moment — at his tear-streaked face, his swollen lips, the obvious tent still straining against your hoodie.

you reach out, and he thinks you’re going to hit him, or push him away. but instead, your hand comes to rest on his cheek, your thumb gently wipes away a tear.

choso’s breath hitches, and his heart is slamming against his ribs so hard it hurts.

“is this what you were thinking about?” you ask, your voice a low murmur. “when you were…?”

oh, choso can’t lie. not to you. not now. he gives a tiny, jerky nod, another tear spilling over.

your eyes darken further. “me?”

“you,” he breathes, the word a confession, a prayer. “always you. only you.”

something seems to shifts in your expression; the last trace of hesitation, of shock, completely melts away, leaving only a raw, consuming want that mirrors his own.

“good,” you say, and then you’re climbing onto the bed, straddling his hips, and his brain short-circuits.

“what are you—” choso starts, his voice high and panicked, but the words simply die in his throat as you lean down and press your lips to his.

and it’s not a gentle kiss. hell, it’s hungry, desperate, like you’ve been holding back just as long as he has.

your mouth moves against his, your tongue sliding along the seam of choso’s lips, and he opens for you with a broken moan. he tastes salt — his own tears — and you, and it’s the most intoxicating thing he’s ever experienced.

choso’s hands, which had been frozen at his sides, come up to grip your hips. he’s shaking. he’s shaking so hard, he can’t believe you can’t feel it. his fingers dig into the fabric of your jeans, needing something to hold onto, something to anchor him because he feels like he’s about to float away.

you pull back just enough to look at him; choso’s lips are parted, wet, and his chest heaving. your name falls from his lips in a ragged whisper.

“i want you,” you say, your voice firm despite the way your own breath is coming in short gasps. “choso, i want you so bad. is that okay? tell me it’s okay.”

choso lets out a sound that’s half-laugh, half-sob.

“okay? yes—fuck, yes—please—”

the word 'please' dissolves into a gasp as your hips roll down against him. even through your jeans, even through your hoodie he’s still wearing, the pressure is electric. choso’s cock, still achingly hard, jerks at the contact, and a low, guttural groan is ripped from his chest.

“please what?” you ask, and there’s a hint of a smile on your lips, a teasing glint in your eyes that makes him want to both cry and kiss you senseless.

choso is so overwhelmed; his brain is static, every single thought consumed by the feel of you on top of him, the fact that you want him, that you’re here, touching him. his hands slide up from your hips, fingers trembling as they slip under the hem of your shirt, just to feel your skin.

the touch makes you shiver, and the sight of it sends a bolt of pure, possessive heat through him.

“touch me,” choso begs, his voice wrecked. “please, i need—i’ve needed you for so long, please just—”

you lean down again, your lips slowly brushing against the shell of choso’s ear, and your hand slides down his chest, over the soft fabric of his ( your ) hoodie.

“i’ve got you,” you whisper. “i’m right here.”

your hand dips lower, finally, finally pushing the hoodie up and wrapping around choso’s cock. the boy cries out, a sharp, punched-out sound, his hips bucking up into your palm.

your touch is searing, so much better than his own, and his vision whites out for a second.

“you’re so big,” you murmur against his neck, and the words go straight to his dick. a broken whimper escapes him. “have you thought about this? me touching you?”

“yes,” choso sobs, the word torn from him. his hands are clutching at your waist now, desperate, holding on. “all the time—fuck, every night—i’d—i’d think about you riding me, about being inside you, about—fuck—about you saying my name like that—”

you’re stroking him slowly, deliberately, your thumb swiping over the head the way he’d been doing to himself, and it’s too much and not enough all at once. precum leaks from the tip, slicking your fingers, and the wet sounds fill the room, mixing with choso’s frantic, hitching breaths.

“you want me to ride you?” you ask, and your voice is so low, so dark, it makes his toes curl.

“yes, please, yes,” choso babbles. “i want—i need—please, i’ll do anything, just please—”

you let go of him, and he actually whines at the loss. but then you’re sitting up, pulling your shirt over your head, fumbling with the button of your jeans, and choso can’t look away; he’s mesmerized, his hands hover in the air, wanting to help but too afraid to touch without permission.

you notice, and you look at him, and your expression softens for a moment, even with the raw hunger in your eyes.

“you can touch me, cho. anywhere. i want you to.”

choso’s trembling hands find your thighs, the bare skin above your jeans, and the contact grounds him a little. he’s still trembling, still overwhelmed, but the feeling of you under his palms, the warmth of you, is real.

you get your jeans off, kicking them to the floor, and then you’re reaching for the hem of your hoodie.

the one choso is wearing.

“keep it on,” you say, and choso’s heart clenches. “i want you to keep it on.”

choso nods, mute, his eyes fixed on you as you reposition yourself over his hips. you’re both bare from the waist down now, and the sight of you like this, poised above him, wanting him, is so much he feels like he might shatter.

you take his cock in your hand again, guiding it, and choso watches, transfixed, as the head of his cock presses against your entrance. you’re so ready for him, and the realization — that you’re this ready for him — hits him like a freight train.

“look at me,” you say, and his eyes snap up to meet yours. “i want to see you when i do this.”

you sink down.

the feeling is indescribable; you’re so tight, so hot, and the slow, steady pressure of you taking him in is the most exquisite torture choso has ever experienced. his mouth falls open, but no sound comes out. his hands fly to your hips, gripping so hard he knows there’ll be bruises, but he can’t help it. he needs something to hold onto.

you don’t stop until you’re flush against him, his cock buried to the hilt inside you. you both gasp, your heads falling forward, foreheads almost touching. you’re both breathing hard, the air between you charged and electric.

“fuck,” you breathe. “cho, you feel—”

choso cuts you off with a kiss, desperate and messy. he can’t help it; he needs to taste you, needs to feel you closer. you kiss him back just as fiercely, your hands coming up to frame his face, holding him steady as you start to move.

it’s a slow roll of your hips at first, a gentle rock that makes him see stars. every nerve ending in his body is focused on where you’re connected. choso can feel every clench of your muscles, every subtle shift of your weight. he can feel the way your thighs tremble on either side of him, the way your breath catches in your throat with every small movement.

“you’re so perfect,” he whispers against your lips, the words spilling out without his permission. “so perfect, fuck, you feel so good, i’ve dreamed about this—”

your pace quickens a little, and choso’s words dissolve into a pathetic moan. your hands slide into his hair, fingers threading through the dark strands, and you tug, just a little, and his eyes roll back in his head.

“yeah?” you ask, your voice breathless. “you dreamed about me, hmm?”

“every night,” choso confesses, his voice cracking. his hips are starting to move now, meeting your downward thrusts, desperate for more. “every single night. i’d—i’d wake up hard, thinking about you, and i’d have to—”

choso chokes off as you clench around him, a small, knowing smile on your face.

“you’d have to what?”

“touch myself,” choso admits, the shame mixing with the arousal in a heady cocktail. his cheeks are burning, but he can’t stop. “thinking about you. always you.”

you reward him with a faster, harder bounce, and choso cries out, his head falling back against your pillows. your name is a prayer on his lips, a desperate, repeated chant. his hands slide up from your hips, splaying across your back, pulling you closer, needing you impossibly nearer.

“i love you,” choso gasps, the words ripping out of him. “fuck, i love you so fucking much, i’m so so in love with you, i have been for years—”

your rhythm falters, your eyes going wide and soft above him.

“choso—”

“i know,” he babbles, a fresh wave of tears spilling down his pretty pink cheeks. “i know you don’t—you don’t have to say it back, i just—i needed you to know, i’ve wanted to tell you for so long, and i’m sorry, i’m sorry for—for doing this, for being in your bed, for—”

you stop moving entirely, and choso’s heart lurches with fear.

but then you’re cupping his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you. you’re both breathing hard, sweat beading on your skin, his cock still buried deep inside you.

“don’t be sorry,” you say, your voice fierce despite its breathlessness. “i’m here, aren’t i? i’m not going anywhere.”

you start moving again, but it’s different now; it’s slower, deeper, more deliberate. you roll your hips in a way that has him seeing constellations, his hands scrabbling for purchase on your back, your shoulders, anywhere he can reach.

“i want you to be inside me,” you whisper, your lips brushing against choso’s. “i want to feel you come undone, okay? i want to feel you let go.”

he shakes his head, a sob catching in his throat. “can’t—if you keep—i’m too close, i’m gonna—”

“good,” you say, and you pick up the pace again, your thighs burning with the effort, your hips slamming down onto his. “i want you to. come for me, choso. let me feel it.”

it’s the permission he didn’t know he needed.

choso’s orgasm crashes over him like a wave, sudden and devastating. his back arches off the bed, a raw, guttural cry torn from his chest as he spills inside you, his hips jerking uncontrollably. his hands grip your hips so tight he’s sure now it’ll leave marks, but he can’t let go, can’t stop, as wave after wave of pleasure wracks his body.

you keep moving, working him through it, your own breaths coming in sharp, uneven gasps. choso can feel you clenching around him, chasing your own release, and even as the oversensitivity sets in, even as he whimpers and squirms beneath you, he doesn’t want you to stop.

“please,” he begs, his voice a wrecked whisper. “please, i want you to—i need to feel you—”

you lean down, capturing his lips in a messy, open-mouthed kiss, and your hand snakes down between your bodies, fingers reaching between your legs. the sight of you touching yourself while he’s still inside you, still so sensitive it’s almost painful, is enough to make choso’s mind go blank.

“so good for me,” you pant against his mouth. “you’re so good, choso. you feel so good inside me.”

choso’s hips twitch involuntarily, a weak, aborted thrust, and you moan, the sound vibrating against his lips.

he’s so overstimulated he can barely think, tears still leaking from the corners of his eyes, but the sound of your pleasure, the feel of you falling apart around him, is the most beautiful thing he’s ever experienced.

