Floatinginaer

Already at the stove.

Already flipping something in a pan with the confidence of a man who learned to cook before he learned to shave.

He’ll glance over his shoulder at you and smile, and it’s that smile, the soft one with the slight crinkle at the corner of his purple eyes, and you’ll feel your irritation deflate like a sad balloon because god, he’s so annoyingly pretty.

You tried cleaning.

You got up early. Practically military-early, which for you is a genuine sacrifice.

You dug out the cleaning supplies from under the sink and you had the vacuum cleaner out before seven in the morning, which should have earned you some kind of medal.

Instead you found the living room already clean. Not recently clean. Impeccably clean. Like it had never been touched by the concept of mess. There was a note on the coffee table in his handwriting: Don’t strain yourself, Pipsqueak. — C.

You may have crumpled that note aggressively.

You may have then proceeded to sit down in the middle of the clean living room floor and have something that could generously be called a meltdown. A tantrum, if you’re being less generous.

Caleb came in from wherever he’d been — still in that black and orange flight jacket, hair slightly messed, looking unfairly effortless — and found you sitting on the floor with your arms crossed and your expression set to full operational sulk.

He didn’t say anything at first. He just looked at you, and then the corner of his mouth tugged upward, and he laughed. Not mean. Never mean with you.

Just warm and rich and a little helpless, like you were the funniest thing he’d ever seen and also slightly exasperating.

“I just wanted to help,” you told him, which came out more like a whine than a declaration.

“I know,” he said, and before you could say anything else he had you up over his shoulder like you weighed nothing — like you were a bag of laundry, like the laws of gravity simply applied differently to you when he decided they did — and the world flipped upside down and his hand was firm and warm on the back of your thigh.

“Caleb—“

“You wanna work so much?” His voice had dropped, that particular low register that lived somewhere between teasing and intent. “Alright. Put that mouth to work.”

And the thing is. The thing is. You’re not going to dwell on what happened after that.

You’re absolutely not going to think about how you ended up on your knees on the floor of his office with his hands loose in your hair and his cock heavy on your tongue, or about the sounds he made, or about the way he looked down at you with those purple eyes gone dark and said good girl like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You are not dwelling on any of that.

You’re especially not dwelling on the fact that you’d have done it again. Enthusiastically.

But the point is — and you have to keep coming back to the point because your brain has a truly inconvenient tendency to wander — his birthday is in two weeks.

And you have done nothing.

Zero.

You’ve been outmaneuvered at every turn by a six-foot-two military pilot who apparently never sleeps and has a pathological need to do everything himself before anyone else can.

Domestic route: blocked. Culinary route: blocked. Cleaning route: blocked and mocked, very gently, via handwritten note.

Fine. Fine.

If he won’t let you help him with the house, you’ll help him in a different way. A much more interesting way.

The idea had come to you in the middle of the night, the way good ideas tend to. If Caleb loves his uniform, and he does, he’s meticulous about it in a way that borders on religious — the pressed lines, the insignia, the whole Colonel energy he wears like a second skin — then what better way to short-circuit his brain than to wear it yourself?

You’d ordered it three weeks ago, back before the tantrum, when you still thought the cooking plan might work.

It had been sitting in your closet ever since, tucked behind a row of regular clothes, hidden in plain sight as something so mundane that Caleb, who does occasionally poke his head into your room to return folded laundry like some kind of domestic nightmare, would never look twice at it.

Just a dry-cleaning bag. Just a work uniform. Nothing to see here.

You pull it out now, holding it up in the soft late-afternoon light that comes through your window, and you look at it critically. It’s exactly right. The cut, the fabric, the insignia you’d had replicated. The jacket. The pants. The whole setup.

Caleb is in his room, the door cracked open the way it always is when he’s working at his desk, which means you can hear the faint occasional sound of papers shifting or his pen moving, which means he is exactly where you want him.

You look at the uniform again. You look at yourself in the mirror on the back of your closet door.

You’re going to march into his room, and you’re going to make Colonel Caleb Xia Yi Zhou lose every single thread of his composure, because it’s almost his birthday and you refuse — refuse — to be outmaneuvered a fourth time.

But here’s what they don’t tell you about ordering a uniform online when you’re more focused on the fantasy of it than the logistics: size matters.

Size matters a lot.

You step into the pants first, which is a process. You get them up past your knees fine. Past your thighs is already a project. By the time you’ve wrestled them up over your hips you’re already slightly out of breath, and when you look in the mirror the fabric is pulled so tight across your ass that you can practically count the individual seams.

You turn sideways. You turn back. You try bending at the knee to test the range of motion and the pants make a sound like a warning.

Don’t, the pants say. Absolutely do not.

Okay, so bending is out.

Moving with anything resembling caution is also out.

If you sit down in these you might genuinely be trapped.

You accept this as the price of the plan and move on to the jacket, which is the least of your problems until it isn’t — the buttons close over your stomach fine, but once you get to your chest it becomes a negotiation.

The fabric strains. The buttons are doing their best. They are trying so hard and they are losing, and there’s a gap between the second and third button from the top that wasn’t there in the product photos, where the fabric pulls apart just enough to show a strip of skin and the edge of your bra.

You look at yourself in the mirror for a long moment.

“Okay,” you say.

Your ass looks genuinely extraordinary. You have to give the too-tight pants that — they’ve done something transcendent back there. The uniform jacket hits just above the curve of it, which means when you lean forward even slightly there is an event happening. And the gap at the chest is doing something. It’s doing something you hadn’t planned, but you’re choosing to count it as a feature.

You rake your hair back, let it fall, tilt your chin. You point at your own reflection.

“He’s not gonna know what hit him.”

Your reflection looks back at you with the energy of someone who is sixty percent confident and forty percent about to back out.

You do not give her the opportunity.

You turn away from the mirror before the forty percent can gain ground, grab the door handle, and head out into the hallway.

The apartment is quiet. The late afternoon has gone gold and long-shadowed, and Caleb’s door is still cracked the way it was before, a thin rectangle of warm light falling across the hall floor. You can hear him in there — the faint shift of paper, the soft particular sound of his pen, totally absorbed. He has no idea.

You stop outside his door. You breathe.

You arrange your face into an expression of worried contrition, which takes some doing because underneath it you are absolutely delighted with yourself, and you knock twice on the door frame, keeping your body just out of sight around the edge.

“Caleb?” Your voice comes out with exactly the right wobble — concerned, a little sheepish, the voice of someone who has done something they feel bad about. “I’m really sorry, but — I was trying to do something nice, and I think I kind of messed up...”

There’s a pause. You hear his pen stop.

“Messed up how?” His voice is careful, not alarmed. Just attentive, the way he always is when you sound uncertain, because Caleb has never once in his life been able to hear you sound uncertain without immediately paying attention. It’s one of his more exploitable qualities.

“I tried washing your uniform for you,” you say, and you let the words come out small and guilty. “And I think — I think it might have... shrunk.”

Another pause. You can picture him at his desk, his brow doing that slight furrow, trying to work out why that’s a problem that requires you to sound this apologetic.

“Sweetheart.” His voice is mild, unoffended, just a little puzzled. The chair shifts. “Let me see it. Come here.”

That’s your cue.

You step around the door frame and into the light of his room, and then you walk toward him. You take your time with it, because the pants make fast movement inadvisable anyway, and because the whole point is to let him see every inch of you in this thing that barely contains you — the jacket pulled tight across your chest, the gap where the buttons strain, the pants that have given up any pretense of modesty and are simply painting you in detail.

Caleb goes completely still.

He’d been turned partway toward the door, one arm braced on his desk, and that’s how he stays — perfectly, completely motionless — as you cross the room toward him.

His mouth doesn’t drop open. He’s more composed than that. But his eyes go somewhere darker and the breath he’d been in the middle of just... stops. You can see it. The stillness of his chest.

His cock is already pressing against his pants. You notice this without looking directly, the way you notice a fire — by the heat of it, by the fact that the room feels different suddenly

You don’t say anything. You walk to his desk, turn so your back is to him, and lean against the edge of it. Your ass settles onto his work papers with a soft, definitive sound. You glance back at him over your shoulder.

He still hasn’t spoken. He’s just watching you.