“i’m close,” you warn, your voice strained, your fingers moving faster. “fuck, i’m so close—”

“let go,” choso echoes your words from earlier, his voice shaky but sincere. “let go, please, i want to feel you. i want to feel you come on my cock.”

it’s your turn to cry out. your body goes rigid above him, your inner muscles clamping down on him in a series of pulsing, rhythmic contractions. your head falls back, your mouth open in a silent scream, and choso watches, awestruck, as pleasure consumes you completely.

he holds you through it, his hands gentler now, stroking your thighs, your back, anywhere he can reach. he murmurs soft, incoherent words of praise, tells you how beautiful you are, how perfect, how long he’s wanted this, wanted you.

when it’s over, you collapse against choso’s chest, both of you a mess of sweat and tears and other things. his arms wrap around you, holding you close, and he buries his face in your hair. choso’s heart is still racing, his body still trembling from the aftershocks, but he’s never felt so at peace.

you stay like that for a long moment, just breathing together, the silence comfortable and warm.

eventually, you stir, propping yourself up on your elbows to look at him. your face is completely flushed, your lips swollen, and there’s a soft, wondering look in your eyes that makes choso’s heart clench.

“hi,” you say, a small, breathless smile playing on your lips.

choso can’t help but smile back. “hi.”

you lean down, pressing a gentle kiss to choso’s forehead, then each of his eyelids, then the tip of his nose, and finally his pretty lips. it’s soft, sweet, a stark contrast to the desperate, hungry kisses from before.

“i meant it, you know,” he whispers against your lips, his voice still shaky. “i love you. i’m not just… saying it because of this.”

your expression softens impossibly further, and you brush choso’s hair back from his face, your touch so tender it makes his chest ache.

“i know, cho,” you say quietly. “and i meant it too. i’m not going anywhere.”

he swallows hard, his eyes searching yours. “but do you…?”

you smile, and it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.

“i think i’ve been in love with you for a while now,” you admit, a little shy. “i just… didn’t think you’d ever see me that way.”

a disbelieving laugh bubbles up from choso’s chest.

“me? i’ve been—i’ve been in love with you since the day we moved in together. maybe even before.”

you laugh too, the sound light and happy, and then you’re kissing him again, and it’s different from all the others. it’s not desperate or hungry; it’s a promise.

when you finally pull apart, you’re both stupidly smiling, and choso feels like the world has shifted on its axis, rearranged itself into something new and wonderful.

“so,” you say, a mischievous glint returning to your eye. “was it everything you dreamed of?”

he groans, hiding his face in your shoulder. “that’s so unfair.”

you laugh, the sound vibrating against choso’s skin.

“i’m taking that as a yes.”

choso lifts his head, his expression earnest despite the lingering flush on his cheeks.

“it was better,” choso says quietly. “because it was real. because it was you.”

your smile softens, and you kiss him again, slow and sweet.

“stay in my bed tonight?” you ask softly when you finally break apart. “my hoodie stays on you, though. that’s no-negotiable.”

choso laughs, the sound a little wet, and pulls you closer.

“deal.”

and as you settle against him, your head on his chest, choso’s arms wrapped around you, the scent of your shampoo filling his senses completely, choso lets himself believe that maybe, just maybe, this is the start of something he’s been waiting so bad for his whole life.

choso closes his eyes, and for the very first time in years, he’s not dreaming of you.

he doesn’t need to; you’re right here.

satoru was also, you noted with a warmth that bloomed low in your stomach, incredibly, incredibly hot.

it was a strange dichotomy he embodied perfectly; the ridiculous glasses, the messy hair, the oversized hoodie — all of it screamed 'cute, loveable nerd!'. but then there was the sharp line of his jaw, the way his adam’s apple bobbed when he swallowed, the sheer, overwhelming masculine grace in the way he held himself even while hunched over a textbook. that bone-deep beauty that he seemed so unaware of in these moments, which only made it all the more potent.

you slowly pushed off from the doorframe, your footsteps soft on the wooden floor.

you didn’t want to startle satoru completely, but a small part of you, the part that was currently being consumed by a huge wave of adoration, wanted to see the exact moment his focus shattered. you crept up behind your boyfriend, your shadow falling over his work. he didn’t react, not even a flinch, so lost in his own world he was. you leaned down, your lips brushing the shell of his ear, and whispered;

"you’re doing the thing."

“hmm?" satoru mumbled, not looking up, his pen still scratching a note in the margin. "what thing?"

"the thing where you look like you’re trying to solve world hunger and global warming at the same time," you murmured slowly, your lips now ghosting along satoru’s jawline. "it’s very . . . strenuous."

satoru paused then, his hand stilling. a slow, pleased shiver ran through him, so subtle you wouldn’t have noticed it if you weren’t pressed so close.

"it’s just a paper on quantu—mmph . . . !"

you cut him off, but not with a kiss on the lips, no.

you placed a soft, deliberate peck right on the corner of his mouth. a simple, chaste little thing, but it was enough to finally pull satoru’s attention away from the page.

your boyfriend blinked, his head turning slightly to look at you, his glasses still crooked. his eyes, a brilliant, captivating shade of cerulean, were a little unfocused, like he was dragging himself back from the theoretical realm of quantum entanglement to the very real, very immediate you.

"b-baby . . . " he said, a soft, dopey smile spreading across his face, the tension in his shoulders easing.

"mhhh. you’re very pretty when you’re concentrating, you know that?"

a faint blush, the barest hint of pink, dusted his cheeks.

"i’m not pretty," satoru mumbled, a knee-jerk protest, his eyes already drifting back to his notes. "i’m . . . i’m a force of nature. a towering intellect. pretty is a—hey!"

you had done it again, this time placing a kiss on his forehead, right on the smooth skin just above his eyebrow. you felt his muscles relax under your lips, the tension melting away from his brow. you pulled back just enough to see his expression, a mix of surprised pleasure and growing bewilderment.

"what was that for?" satoru asked, and his voice was a little higher than usual.

"you had a wrinkle right there," you said, your voice taking on a matter-of-fact tone. "from frowning. very bad for your skin. i’m just doing my duty as a concerned partner."

"my skin is flawless, thank you very much," he retorted, a familiar, defensive sass creeping into his voice.

but satoru’s blush was deepening, spreading from his cheeks down to his neck. he was trying to look affronted, but his eyes, still a little wide and glassy, were betraying him. he liked this. he liked the attention, the interruption.

you took a step closer, now standing directly beside his chair. you didn’t give satoru a chance to recover, you leaned in and pressed a kiss to the bridge of his nose, right where his glasses sat. satoru’s skin was so warm.

"you’re getting sunspots," you murmured against satoru’s skin. "or . . . lamp-spots. from all this studying."

"i don’t get sunspots," satoru whispered, his voice cracking just a little.

his hands had come up, hovering uselessly in the air between you, like he wasn't sure whether to push you away or pull you closer. he settled on gently gripping your hips, his thumbs stroking the fabric of your shirt. it was a grounding gesture, his way of trying to maintain some semblance of control.

you hummed, a non-committal sound, and moved to press a kiss to his cheek. the skin there was impossibly soft, and you stayed there for a moment, feeling the warmth of his face, the slight stutter of his breath. he smelled like old books, coffee, and something uniquely, comfortingly satoru.

"you smell like a library," you whispered, your lips brushing against his cheekbone.

"is that a good thing?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper.

satoru’s long lashes were fluttering, his eyes closing on their own accord.

"the best thing," you confirmed, and then you were kissing his temple, the hinge of his jaw, a spot just below his ear that you knew was a hidden treasure trove of nerve endings.

your sweet boyfriend gasped, a sharp, involuntary sound, and his hips jerked in his chair. his fingers tightened on your hips, a silent plea for mercy you weren’t ready to give.

“y/n . . . " he breathed, a world of meaning in your name. it was a plea, a warning, an invitation.

you pulled back just enough to look at satoru, to take in the magnificent, messy picture he made — his glasses were now truly a catastrophe, hanging off one ear and precariously balanced on the other, the bridge resting on the very tip of his nose. satoru’s hair was even more of a mess, courtesy of his own restless fingers. his face was a symphony of reds and pinks, the blush spreading down his neck and disappearing into the collar of his hoodie. his lips were slightly parted, his breath coming in shallow, rapid pants.

satoru looked utterly, deliciously undone, and all from a few chaste kisses from you.

but the most potent detail was his eyes. that brilliant blue, usually so sharp, so full of clever mischief, was now dark, hazy, and completely, utterly focused on you.

there was a vulnerability there, a raw, unguarded longing that made your heart clench. he looked beautiful. he looked perfect. he looked like he was about to combust if you didn't kiss him properly, and the sight of him like this — this brilliant, beautiful boy, brought to such a tender, wanton state just by you — ignited a primal, possessive heat deep inside you.

"you’re so cute," you said, your voice dropping to a husky whisper. "and so, so fucking hot, you know that? you have no idea what you do to me, sitting here looking like a wet dream in your nerdy glasses."

satoru’s adam’s apple bobbed again.

"not a wet dream," he managed to choke out, a last-ditch effort at his usual bravado. he sounded so small, so out of his depth. so perfectly, wonderfully him. "just . . . a very tired student who really wants to—mmph!"

you had had enough of his adorable, pathetic protests.

you shut him up properly this time, cupping your boyfriend’s face in your hands and leaning in to press your lips to his. it was a soft, gentle kiss at first, a simple meeting of mouths, but the moment your lips touched, it was like a spark to tinder.

satoru made a small, desperate sound against your mouth, his hands relinquishing their grip on your hips to come up and bury themselves in your hair, pulling you closer. the kiss deepened, his lips parting under yours, and you obliged him, your tongue brushing against his lower lip. he tasted like coffee and the faint, sweet residue of the cherry chapstick the young boy always used.

you broke the kiss, but only to tilt satoru’s head back, giving you better access to his neck.

you trailed a line of open-mouthed kisses down the column of his throat, feeling his pulse hammering a frantic rhythm against your lips. you found his pulse point, that spot that was always so sensitive, and you sucked, gently, just enough to leave a faint, pink mark. satoru whimpered, a sound of pure pleasure, his hips bucking up against your thigh.

"y/n, please . . . " satoru gasped, his head falling back further, completely surrendering to your onslaught.

you nibbled on his collarbone, which was peeking out from the neckline of his hoodie. you kissed the hollow of satoru’s throat, the slope of his shoulder. you kissed satoru’s eyelids, his eyebrows, the tip of his nose again. you were everywhere, dotting satoru’s face and neck with a constellation of affection. you kissed the spot behind his ear, and he shivered violently. you pressed a kiss to his chin, his cheek, the corner of his mouth, teasing him, drawing it out, savouring every minute tremor and low moan you could coax from him.

satoru’s glasses had finally fallen off completely, landing with a soft clatter on the book he’d been reading.

he didn’t even notice. his world had narrowed to you, to the sensation of your lips on his skin. his hands were tangled in your hair, clutching at you, his fingers flexing and uncurling, a sign of his absolute, hopeless surrender.

satoru’s face was a mess of colour, his skin completely flushed, his lips swollen and slick, his eyes completely dazed. he was a masterpiece of flustered desire, a picture of devastating vulnerability that he only ever showed you. the smart, sharp-tongued genius was completely and utterly putty in your hands. it was a heady feeling, a powerful intoxication; satoru loved you, and you loved him, and in this moment, that was the only truth in the universe.

finally, you couldn't take the teasing anymore.

the sight of him, the taste of his skin, the sound of his desperate little gasps — it was all too much. you needed more. you needed to devour him completely.

you captured satoru’s mouth again, but this time, there was no gentleness; it was a hungry, possessive kiss, your tongue tangling with his, claiming him, tasting him. you poured all your pent-up adoration and want into that kiss, and he met you with equal fervour, his own tongue dancing with yours, his hands tightening in your hair. he kissed you back like you were the air he needed to breathe, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered; and to satoru, you were.

you broke the kiss only when you were both gasping for air, your foreheads resting together, your breath mingling in the small space between you.

satoru’s eyes were closed, his long, white lashes fanned out against his flushed cheeks. a single, soft, shaky moan escaped his lips, the sound of a man completely and utterly conquered.

"your face is sooo red," you whispered, a teasing lilt in your voice, though you were just as breathless as he was. "like a very pretty tomato."

he managed to crack one eye open, peering at you through his lashes. a weak, crooked grin spread across his face.

"you’re very mean," satoru mumbled, his voice hoarse. "and i love you."

you smiled, a genuine, heart-stopping smile that crinkled the corners of your pretty eyes. you leaned in, kissing the red tip of satoru’s nose again.

"i love you too, my nerdy, beautiful boy. now," you said, pulling back and looking pointedly at the scattered papers. "what was that paper on again? quantum . . . something?"

satoru groaned, dropping his head to rest on your shoulder, his body completely slumping against yours in a heap of exhausted, contented defeat.

"i think i forgot," he mumbled into your shirt.

you laughed, a soft, happy sound, and pressed a kiss to the crown of satoru’s messy white hair.

"good," you whispered, wrapping your arms around him. "then take a break. study later."

you felt the smile spread against your shoulder as his arms tightened around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.

yeah . . . this was your favourite version of satoru, and you were never, ever going to get tired of it.

the music in sigma alpha house wasn't just loud; it was a physical force. it vibrated through the floorboards, pulsed in the soles of everyone's shoes, and made the red plastic cups on the kitchen counters shake.

from his vantage point at the top of the grand, slightly scuffed wooden staircase, satoru gojo looked down at his world. he wore a backwards baseball cap, a vintage bomber jacket with his fraternity's greek letters stitched across the chest, and a smirk that he knew exactly how to use.

he was, without a doubt, the undisputed king of this campus. when elections had rolled around a few months ago, nobody else had even bothered to put their name on the ballot. why would they? satoru had the kind of charisma that felt like a magnetic pull. if he walked into a lecture hall, the energy shifted. if he threw a party, the whole campus showed up.

"hey, prez! catch!"

satoru didn't even look up as a crushed silver can flew toward his head. he simply reached out a hand, catching it cleanly out of the air before tossing it into a nearby recycling bin. he looked over to see suguru geto leaning against the doorframe of the executive office, holding a clipboard and looking thoroughly exhausted.

"the fire marshal is down the street, satoru," suguru called out over the bass, rubbing his temples. "if we get one more noise complaint, sukuna says we won't have the budget to pay the fines."

"relax, suguru. i'll handle it." satoru laughed, throwing an arm around his vice president's shoulders as they walked down the stairs. "the fire marshal's son is a pledge at kappa beta. i'll just promise him vip access to our next tailgate. works every time."

as soon as satoru's sneakers hit the first floor, a wave of voices cheered his name.

"satoru! do a flip!"

"gojo, tell these guys your beer pong record!"

he thrived in it. he floated through the crowded living room like a celebrity, high-fiving the guys and flashing bright, easy smiles at the girls who hovered nearby, hoping to catch his eye. satoru was a natural flirt; it was like breathing to him. he'd lean in close to hear a girl over the music, wink just to watch her blush, and crack a joke that had an entire circle of people laughing within seconds. he was completely, effortlessly in control.

he loved the noise. he loved the crowd. he loved being the center of a universe that he had built from scratch.

as the night bled into the early hours of the morning, satoru stood on top of a sturdy coffee table, raising a cup to a roaring crowd of college students. he felt untouchable. he was satoru gojo, frat president, the loudest voice in every room.

he had absolutely no idea that in less than forty-eight hours, a single quiet room—and a person who didn't care about his title at all—would complete break his composure.

the university library was satoru's personal version of hell.

it was too bright, too sterile, and worst of all, it was dead silent. satoru didn't do silent, he was a creature born for bass drops and shouting over crowds—not the rhythmic, aggressive tapping of laptop keys and the occasional dust-filled cough.

he wandered aimlessly down the narrow aisles of the third floor, dragging his fingers across the spines of old, heavy books. he looked entirely ridiculous. he was still wearing his bright blue fraternity hoodie, but today it felt suffocating.

"i swear to god, suguru, i'm going to use this book as kindling." satoru muttered to himself, squinting at a crumpled sticky note in his hand.

suguru had practically locked him out of the frat house this morning, refusing to give satoru the keys to his own car until he went to the library to retrieve a super-specific, archaic political science reference book for their upcoming chapter presentation. "you're the president, satoru. do some actual work for once," suguru's voice echoed in his head.

but satoru was completely out of his element. the numbering system on the shelves made absolutely no sense to him. was 320.1 before or after 320.09? he sighed loudly, a sound that immediately earned him a sharp, lethal glare from a student three rows over. satoru offered a weak, apologetic peace sign and quickly turned a corner, running a hand through his messy white hair. he was genuinely frustrated. he was satoru gojo; he didn't struggle.

"do you need help finding something?"

the voice was soft, spoken in a hushed, polite whisper, but it made satoru jump an inch off the carpet.

he spun around, ready to flash his classic, thousand-watt presidential smile to charm whoever was bothering him. but the moment his eyes landed on you, the smile died on his face.

you were wearing a little laminated 'library staff' badge pinned to your cardigan. you had a cart of books beside you, and you were looking up at him with a patient, helpful expression. you were completely ordinary compared to the flashy girls who screamed his name at parties, but to satoru, the air in the room suddenly felt incredibly thin.

"uh," was all that satoru managed to say.

that was it. that was the grand opening line from the most charismatic guy on campus. uh.

"i, um," he stammered, his blue eyes widening behind his round sunglasses. he suddenly felt hyper-aware of how tall he was, how loud his sneakers were on the floor, and how fast his heart was suddenly hammering against his ribs. his smooth, unbothered composure didn't just crack—it shattered into a million pieces. "book. i need… a book."

you let out a tiny, amused breath, your eyes crinkling at the corners. "right, most people do. what's the title?"

satoru's hand felt clumsy as he shoved the crumpled sticky note toward you. his fingers brushed against yours for a fraction of a second, and a jolt of pure electricity went straight up his arm. he literally stepped back, his face flushing a furious, sudden pink.

you read the note, unbothered. "oh, the political theory texts. they're actually a floor down in the basement archives. follow me."

as you turned and began walking toward the stairs, satoru followed like a dazed puppy. his brain was in total, catastrophic system failure. he tried to think of something clever to say. usually, flirting was like breathing. he'd ask for a number, make a joke about the quiet rules, wink—something. but as he stared at the back of your head, his mouth felt completely dry. he was terrified that if he spoke, he'd squeak.

you led him into the quietest corner of the basement, scanned the shelves for three seconds, and pulled back a thick, leather-bound book from the top shelf.

"here you go," you whispered, handing it over with a sweet, polite smile. "advanced political structures. good luck with your studies."

"th-thanks," satoru choked out, his voice cracking slightly on the 's'. he gripped the book like a shield. "i'm satoru, by the way. gojo. i run the—"

"nice to meet you, satoru," you interrupted softly, giving him a polite little nod before turning back to your cart. you clearly had no idea who he was, and frankly, you didn't seem to care.

satoru stood frozen in the basement aisle for a solid two minutes, clutching the textbook to his chest, watching you walk away.

by the time he dragged his feet back up to the third floor, he saw you sitting at a secluded corner desk. your shift was clearly over. you had a massive, intimidating stack of organic chemistry and advanced calculus textbooks piled high next to you. you slipped a pair of large, noise-canceling headphones over your ears, completely tuning out the rest of the world as you buried your face in notebook, entirely focused.

satoru stood a few rows back, hiding half of his face behind the political science book. his cheeks were still burning. he looked at the heavy stem books, then at your peaceful face, and then down at his own trembling hands.

he was down bad. he was so incredibly, terrifyingly down bad.

"he's broken." sukuna said.

he didn't look up from the chapter ledger spreadsheet on his laptop, his face set in its usual permanent scowl. he was sitting at the massive, grease-stained kitchen island of the sigma alpha house, aggressively tapping his pen against the marble.

"what do you mean, broken?" choso asked, carefully organizing a mountain of neon-colored philanthropy fliers into neat, perfect stacks.