His eyes trace the uniform, absorbing every detail like a blueprint he’s determined to master. His jaw is tight. The smirk hasn’t arrived yet — it’s building, you can see it in the set of his mouth, the way the corner of his lip is just beginning to pull.

You cross your arms loosely, settle your weight back, and look at him.

“Well?” you say, keeping your voice light, unbothered, like you aren’t desperately aware of your own heartbeat. “What do you think? Think it shrunk?”

And there it is — the smirk, slow and deliberate as a knife being unsheathed, landing at the corner of his mouth like he was never trying to hold it back, just waiting to make sure you were watching when it showed up.

“Mhm,” Caleb says. It’s not an answer. It’s not even a word. It’s just a sound in the low register of his voice that goes directly down your spine. The look in his eyes is the look of a man who has already decided what’s going to happen next and finds it very, very funny that you thought you were in charge of this.

You swallow.

Maybe you didn’t think this through all the way.

You think — well, you THOUGHT — that you have the upper hand here.

You’re sitting on his desk, his papers crinkled under your ass, wearing his uniform like you own it, and he’s just standing there in front of you looking at you with that smirk, and you think: yeah, okay, I’ve got him. You think: he’s flustered and I did that. You think a lot of things very quickly, in the way you do when you’re trying to feel confident and your brain is helping you lie to yourself.

Then Caleb stands up.

He’d been leaning slightly forward, one hand on the arm of his chair. He rises to his full height like the tide coming in, slow and inevitable, and suddenly he is very tall.

You’ve always known he’s tall. Six-foot-two is not a secret.

You have lived with this man, you’ve stood next to him at the grocery store and craned your neck at him across the dinner table and had him tuck you under his arm for years without really registering it the way you register it now.

You have to lean back just to keep eye contact. Your hands go automatically to the desk behind you, bracing.

“Hi,” you say, which is not what you’d planned to say.

He doesn’t answer. Instead he reaches out — and picks you up. Both hands, one at your hip and one at your thigh, and he lifts you like you’re a piece of paper he’s clearing off the desk and deposits you further back on the desk surface, higher up, and the pants — the beautiful, already-suffering pants — finally meet their end.

The seam goes with a sharp tearing sound right down the middle, and you feel the cool air of the room find your inner thighs, and you make a sound you hadn’t planned to make, somewhere between a gasp and a laugh, and your hands fly down to cover yourself automatically. That does nothing, by the way, because Caleb’s hands are already there, wrapping around your wrists and holding them to the side with a calm, immovable firmness.

His hands are enormous around your wrists. You could probably fight it but you don’t, because you’ve already forgotten what you were fighting for.

Your panties are orange. Bright, irreverent orange, the exact same color as the stripe on his flight jacket, and they are completely visible through the wreckage of the pants.

Caleb stares at them.

And then he does something you didn’t predict, because you should have known by now that Caleb in this mode is ungovernable: he drops his head.

He dips down between your thighs and puts his nose right against the fabric, and inhales. Long and deep and completely shameless, like you’re something he’s been wanting to smell for a long time and he is going to take his time about it.

You feel the breath of it through the fabric, warm and deliberate, and your hands jerk reflexively in his grip but he doesn’t let go.

“Caleb—“

He licks. A long, slow drag of his tongue over the front of your underwear, and the fabric is thin enough that you feel all of it — the wet heat, the pressure, the shape of his mouth working against you like he’s trying to memorize you through the cotton.

He does it again. He makes a sound low in his throat that is not a civilized sound, that belongs to something older and less housebroken than any version of Caleb you’ve been allowed to see before.

There is saliva soaking into the fabric now. There is the obscene warmth of his mouth. And there is you, gripping the edge of his desk with fingers gone white, breathing through your teeth.

He lets go of your wrists, steps back, and reaches into his own pants. He doesn’t bother taking them off — just shoves them down to his knees, enough to free himself, and his cock springs out like it’s been waiting for this, already flushed and heavy, standing up toward his stomach.

He wraps one hand around the base of it and strokes it slowly, watching you, watching the orange of your panties, watching the evidence of what he’s already done to them.

“Mmm,” he says again, that low sound from before. Not a word. An assessment.