"i mean he's malfunctioning," sukuna muttered, gesturing with his pen toward the living room. "look at him."

across the house, satoru gojo—the undisputed king of campus, the man who normally couldn't sit still for more than thirty seconds—was slumped on the worn leather sofa. he was staring blankly at his phone, a soft, dopey smile plastered across his face. his legs were draped over the armrest, and he was mindlessly twisting a lock of his white hair around his fingers. he looked like a teenage girl in a 90s rom-com.

suguru walked into the kitchen, tossing a bag of ice into the sink, and groaned at the sight. "he's been like that since tuesday. i told him to go to the library to get one reference book, and he came back looking like he'd been hit like a truck. he hasn't yelled 'let's go!' once today."

"maybe he's sick?" choso suggested, looking genuinely worried. "should i make him soup?"

from the hallway, toji walked in, wearing a tank top, holding a protein shaker, and looking entirely too old to be hanging out at a frat house. he took one look at satoru, let out a loud, mocking laugh, and raided the fridge. "he's not sick, idiots. he's whipped."

"whipped?" suguru blinked. "by who? satoru flirts with everyone, but he doesn't actually date."

and that was the truth. but as the week rolled on, the signs became impossible to ignore.

the real crisis happened on friday night. the sigma alpha house was absolutely packed for their mid-semester banger. the bass was rattling the windows, the strobe lights were cutting through the sweaty air, and a group of girls from the top sorority campus were practically begging satoru to come take a group photo with them.

normally, satoru would be right in the middle of it, posing, laughing, and being the life of the party.

instead, he was standing near the back door, completely ignoring three different girls trying to spark a conversation with him. his eyes kept darting to his phone screen. when a girl playfully touched his arm, satoru actually stepped back, nervously clearing his throat and checking his watch.

"uh, sorry, i actually gotta… go check on the breaker in the basement. yeah. fun party, though!" he stammered, offering a painfully awkward thumbs-up before slipping through the back door.

suguru watched the entire exchange from the bar, his jaw dropping. "did satoru gojo just reject a girl to go look at a circuit breaker?"

"he didn't go to the basement," sukuna said, appearing over suguru's shoulder like a vengeful spirit, his eyes narrowed as he watched the back exit. "the basement door is on the other side of the house. he just left the property."

by saturday night, the situation had reached a boiling point. the frat house was in full swing again, a line of students stretching down the block just to get in. inside, the crowd was chanting.

"prez! prez! prez! prez!"

they wanted him to do his traditional, chaotic speech from the top of the staircase to officially kick off the night. suguru ran up to satoru's room and slammed the door open.

"satoru, you're up, get down—"

the room was empty. the bed was made, the window was cracked open, and satoru's signature sigma alpha bomber jacket was hanging neatly in the closet. the president had completely abandoned ship on the biggest night of the semester.

suguru marched back down the stairs, his face deadpan as he approached the rest of the executive board gathered by the kitchen.

"he's gone." suguru announced.

toji grinned, slamming his protein shaker on the counter. "that's it. grab your jackets, boys. we're tracking the idiot."

"i'll bring the car," choso said, instantly protective. "if someone is blackmailing our president, i will handle it."

"i don't care who she is," sukuna growled, grabbing his keys with an irritated sigh. "but she's ruining our social calendar, and i'm going to personally tell her off."

the gps on suguru's phone led them far away from the chaotic neon lights of their street and straight into the quiet, historic district of the campus town.

sukuna parked his black suv across the street from a tiny, brightly lit botanical greenhouse cafe. it was the kind of place that smelled like lavender and expensive matcha—a place satoru gojo wouldn't be caught dead in under normal circumstances.

"there," toji muttered, pointing a thick finger through the windshield. "in the corner by the giant plant."

suguru, sukuna, choso, and toji piled out of the car, ducking behind a row of large, decorative hedges outside the glass windows of the cafe. four of the most intimidating guys on campus were currently crammed together, peering through the leaves like a bunch of terrible secret agents.

and what they saw made their jaws collectively drop.

satoru was sitting at a small wooden table. he wasn't wearing his usual loud street clothes; he was wearing a soft, beige knit sweater that made him look completely approachable. opposite him sat you. you were laughing softly at something, a small plate of pastries sitting between you.

but it was satoru's behavior that caused a literal system error in his brothers' brains.

"is he… holding her purse?" sukuna whispered, his voice dripping with pure disbelief. he was. a small, cute tote bag was slung over satoru's massive shoulder.

"look at his face," suguru breathed, pressing his forehead against a leaf. "he's blushing. satoru doesn't blush. he doesn't even know how to blush."

inside, you reached over and wiped a bit of powdered sugar off the corner of satoru's mouth with a napkin. the fearless, untouchable sigma alpha president instantly turned a shade of red that matched a fire engine. he didn't make a smooth joke. he didn't smirk. he literally tangled his own fingers together, looking down at his lap and stuttering out what looked like a shy 'thank you', his white hair practically glowing in the warm cafe lights.

"he's completely defenseless," choso whispered, clutching his chest. "look how gently he's holding her hand. it's beautiful, i'm so proud of him."

"it's pathetic," toji snorted, though he was grinning like a maniac, thoroughly enjoying the blackmail material. "i'm going to ruin his life with this." he reached for the door handle, ready to ruin satoru's night, but suguru grabbed his jacket collar and yanked him back.

"wait, don't go in yet," suguru hissed, a devious glint in his eyes. "if we catch him now, he'll just make up an excuse. we need more evidence. we're tailing him tomorrow."

sukuna grumbled, but ultimately nodded. they quietly backed away into the night, leaving the president completely unaware that his inner circle had just turned into his paparazzi.

the next morning, the operation began in earnest.

it was a sunday, a day satoru usually spent sleeping in until 2:00 pm to recover from the weekend's parties. but today, at 9:00 sharp, satoru practically skipped out of the sigma alpha house, looking freshly showered and wearing a crisp, neat flannel.

behind him, a dark suv with tinted windows rolled out of the driveway, keeping a precise two-car distance.

"target is on the move," toji deadpanned from the passenger seat, wearing sunglasses indoors just to commit to the bit.

their first stop was the university library's outdoor courtyard. the boys parked and took up positions behind a brick pillar. through a pair of binoculars that choso had inexplicably brought from home, they watched you and satoru sit at a concrete picnic table.

you had your massive, terrifyingly thick organic chemistry textbooks spread out. and satoru? he was actually holding a highlighter, intently reading a textbook right alongside you.

"is… is he studying?" suguru blinked rapidly, rubbing his eyes. "satoru hasn't opened a textbook since freshman orientation. he usually just flashes his smile at the professors or begs me for his notes."

"look closer," sukuna muttered, leaning over suguru's shoulder. "he's not studying. he's been on the same page for twenty minutes. he's just using the book to hide his face because he's staring at her."

it was true. every time you leaned down to write a formula, satoru would peek over the top of his book, a completely dazed, love-struck look on his face. when you suddenly looked up, he panicked, dropped his highlighter, and scrambled to pretend he was deeply invested in a chapter about cell structures.

"isn't that idiot a political science major?" sukuna snapped from behind the pillar, his eye twitching as he watched satoru intensely study a diagram of a plant cell. you laughed—entirely oblivious to the stakeout happening across the courtyard—reaching over to ruffle his white hair, and satoru instantly melted, looking like he had just won the lottery.

by 2:00 pm, the stakeout moved to the campus park.

the frat brothers watched from a safe distance behind a duck pond as the untouchable campus king willingly allowed himself to be humiliated. you were trying to teach him how to crochet a little yarn flower. satoru's giant, clumsy hands were tangled in bright pink yarn, his tongue poking out the side of his mouth in intense concentration.

"he looks like an idiot," toji laughed, taking a video on his phone. "the guy who handles a six-figure fraternity budget can't figure out a slipknot."

but the real kicker was how quiet he was. there was no shouting, no arrogant smirking, no crowd cheering his name. he was just listening to you talk about your major, nodding along with genuine interest, and looking incredibly soft.

"alright, i've seen enough," sukuna finally sighed, tossing his keys in the air. "he's completely gone. the satoru gojo we knew is dead. we need to go introduce ourselves to our new sister-in-law before he completely forgets how to speak english."

before suguru or choso could stop him, sukuna aggressively parted the bushes and marched right onto the grass, his face set in his signature terrifying scowl. the others had no choice but to follow him, trailing out of the greenery like a bunch of unhinged, heavy-set bodyguard shadows.

satoru's head snapped up. his blue eyes widened in absolute, sheer horror behind his sunglasses as his executive board successfully surrounded their picnic blanket.

"nice pink yarn, gojo," toji smirked, crossing his arms and looming over the space.

"w-what the—! what are you guys doing here?!" satoru's voice cracked perfectly into a high-pitched squeak. he scrambled to stand up, knocking his knees against the picnic basket and trying to use his massive frame as a human shield to block you from their view. "suguru! sukuna! go away! you're completely ruining the vibe!"

"we've been watching you all day, you idiot," sukuna grumbled, stepping forward and flashing his phone screen, which showed a crystal-clear photo of satoru tangled in pink yarn. "you skipped the mandatory meeting to learn how to crochet?" sukuna snatched the tangled ball of pink yarn right out of satoru's hands.

"it's a slipknot, actually. and it's very complex!" satoru shot back, his ears turning a violent shade of crimson as his smooth, unbothered president persona completely disintegrated. "get out of here before you scare her—"

before he could yell any further, you stepped out from behind satoru's shoulder. instead of being terrified by the sudden ambush of large, intense-looking guys, you gave them a warm, adorable smile and opened a plastic container sitting on the blanket.

"oh, hi!" you said, your voice calm, sweet, and totally unfazed. "are you satoru's friends from the house? i'm glad you're here! i actually baked some fresh blueberry scones this morning. would you like one? satoru was too nervous to eat breakfast, so there's plenty left."

the collective hostility from the boys evaporated in a fraction of a second.

choso's face instantly softened. he completely ignored a sputtering satoru and stepped right onto the blanket. "i'm choso, his older brother figure. if he ever acts annoying or uses that loud voice around you, just tell me. i will handle him."

"i'm suguru, the vice president," suguru said, immediately shifting into his most charming, polite executive mode. "and don't worry, we didn't mean to startle you. we were just checking up on our fearless leader."

you giggled, offering the container. toji immediately reached in, taking a massive bite. "oh, wow. these are actually incredible. hey sukuna, try this."

sukuna stood there, still clutching the ball of pink yarn, looking down at the giant, blushing mess of his president, and then at you. you were nice, polite, completely unimpressed by satoru's campus status, and you made phenomenal baked goods. with a defeated sigh, sukuna stuffed the yarn into his pocket and plucked a scone from the container.

"fine," sukuna muttered, chewing. "she's approved. you're still a loser, gojo."

satoru buried his face in his hands, letting out a weak, pathetic groan. "please stop talking," he mumbled into his palms, his ears burning a violent, undeniable red.

just as you and satoru had agreed that night, you tried to keep your dating life under wraps. you didn't want the drama, and satoru wanted to protect his favorite quiet space from the chaotic world of greek life.

but unfortunately on college campus, rumors seem to travel at the speed of light.

within weeks, the whisper network was in full swing. "did you hear? the sigma alpha president is locked down." "no way, satoru? with who?" "someone from the library, i think. a stem major. she doesn't even go to his parties."

people were skeptical of course. the campus king and a quiet, adorable library girl? it didn't make sense to anyone.

except for the sigma alpha house. the frat brothers became your fiercest, most terrifyingly protective bodyguards. if anyone ever questioned your relationship, sukuna would glare them into silence, choso would proudly tell everyone about the baked goods you brought to the house, and suguru would smugly remind people that satoru was a changed man.

and he really was—he still threw the best parties, but the second you walked into the room, his eyes found yours, and that soft, goofy sweater-wearing satoru belonged entirely to you.

fast forward to exactly one year later.

the spring semester was winding down, and satoru's term as president was officially coming to and end. a massive, heavy cardboard box arrived at the sigma alpha house, and the boys gathered around as suguru carefully sliced it open to pull out the brand-new, yearly chapter composite.

they hung the massive, elegant frame dead-center in the main hallway, right alongside decades of history.

if you walked into the house today, your eyes would immediately go to the very top row. right in the center was satoru's professional headshot—though, true to form, he had ruined the serious vibe by wearing his signature round sunglasses and flashing a proud, dorky peace sign.

but right next to his photo, placed perfectly in its own elegant frame with the exact same weight and importance as the president, was a beautiful, radiant picture of you.

and underneath your name, embossed in elegant gold lettering, read the title:

sweetheart.

choso hated the university gym with a passion that bordered on holy. if he wanted to be perceived by thirty different guys named brad whose entire personalities revolved around creatine, shattered glass pre-workout, and casual misogyny, he would have joined a fraternity.

instead, he willingly paid forty dollars a month out of his miserable student earnings just to lift in a damp, dimly lit basement three miles off campus. there, nobody looked at him, nobody spoke to him, and nobody cared that his black nail polish was chipped or that his hair was tied back into two messy, ridiculous space buns.

it was his sanctuary. it kept the anxious, hyper-fixated noise in his brain at a manageable volume.

but on a miserable tuesday afternoon, the universe decided to test him. a laminated sign taped to the front door of his beloved off-campus haven delivered the devastating blow: closed for the next seven days for emergency plumbing maintenance and floor remodeling.

choso had stood in the rain, staring at the paper, feeling a slow, icy panic creep up his spine. a whole week without lifting? absolutely not. his mind would eat itself alive. desperate times called for desperate, humiliating measures. he was going to have to use his student id card and step foot into the university's recreation center.

he didn't just walk in blindly, though. choso treated the dilemma like a tactical covert operation. he spent the next few days calculating the exact peak hours of the campus social scene, charting the behavior of the obnoxious herds he so desperately wished to avoid.

friday night, he realized. 11:30 pm.

by that hour on a friday, the entire campus greek life was guaranteed to be blacked out at off-campus house parties, suffocating in a haze of cheap beer, or lining up outside bars downtown. the gym closed at 1:00 am. it was a golden, ninety-minute window of safety.

when friday night finally rolled around, the campus was damp and quiet. choso walked toward the massive, glowing glass building of the university gym, his heart beating a little too fast against his ribs. he felt exposed, even wrapped in his usual armor—a thick, completely shapeless black oversized hoodie with the strings pulled tight, and a baggy cargo sweatpants that dragged slightly against the pavement.

he approached the front desk, his jaw set, and swiped his student id at the turnstile. he braced himself for the worst, fully expecting the smell of axe body spray and the echoing shouts of gym bros to hit him the moment he rounded the corner.

instead, when he stepped onto the main gym floor, he was met with a ghost town.

the harsh fluorescent lights hummed quietly in the silence. the long rows of treadmills sat dark and stationary. the heavy iron weights were all neatly stacked in their racks, undisturbed. aside from a lone student employee half-asleep behind the towel counter on the far side of the building, choso was entirely alone.

a wave of pure, intoxicating relief washed over him. he had been right. the frat guys were gone, busy poisoning their livers elsewhere.

allowing his shoulders to finally drop, choso walked over to a secluded corner in the free-weight section, far away from the main mirrors. he pulled his heavy, noise-canceling headphones over his ears, drowning out the ambient hum of the facility with the familiar, aggressive comfort of his favorite post-hardcore playlist. he yanked his hoodie hood up over his hair, completely shutting out the rest of the world.

for the first time all week, choso relaxed. he grabbed a set of dumbbells to start his warm-up—completely, blissfully unaware that this was the very last night his gym sessions would ever be peaceful.

by midnight, choso was completely in his element. the heavy, screaming vocals blasting through his headphones blocked out everything else, creating a private wall of sound that matched the slow, deliberate burn in his muscles. he had moved over to the flat bench, adjusting his posture and gripping a pair of heavy dumbbells. his gaze was locked entirely on the speckled rubber flooring between his shoes, his mind blank, focused only on the rhythm of his breathing.

he leaned back, kicking the weights up to his chest, and began his set. one, two, three. he was halfway through his fifth repetition when a sudden, unexpected shadow fell over him. choso barely had time to process the shift in lighting before a light, tentative touch tapped him right on the shoulder.

the physical contact startled him so badly that his core completely unlocked. his grip faltered, his left wrist buckling inward as the heavy iron dumbbell threatened to slip from his hand. a sharp spike of adrenaline shot through his veins, and he practically fumbled the weights, dropping them onto the floor with a loud, echoing thud that rattled through the empty room.

"oh my god, i'm so sorry! are you okay?"

choso scrambled into a sitting position, his heart hammering violently against his ribs. his pale face flushed with an instant, burning embarrassment as he hastily yanked his headphones down around his neck—the muffled, angry music now tiny and weak in the open air. he wiped a hand across his forehead, preparing his best, most intimidating scowl to ward off whoever had just ruined his peace.

but the words died in his throat the moment he looked up. standing right in front of him was you.

you were holding a small gym towel, your skin lightly flushed and glowing with a thin sheen of sweat from your own workout. you looked genuinely worried, your eyes wide as you looked at him, adjusting the strap of your tank top.

"i really didn't mean to scare you," you said, your voice soft and breathless, a contrast to the aggressive screaming that had just been filling his ears. "i just wanted to ask if you were using the forty-pound weights next to your bench?"

choso stared at you, his throat suddenly feeling as dry as sandpaper. his dark eyes took in the messy way your hair was tied up, the slight rise and fall of your chest, and the polite, apologetic curve of your lips. his brain, usually so loud and overanalytical, completely went blank. he forgot how to speak, he forgot how to breathe.

"n-no," he stammered out, his voice a low, raspy gravel that he quickly tried to clear. he cleared his throat, pulling his hood down a fraction lower to hide the flush creeping up his neck. "i'm not using them. all yours."

you offered him a small, relieved smile that made his chest feel dangerously tight. "awesome, thank you so much. sorry again for the jump scare."

you leaned down, effortlessly grabbing the weights, and walked back over to an adjustable bench just a few yards away. choso sat frozen on his bench, watching your back as you walked away. his heart was still racing, but it wasn't from the adrenaline anymore.

he pulled his headphones back over his ears, but he didn't restart his music. instead, he just sat there in the silence of his own head, his eyes locked onto the floor as a single, terrifying thought bloomed in his mind: he was never going back to his old gym.

choso was a creature of habit, but habits could be easily rewritten when the incentive was high enough.

the following tuesday, his off-campus sanctuary sent out another automated email announcing that the renovations were finished ahead of schedule and the doors were officially reopened. choso didn't even look twice at the notification. he deleted it, swiped his screen shut, and stared at his ceiling, counting down the agonizing number of hours left until friday night.

he was completely, utterly gone for you.

during the week, choso reverted to his normal ghost-like state on campus. he moved through the fine arts building like a shadow, buried in the depths of his oversized, frayed black hoodie and wide-leg cargos, his fingers permanently stained with charcoal and oil paint. his long bangs fell into his eyes, a perfect shield from the rest of the student body. he didn't want to be seen by anyone.

except you.

when friday finally arrived, choso was a ball of nervous, vibrating energy. by 11:30 pm, he was swiping his student id at the turnstile, his heart doing a ridiculous, heavy flip the moment he stepped into the free-weight section.

and thank god, there you were.

for the next three weeks, this became your unspoken, late-night ritual. the gym was always a dead silent ghost town, save for the rhythmic hum of the ventilation and the occasional clink of iron. you had your routine on your side of the floor, and choso had his on his side. you would exchange a small, polite nod of acknowledgement whenever he walked in—a tiny gesture that secretly made choso's entire week—but otherwise, you left each other alone.

at least, physically.

internally, choso's mind was a dangerous, hyper-fixated place.

he pretended to be entirely absorbed in his own workouts. he would sit on the bench with his headphones on, staring blankly ahead like a stoic, brooding statue. but behind the dark fringe of his hair, his eyes were locked onto you.