Then he steps forward, and instead of pushing in — instead of doing the obvious thing, the thing you are absolutely ready for whether you’ll admit it or not — he just leans against you.

Pushes his cock down flat against the front of your panties, along your stomach, and the length of him is just. There. You both look down at the same time.

His tip passes your navel. Surpasses it. There’s cock laid against your stomach in a way that makes the math of the situation very, very clear.

“Look here, Pips.” His voice is low and easy, like he’s making an observation about the weather, like he’s discussing something reasonable and not currently resting every inch of himself against your skin. “I’m gonna be in here one day.”

Not I want to. Not can I? Just — I’m going to. The same tone he uses when he talks about flight routes and promotions and things he’s already decided are going to happen.

Your mouth opens. Nothing comes out.

He pulls back, and there are wet spots on your panties, and he looks at them with an expression of profound satisfaction before he presses himself back against you. Not inside, just along you, rubbing the length of his cock over your pussy through the ruined fabric. You’re so wet that it soaks through immediately and he can feel it.. You can tell by the hitch in his breath and the way his hips rock forward once, twice, following the slick heat of you like he can’t help it.

“Fuck,” he breathes, and it comes out reverent.

His cock moves against you in long, rolling strokes, gathering up your slick, dragging it across the fabric. Spreading isn’t enough. It isn’t enough, and Caleb knows it, and you know it, and the knowing doesn’t stop anything.

You feel the exact moment he loses the last organized thought in his head. It’s in the shift of his hips, the way they press forward with new intent instead of the rolling stroke from before.

His hands grip the backs of your thighs, and he pushes, and the wet cotton of your panties catches him, gives just a little, and his tip nudges in by a fraction — barely there, barely a suggestion of inside — and that’s all it takes.

He cums.

Just like that.

A low, bitten-off sound tears out of him, and you feel it — the heat of it soaking into the fabric, spreading in a wet rush that joins everything already there, and he’s still pressed against you, shuddering, his forehead dropping toward your shoulder without quite landing.

“Jesus—“ he breathes, and it comes out broken, like he wasn’t expecting himself.

You look down. The orange cotton is wrecked, soaked through and stained, clinging to you with the weight of what he’s done, and Caleb is looking down at it too.

“Again,” he decides, out loud, which is not a request.

He draws back and pushes forward again, harder this time, and the fabric holds for approximately one more second before it doesn’t.

The seam at the center tears cleanly, cotton splitting apart, and with the combined slick of you and the mess he’s already made, his cock slides and then doesn’t quite find the angle it was looking for. Instead it slides up, and he ends up fitted snugly between your lips, sandwiched in the wet heat of you, your folds closing around him on either side without him getting inside. The tip of him grazes your clit.

You make a sound that isn’t your voice, or isn’t a voice you’ve used before.

He goes still. Then his hips roll, experimentally, once, feeling it — the slick of you on both sides of him, your flesh pressing in, and the soft brush of your pubic hair against the base of his cock strike him directly in the brain stem.

“Oh, fuck.”

His hips find a rhythm, a steady roll that sends his cock gliding between your lips. Each thrust drags him against your clit, his length slick with your desire and the remnants of his own release. The room echoes with filthy, sloppy sounds—the smack of skin on skin, the lewd squish of his cock plowing through the fucking mess you’ve made together.

He cums again. Just erupts, fountaining up your stomach, over the ripped hem of the costume jacket, and it goes everywhere and he watches it go everywhere. His cock is still twitching.

Then he looks up at you.

“Ma’am,” he says, and the word is wrong and filthy in his mouth. Wrong because you’re not his superior, wrong because he’s never called you that in his life, wrong because of everything. He says it with a straight face.

With his hand already moving, rubbing the flat of his palm over your stomach, spreading what he’s put there into your skin. His jaw is tight. “I don’t think this uniform belongs to me anymore.”

“Caleb—“

“’Yes, sir’ works.” He isn’t looking at your face. He’s watching his own hand move, the cream worked into your skin going slick and shining. His thumb drags through the mess of you and he pushes it between your pussy lips — against them, not in, just the pressure of him insisting — and your thighs try to close and his hips stop them. “You’re so wet for me, Pips. You’re soaking. Did you know that?”