as an art student, choso was trained to study form, anatomy, and lighting—but with you, it felt like an agonizing form of torture. he analyzed the way your muscles shifted and flexed under your skin when you lifted, the tight strain of your thighs and glutes when you did squats, and the delicate, sharp line of your collarbones. his brain automatically translated the view into a series of raw, unedited figure drawings, tracking the trail of sweat as it rolled down the side of your neck, soaking into the collar of your sports bra.

a heavy, dark ache would pull tight in his lower stomach every single time you let out a low, breathy pant after a heavy set. his body tried to betray him, threatening to grow hard right there on the gym floor.

but choso forced it down.

every time his thoughts started to cross the line into something genuinely filthy, he would fiercely bite the inside of his cheek until he tasted copper, forcing his gaze back down to the rubber flooring. he felt an intense, protective wave of guilt whenever his mind wandered too far. don't do that, he would tell himself, his chest tight. she's just trying to work out. don't be disgusting. don't disrespect her.

when he returned to his dark dorm room at 1:00 am, throbbing and completely overwhelmed by the scent of your perfume and sweat that seemed to linger in his nose, he didn't touch himself. he would lock the bathroom door, strip out of his clothes, and force himself into a freezing cold shower. he would lean his forehead against the damp tiles, his fists clenched as the ice-cold water sprayed over his burning skin, ruthlessly killing the desperate ache between his thighs that threatened to drive him mad.

he told himself he could control it. he told himself he could keep you on a pedestal, purely as a beautiful, distant muse.

he had no idea that his fragile self-control was about to completely shatter.

by week four, choso's luck finally pushed him over the edge.

it was a quarter past midnight. choso was finishing up a set of lat pulldowns, his hood down for once because the gym felt unusually warm. he was breathing a bit heavily, wiping his neck with a towel, when he felt that familiar, intoxicating shift in the air.

a shadow fell over him, followed by a light tap on his shoulder

choso turned around, his chest fluttering immediately. "hey," he said, his voice dropping into that low, quiet rumble he only used when speaking to you.

"hey," you smiled, looking a little out of breath yourself. you bit your lip slightly, pointing a thumb over your shoulder toward the bench press station. "sorry to bother you, but i'm trying to hit a new personal record on my final set, and i really don't want to crush my windpipe. do you mind giving me a quick spot?"

choso's brain stuttered. a spot. after three weeks of forcing himself to stay away, to keep his hands to himself, you were asking him to stand directly over you.

"yeah—yeah, of course," he managed to say, standing up quickly before his brain could talk him out of it.

he followed you over to the bench. you lay down, settling your shoulders against the black leather, while choso stepped up to the head of the bench, planting his feet firmly apart on either side of the metal frame. from this angle, looking down, his view of you was devastating. your chest was rising and falling, your eyes locked up at him, trusting him completely.

"just help me lift it off the rack on three, okay?" you murmured, reaching up to grip the barbell.

"i've got you," choso promised, his voice tight. "one, two, three."

together, you guided the heavy bar off the pegs. you took the weight, pausing for a second before lowering it slowly to your chest. choso hovered his hands right beneath the bar, his fingers curled, completely focused.

but as you pushed the weight back up, your muscles straining—a low, guttural groan escaped your throat.

the sound hit choso like a physical blow, fracturing the wall of restraint he had spent three weeks building. combined with the view of your arched back, the flush of your skin, and your absolute vulnerability beneath him, his body bypassed his brain entirely. all that suppressed, backed-up desire rushed straight to his crotch in a hot, violent wave.

within seconds, choso developed a massive, raging boner that pushed hard against the fabric of his baggy grey sweatpants.

oh, fuck, choso panicked internally, his eyes widening—because he was standing right above your face. the prominent, thick ridge in his pants was dangerously close to your line of sight. three weeks of cold showers vanished in an instant. he immediately hitched his hips backward, awkwardly arching his spine away from the bench to create distance, his heart hammering against his ribs in sheer terror that you would see how pathetic he was for you.

you pushed through the final rep with a sharp exhale, and choso quickly gripped the bar, helping you slam it safely back onto the rack.

"oh my god, thank you," you panted, sitting up immediately and rubbing your arms. you laughed a little, looking up at him with a bright, grateful smile. "i definitely would have died on that last one without you."

choso kept his hands casually draped over his crotch area, shuffling half a step back into the shadows, his entire body trembling from the effort of holding his composure. "you did fine. great form."

you didn't stand up right away. instead, you tilted your head, studying his face. "you know… i've been meaning to ask. you look really familiar. do you have classes in the fine arts building? on the studio floor?"

choso's heart did a violent stutter. "uh, yeah—i do, i'm a printmaking and painting major."

"i knew it!" you said, your eyes lighting up. "i'm a year below you in the sculpture program, but i see you in the halls all the time. you're always tucked away in the back corner of the studios, wearing those huge hoodies with the strings pulled tight. it's funny seeing you here without charcoal all over your face."

choso felt a burning blush crawl up his cheeks, all the way to the tips of his ears. you noticed him. you knew who he was outside of this empty gym. you shared the same late-night, messy, creative world.

"yeah," he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck, his knuckles still strategically shielding his front. "i, uh… i like it quiet. both in the studio and here."

you smiled, stepping just a fraction closer as you casually offered your name, introducing yourself properly for the first time since you'd started sharing the floor. choso's entire body went completely rigid at the sound of it. your name felt heavy in the air between you—a beautiful, sharp reality replacing the nameless fantasy he'd been harboring for weeks. "choso," he managed to choke out in return, his voice thick as he gave you his own name. "nice to meet you."

"nice to meet you too, choso." you murmured, your voice dropping into something a little softer, a little more intimate as you looked up at him through your lashes. you took a slow step backwards, your eyes lingering on him for one final, devastating second before you turned to gather your things. "you know, i usually hate late-night workouts… but knowing you're always there? that's why fridays are my favorite."

choso felt the air leave his lungs. he couldn't tell if he was genuinely imagining things now—if his own pathetic, desperate fantasies were finally bleeding into reality and making him hear things that weren't there. but the soft, knowing look in your eyes felt entirely too real.

choso barely remembered how he walked back to his side of the gym after that. his self-control wasn't just broken; it was completely demolished, his mind spinning in a chaotic loop over your parting words. had you meant it? or was he finally losing his fucking mind?

the moment he stepped inside his dark room, there was no cold shower. he didn't even make it past the entryway. choso slammed the door shut, locked it with a frantic click, and shoved his grey sweatpants and boxers down to his knees right there against the wood.

his cock snapped free, completely upright, throbbing violently and weeping thick, heavy drops of pre-cum from the sheer agony of the twenty-minute walk back. he let out a low, ragged sob into the empty room, his hand wrapping around his length in a brutal, iron-tight grip. he squeezed hard, a sharp whine tearing from his throat as his hips jerked forward, instantly smearing his own slick up and down his shaft.

he closed his eyes, and the darkness behind his eyelids immediately filled with you.

because he was an artist, his memory was devastatingly vivid. he didn't just fantasize; he reconstructed you. he pictured the exact way your lower lip looked trapped between your teeth when you were straining under the barbell. he pictured the heavy, glistening sheen of sweat coating the delicate dip of your collarbones, the way your sports bra squeezed your chest, and the tight, mouth-watering curve of your thighs arched on that leather bench.

but what truly made his blood boil, what made his thick cock throb with a vicious, demanding ache against his palm, was the sudden intoxicating realization of your size difference. standing right over your face on that bench, he had felt so devastatingly big.

his artist's eye automatically compared the two of you—his broad, heavy-boned frame, his wide shoulders, and his massive, blunt hands against the softer, giving curves of your body. he imagined how effortlessly he could engulf you. he pictured your body pinned completely beneath his dense, imposing weight, swallowed whole by his shadow. the sheer contrast of it—how he could completely overwhelmed you with his height and mass, forcing you to look up at him while he held you down—made a low, feral sound rip from the back of his throat.

"fuck," he whined, his pace turning fast and punishing. his knuckles, still stained with a faint trace of charcoal from his afternoon studio class, rubbed friction against his burning skin.

he squeezed his eyes shut tighter, desperately chasing the auditory memory of your workout. he wanted your sounds. he was completely, helplessly addicted to them. that low, guttural, breathy groan you had let out right beneath him—he replayed it over and over in his head, matching the rhythm of his fist to the memory of your breath. he imagined what it would feel like to force those exact noises out of you himself. he wanted to push himself so deep inside you that you'd make those heavy, strained sounds against his ear, over and over until you were entirely spent.

his mind took a darker, filthier turn as the friction started to blur his thoughts. he looked down at his own hand, but in the fever-dream of his arousal, he imagined it was your hand. he imagined you gripping him, your small, soft palm slick with his pre-cum, looking up at him from the floor with those wide, trusting eyes while you made him stroke himself.

and then, the smell hit him.

the faint, intoxicating ghost of your scent had transferred onto his hands when he adjusted the barbell, or maybe when your shoulders had lightly brushed. it was a heady mix of clean vanilla perfume and raw, warm skin-musk. choso's breath hitched. completely unhinged, he brought his free hand up to his face, pressing his knuckles hard against his mouth and nose. he took a deep, shuddering inhale, practically drinking the scent off his skin.

god, he was an absolute freak. a disgusting pathetic pervert. if he could have stolen your damp, sweat-soaked gym clothes right out of your locker just to bury his face in them and inhale you until he suffocated, he would have done it in a heartbeat. he wanted to track the scent of your sweat with his tongue, licking it off the curve of your neck, tasting how salty and warm you were.

but more than anything, his mind was utterly enslaved to the memory of your introduction. having your actual name in his possession was a dangerous, lethal upgrade to his madness. it wasn't just a fantasy anymore; you had a name. and it tasted like absolute sin on his tongue.

he started chanting it into the quiet darkness of his room. he whispered your name against his trembling knuckles, his voice a low, ruined prayer that matched the frantic, bruising rhythm of his hand. every time your name left his lips, a fresh surge of hot pre-cum leaked from his tip, his body physically reacting to mere syllables of your identity as if you were casting a spell over him. he repeated it over and over, faster and louder, turning your name into a dirty, desperate plea.

"ah—shit… please…"

the vocalization of your name snapped the last thread of his sanity. choso's movements became completely frantic, his hips slamming blindly against the door as he stroked himself with an unforgiving, desperate speed. his toes curled into the carpet, his entire body trembling as the pressure behind his hips reached a breaking point.

he imagined you standing right there in the dark, your hands guiding his hips, whispering that fridays were your favorite, too.

with a choked, breathless gasp, choso's knees completely buckled. he threw his head back against the door with a dull thud as his body spasmed, blowing a thick, hot, messy white flood all over his charcoal-stained fingers and the floor. he whimpered, his chest heaving violently in the quiet room, his leaking cock still twitching weakly in his hand as the heavy waves of pleasure wrecked him.

he slid down until his thighs hit the floor, completely covered in his own mess, very aware that he was entirely, hopelessly enslaved to you.

the next two weeks were a slow, agonizing descent into madness for choso.

ever since the night he had broken his restraint in his dorm, his mind was entirely corrupted. his sketchbooks were no longer filled with abstract layouts or still-lifes; instead, the pages were cluttered with charcoal studies of the human form—the curve of a waist, the flex of a thigh, the precise angle of a neck arched back in a phantom groan. he was losing his grip, completely consumed by the ghost of your vanilla scent and the memory of your voice.

he still played the part of the quiet, stoic classmate during your friday sessions, but the air between you had shifted. it was thicker now. every time your eyes met across the empty gym floor, choso's stomach would coil with a dark, expectant heat.

which brought him to this particular friday.

choso had run out of clean laundry—or perhaps, deep down in the desperate, pathetic corners of his soul, he was simply tired of hiding behind his armor. he dug through the very bottom of his dresser drawer and pulled out a pair of light grey sweatpants and a tight, black, long-sleeved compression shirt.

when he walked into the university gym at 11:30 pm, he didn't have his oversized hoodie to protect him. he was completely bare.

you were already there, finishing up a warm-up stretch near the free weights, when the turnstile clicked. you turned your head casually to nod hello, but the moment your eyes landed on him, you froze completely.

without the baggy fabric of his hoodies, choso's true physical form was devastating. his shoulders were incredibly broad, tapering down into a surprisingly narrow waist, and the thin, elastic material of the black compression shirt clung to the heavy, carved planes of his chest like a second skin. the fabric stretched tight over his thick biceps and long arms, mapping out every cord of muscle.

and those grey sweatpants were doing him absolutely no favors. the soft, light cotton left nothing to the imagination, casting a prominent, heavy shadow right down the front of his thighs that made it very obvious how much weight he carried between them.

choso felt your gaze like a physical brand on his skin. he watched your eyes dilate, your jaw going slightly slack as you traced his silhouette before quickly looking down at the floor, your cheeks flushing a violent, sudden pink. the shy, swallowed-up emo boy you thought you knew was actually fucking jacked.

for the first time, choso felt a sudden, dark thrill pierce through his veins. you weren't just casually looking anymore. you were staring. you were flustered. the power dynamic had just completely shattered.

"hey," you said as he walked over, your voice sounding a little tighter, a little more breathless than usual.

"hey," he mumbled, adjusting his grip on a set of heavy dumbbells.

for the next forty minutes, the gym was a total disaster zone for your focus. you kept fumbling your sets, your eyes helplessly glued to the way his broad back flexed under that black fabric. choso noticed every single glance, his heart hammering against his ribs, his body humming with a dangerous, quiet confidence he didn't know he possessed.

finally, as the clock crept toward 12:45 am, choso moved over to the deadlift platform to finish his workout. he was loading heavy iron plates onto the barbell, his chest heaving slightly, when you slowly walked over. your gym towel was clutched tightly in your hands, your knuckles white.

"um, choso?" you murmured, looking up at him through your lashes.

he paused, wiping a bead of sweat from his temple, his dark eyes locked onto yours. "yeah?"

"i… i was thinking," you began, your eyes momentarily darting down to his chest before snapping back to his face. "you've been helping me out for weeks. you always spot me, and you're always so nice about it… i kind of feel bad that it's only been you helping me. do you… do you need a spot on these? or do you want me to help you stretch out afterward? you look really tense."

choso's breath hitched, the heavy weight in his sweatpants twitching violently at the offer. help him stretch. the mental image of your hands pressing against his thick thighs, guiding his legs, or leaning over his back made his head spin. he looked down at you, acutely aware of how his looming height entirely shadowed you under the gym lights.

he looked around the gym. it was empty. the digital clock was ticking down to closing time, and the air between you was practically vibrating with unsaid desires.

"yeah," choso whispered, his voice dropping into that low, gravelly register that made your core throb. he leaned down slightly, his dark eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made it feel like he was branding you right then and there. "i'm almost done. i could use your help."

your chest heaved as you nodded, unable to find your voice under the heavy weight of his gaze. you turned together, falling into step right beside his massive frame. the transition from the open weight floor to the stretching mats in the far corner felt like stepping directly into an active furnace.

you had laid out a heavy foam mat in the dim, amber shadow of the room, offering to guide choso through a cool-down stretch since his shoulders looked so tightly coiled. but the moment you stepped close, the physical reality of his frame hit you like a wall of heat. when you pressed your palms against the dense, burning expanse of his back, your breath caught. under the smooth, slick fabric of his black compression shirt, his muscles felt like carved, unyielding stone. he shattered your rhythm the second your skin met his, letting out a low, ragged exhale as his broad chest heaved under your hands.

when you stepped around to his front to help guide an overhead arm stretch, your bodies brushed. the sheer, towering height of his looming frame completely eclipsed you under the dim emergency lights. you looked up, your pupils wide and completely dilated, only to find choso staring down at you. his dark eyes were pitch-black, his irises swallowed up by a gaze so raw, intense, and heavily possessive that it made your core violently throb with a sudden, weeping ache.

he didn't wait for a verbal answer. his large hand slid down to wrap firmly around your wrist, guiding you away from the clanking iron of the lifting racks.

the restraint he had spent a month building was officially gone.

with a single, unyielding tug, choso hoisted you up and herded you backward through the heavy, double doors of the communal locker room. the thick door clicked shut behind you with a definitive, echoing thud, sealing the two of you into absolute isolation. the air inside was already thick and humid, heavy with the rising, damp steam from the automatic ventilation hooked to the shower stalls in the back.

he didn't waste a single second. choso pressed his massive body forward, driving you back into the narrow aisle until your spine met the cold, hard metal of the lockers. before you could even utter a word, his restraint completely snapped.

choso buried his face directly into the crook of your neck, letting out a deep, shuddering, almost violent inhale. his nose dragged roughly against your hot skin as he practically drank your scent in, entirely feral for it. his mind flashed back to the quiet agony of his lonely dorm room, to the pathetic weeks he had spent sticky and shaking in his sheets, imagining this exact smell. but this was real. he sniffed you deeply, trailing his nose up the sensitive line of your throat, completely intoxicating himself with the heady, sweet mix of your vanilla perfume and the raw, warm musk of your workout sweat.

"god, you smell so good," he groaned against your skin, his voice breaking with a desperate, ragged edge.

his large hands came up to frame your face, his calloused palms tilting your head back as he slammed his mouth down onto yours. it was a messy, ravenous, completely drunk make-out. choso was entirely intoxicated by your lips, his tongue sliding deep into your mouth, tasting you with a desperate hunger that made your knees go weak. he kissed you over and over, his lips bruising yours, sucking on your lower lip until you were both gasping for air, the wet, sloppy sounds of his mouth completely filling the quiet locker room.

he dropped heavily to his knees on the tiled floor, his hands instantly reaching up to grab the hem of his black compression shirt. with one swift, fluid motion, he pulled the tight fabric over his head and discarded it carelessly.

your breath left you entirely, your eyes widening in absolute awe. without the shirt, choso was a towering, breathtaking canvas of raw, imposing anatomy. his smooth skin was covered in dark, heavy ink—intricate, black surrealist tattoos wrapped completely around the thick meat of his forearms, climbing up his bulging biceps, and tracing the hard, carved cuts of his chest and obliques. he was built like a god, a terrifyingly large giant, yet as he looked up at you, his eyes were wide and full of a shaking, reverent vulnerability.

with steady, trembling fingers, he hooked his thumbs into the waistband of your gym shorts and undergarments, stripping them down to your sneakers. his brain completely shut off the moment your naked body was exposed to him. he stared, his jaw slack, his chest heaving as his eyes mapped out every single inch of you.

"you're… you're really here," he rasped, a look of pure, euphoric disbelief washing over his features. "i'm not dreaming. you're actually letting me touch you."

he effortlessly parted your thighs, his large hands gripping the back of your knees to pull your legs up, pinning them wide over his broad, tatted shoulders. choso didn't care about being neat; he was hungry and completely desperate.

before even touching his tongue to your center, he buried his face in the soft meat of your inner thighs, trailing heavy, wet, open-mouthed kisses along your skin. he dragged his nose roughly against your folds, inhaling deeply with a sharp, ragged gasp that shook his entire frame, completely unhinged by your scent and warmth.

when he finally slid his tongue straight up your soaked folds, the heavy, silver barbell piercing split right through the middle of his tongue hit you completely unaware. you’d been so entirely consumed by the bruising, desperate heat of his mouth against yours earlier—so utterly drowned in the taste of him and the dizzying rush of his hands on your skin—that you hadn't even registered the faint, metallic slide of it against your own tongue.

you hadn't expected it at all—the sudden, piercing contrast of that cold, hard metal bar sliding right over your swollen, sensitive clit sent a violent, shattering jolt of electricity straight down your spine. your back arched completely off the lockers, a loud, broken gasp tearing from your throat.

it was a lethal sensory overload. choso drank in your reaction, using the metal to rub and vibrate against you in wild, heavy strokes that smeared your wetness all over his chin and lips. your hands flew blindly to his head, your fingers tangling desperately into the messy, damp strands of his hair to pull him even closer, pinning his face against your cunt.

you were already so worked up from a month of tension that it didn't take long at all; under the ruthless, heavy friction of his pierced tongue, your body tightened instantly. a devastating, screaming orgasm crashed over you within seconds, your thighs trembling violently against his neck. choso groaned into your pussy, sucking you softly through your release and swallowing every single drop of you, completely euphoric that his darkest, loneliest fantasies were finally coming true.

he slowly stood up, panting heavily, his chin glistening with your slick. without a word, he stripped out of his grey sweatpants. when his length snapped free, your breath gasped out. he was terrifyingly huge—thick, heavy, and weeping dark drops of pre-cum. your eyes widened, a sudden spike of nerves hitting your chest at the sheer structural size difference.

sensing your fear, choso's expression softened instantly. he lifted you effortlessly, your legs automatically wrapping around his waist as he herded your trembling body into the communal shower stalls. he snapped the metal handle, and a steady stream of warm water beat down on his tatted back.

choso braced your back gently against the wet tiles, lifting one of your legs and pinning it securely against the thick meat of his hip to open you up completely. before pushing in, he paused, his breath hitching as he dragged the head of his cock directly over your weeping entrance. he rolled his hips in a slow, agonizing circle, running his slick tip up and down the length of your soaking center, teasing the sensitive skin until your hips automatically buckled against him, begging for the friction.

"i'll be gentle, promise," he murmured softly against your lips, his voice a soothing, quiet contrast to his heavy size. "just tell me if it's too much—i've thought about this every night... i don't want to hurt you."

he pushed forward slowly, an inch at a time, and the tight, agonizingly perfect stretch made you sob out loud, your forehead burying into his neck. he was too big, filling you so deeply that it felt like he was bottoming out against your very soul. you could feel every ridge of him stretching your walls to their absolute limit. choso let out a low, gravelly groan, his entire body shaking as he stopped, completely motionless, letting you adjust.

"you're okay," he whispered softly into your ear, his large hands coming down to heavily grope and worship your body. he squeezed your hips, his tatted fingers digging into your skin, before sliding up to cup your breasts, his thumbs rubbing your nipples through the running water. "shit, look at you... you're taking me so well. so perfect for me."

he began to pull back, almost all the way out, before plunging back in with a slow, devastatingly heavy weight. he hammered into you with a desperate but careful pace, his hips pressing firmly against yours. he didn't just push; he worshipped you with every stroke, tracing his lips along your jawline, biting softly at the pulse point on your neck whenever a particularly deep plunge made you cry out his name.

"fuuuckk, that's it," he murmured, his voice cracking with pure emotion as your walls clamped desperately around his length. "say my name again, baby—let me hear you."

"mnghh—choso... choso," you sobbed, completely unraveled by the rhythm, awestruck by how someone so massive could hold you with such tender, protective care.

"i've got you," he whispered, his large hands lifting you slightly higher to change the angle, sinking even deeper into your softness.

with the new angle, choso plunged all the way in, the massive, thick head of his cock bottoming out completely and hitting directly against your cervix. the sudden, deep ache was a lethal spark; the friction inside you shifted instantly, and a wave of pure, unadulterated pleasure began building up with terrifying speed. you could feel every single thick ridge of him stretching you open, driving you completely over the edge. your mind fractured as you came undone for the second time, your vision blurring as a loud, echoing cry tore from your throat.

the devastating orgasm caused your walls to spasm and clamp down ruthlessly around his dick, tightening around it like a vice. the intense, crushing suction completely shattered choso's control. he threw his head back, his tatted shoulders bunching tightly as a deep, guttural groan tore from his chest. his hips slammed forward one last time, pinning you flush against the wet tiles as he came violently inside you, pulsing thick and hot, filling you to the absolute brim with his release.

he didn't pull out. even as the water washed over his inked skin, his length stayed thick, hard, and demanding inside you, his cock still twitching and pulsing deeply against your raw, swollen walls. you could feel every single throb of his aftermath inside you, making you let out a weak whine as you buried your face into the hot crook of his neck. he pressed his forehead against yours, both of you panting heavily, the steam rising around your bodies.

"don't move," he breathed softly, his lips brushing yours. "don't move yet. i want to stay inside you."

choso shifted his weight, gathering your trembling body entirely into his arms and pulling you up off the tile wall. he guided your other leg around his waist, holding you completely flush against his massive, wet chest, trapping you entirely in his shadow. since you had already come twice, your entire body was completely spent, and a jolt of pure shock ran through you when choso’s hips gave a sudden, slow, experimental roll.

"hmph—choso, wait..." you gasped, looking up at him with wide, glassy eyes.

he looked down at you, his dark eyes heavy-lidded and completely glazed over with a dark, terrifyingly needy lust. he looked so soft, yet so entirely unhinged by the taste of you. "one more... just one more, please, sweetheart?" he begged, his voice a gravelly, trembling whisper against your lips. "you're so tight—i can't get out."

you were already so incredibly overstimulated that you couldn't even form words, able to make only broken, needy little sounds against his chest. your fingers curled blindly into the damp skin of his shoulders, your nails scratching desperately down the dark ink of his back—but the stinging friction only made him growl, his grip tightening ruthlessly around your ass as your resistance turned him on even more.

with your bodies pinned chest-to-chest, he dragged his tatted hands through your wet hair, tilting your head forward to bring your mouth to his for another deep, heavy, sloppy kiss. your tongues tangled, the hard metal of his piercing sliding heavily against yours, making you taste the intoxicating mix of your own sweat and release on his lips.

he didn't rush. choso backed up just enough to prop one of his heavy feet on the shower bench, tilting his hips back. his gaze dropped down, his pitch-black eyes tracking lower to look directly at the point of connection between your bodies. you watched through blurred vision as he stared, completely fascinated, watching his massive, dark shaft plunge all the way into your dripping cunt, churning up the filthy, frothy ring of your combined releases and his own thick cum. the wet, sloshing sounds of him fucking you were amplified by the echoing shower stall, white cream bubbling out and smearing over his tatted thighs with every agonizingly deep stroke.

"fuck, look at you," he whispered between heavy, wet kisses, his voice thick with a profound, quiet awe as his eyes stayed glued to the messy, ruined sight of your pussy. "look how much of me you're holding. all ruined for me—can't look away from you."

"nghh—choso, you're... you're still so big," you gasped out as he began to roll his hips again. the second expansion felt even deeper, more thorough than the first, the thick head of his cock ruthlessly punishing your cervix over and over.

"'m sorry," he murmured softly, though his actions contradicted his apology as he sank all the way in, bottoming out completely and burying his balls flush against your wetness. "you just feel too good—i can't help it. let me love you like this, just a little longer."

he rolled his hips forward again and again, sinking into you with an agonizingly slow, deep rhythm that made your vision blur. every push was accompanied by a soft, reverent kiss—on your eyelids, your cheeks, your mouth, and the sensitive skin under your ear. he turned your entire body into a canvas, worshipping you with a gentle but unyielding stamina, his heart completely overflowing with the euphoric reality that you were finally, beautifully his.

the automatic shower ventilation hummed a low, droning bassline as the steam slowly began to clear from the room, the heavy mist settling into a damp, quiet warmth.

choso stood mid-dressed in the narrow space between the shower stalls and the benches. he had managed to pull his grey sweatpants back on, the thick waistband sitting low on his hips, but his massive upper body was still completely bare. his smooth skin was flushed dark pink, the heavy black tattoos on his chest and arms glistening under the dull overhead facility lights.

you sat on the wooden bench right in front of him, a large, fluffy white towel draped loosely over your head to catch the dampness of your hair. your body was still completely spent, your inner thighs aching with a heavy, lingering numbness.

despite the water being off, choso hadn't moved away. he stepped in close between your knees, leaning down so his massive frame completely shadowed you. his hands came up to gently frame the sides of your face through the fabric of the towel, and he leaned in, resting his forehead against yours. both of you just breathed together for a moment, the quiet, synchronized sound of your exhales filling the empty locker room.

choso slowly opened his eyes, looking at you from beneath his messy, damp bangs. the terrifying, pitch-black intensity from the showers had completely faded, replaced by that familiar, quiet softness that usually hid behind his oversized hoodies. his cheeks pulled a sudden, dark pink flush—not from the heat of the room, but from a sudden wave of sheer, boyish bashfulness.

he cleared his throat, the sound low and gravelly in the empty space. carefully, almost timidly, he reached into your gym bag and pulled out a fresh, dry set of clothes you had brought along.

"here," he murmured, his voice dropping into that quiet, hesitant register.

he didn't just hand them to you. instead, his massive, heavily inked hands gathered the soft fabric of your clean t-shirt. his touch was incredibly gentle, a stark contrast to how ruthlessly he had been holding you against the tiles just minutes ago. he carefully guided the shirt over your head, his blunt fingers catching on the collar to make sure it didn't snag on your damp skin, before pulling your arms through the sleeves with a quiet, domestic focus that made your heart melt.

he paused, his eyes darting down to the floor, then back up to your face through the towel still framing your head. he rubbed the back of his neck with his tatted forearm, looking suddenly, hilariously out of his depth now that the primal fog had cleared.

"um," choso began, his voice cracking slightly. he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, the heavy, dominant monster from the shower stall completely transforming back into the shy art student who didn't know what to do with his hands. "i know... i know the timing is really bad. and it’s probably not very gentleman-like of me to ask this... especially right after we just—after what we just did."

he took a deep breath, his dark eyes looking down at you with a completely endearing vulnerability.

"but there’s a 24-hour diner and cafe just two blocks from campus. they have really good iced coffee, and... and sweet pastries. i was wondering if... if you wanted to go grab something to drink with me? like... a date. a real one."

you stared up at him from beneath the towel, your heart swelling so violently it cut off your breath. hearing this massive, fully tattooed, pierced giant softly ask you out on a proper, polite date while his bare chest was still flushed from your touch was the most charming thing you had ever experienced.

"i would love to, choso," you whispered.

a small, breathtakingly genuine smile broke across choso's face, lighting up his features. "okay," he rumbled softly, bending down to press one final, sweet, lingering kiss to your lips before reaching for his own hoodie. "let's finish up. i'll buy you whatever you want."