You knew. You’ve known for the last fifteen minutes in excruciating detail.

“You did this to me,” you manage.

“Yeah,” he agrees, like that pleases him enormously. “I did.”

He takes the ruined waistband of your panties in both hands, the torn fabric hanging in tatters, and pulls the remnants taut. A strip of it pressed flat against you, between your lips, and then he presses his cock back over it, and the combined friction is something your nervous system genuinely wasn’t prepared for.

He drags. Long and deliberate and slow, forcing the fabric tight against your skin, and the edge of the seam catches your clit just right and you make a noise loud enough to embarrass yourself, your hands scrabbling at the back of his neck.

“There she is,” Caleb says, very quietly, and he does it again.

Your thighs shake. The pressure builds with a speed that makes you feel cheated out of the anticipation of it, and when you tip over the edge you take him with you. You squirt, sudden and surprised and messy, and it hits him across the lower stomach and the base of his cock and he makes a sound like he’s been hit.

You expected this to slow him down. You expected this to be the moment he regroups, take a breath, bring some of that Colonel composure back to bear.

He grabs your hips instead.

His eyes are wide and dark and there is nothing composed about him. He looks at the mess between your bodies, your slick and his cum and the ruined orange cotton of your underwear, and his expression is the expression of a man who has found the meaning of life,

“Need gege to clean you up?” He asks.

His hips roll forward, coating himself back in you, and the mess makes a sound, and Caleb Xia Yi Zhou, Colonel, decorated pilot, the most responsible person in your life, looks at you with your ruined uniform jacket hanging off your shoulders and your thighs wrapped around him and his cock slick with everything that’s passed between you, and he smiles. Wide and a little wild and completely without apology.

You are in so much trouble.

Caleb grabs the remnants of your panties in both fists and pulls, and they give immediately. The cotton is already destroyed, and the last of it comes away with a sound of final surrender.

He drops it somewhere. He grabs the shredded ends of the costume pants, what’s left of them still clinging to your legs, and those go too, peeled down and discarded over the edge of the desk. You’re bare from the waist down in the ruins of this cheap costume uniform and the cool air of his room comes for your skin all at once.

Caleb doesn’t notice, or maybe he doesn’t care. He’s looking at you with the focused, slightly unhinged attention, and his cock is still hard and flushed and absolutely ready despite cumming all his kids all over you.

He picks his cock back up in his hand. Looks at you. And then he brings it down against your pussy in a single, deliberate slap.

The sound it makes is obscene. Wet and sharp and loud in the quiet room, and the splatter of everything already there — your slick, his cum, the accumulated evidence of the last twenty minutes — goes everywhere, and you jerk. Your thighs try to close and Caleb puts one hand flat on your inner thigh, open-palmed, holding you in place.

“Stay,” he says, like you’re a very beloved problem.

He does it again. The slap of his cock against your pussy, light and then firmer, and every impact sends a shock up through your hips. The wet sound of it fills the room and he is watching — watching it happen, watching the cream fly, watching the way your lips part and close around the impact, and his expression is so rapt and so unabashedly delighted that you almost laugh except that you’re too busy making sounds that aren’t laughter.

“Caleb—“

“Sir,” he corrects, absently, still watching what he’s doing with the focus of someone who finds it genuinely fascinating. “Or ma’am, I don’t care, pick one.”

“I’m not calling you ma’am,” you say, breathless.

“No, you’re the ma’am.” He looks up briefly. “You’re in uniform, Pips.” Then back down. “You’re technically outranking me right now.”

This is demented reasoning and you both know it. But it doesn’t matter because he’s moved on from slapping his dick on you to pressing his tip directly against your clit, circling it in slow, lazy strokes like he’s drawing something. His free hand has found your pussy lips, two fingers sliding along either side, pressing them together, releasing, pressing again, the wet sounds mortifying and you’re watching him do it with your mouth open because apparently your body has decided to spectate.

“Hi,” Caleb says to your pussy, conversationally. His fingers press your lips together again. They make a sound. “Yeah,” he says, nodding, like he’s hearing something only he can understand. “I know. Me too.”

“Are you talking to it—”

“Shh.” His tip presses down and rolls over your clit again and your sentence evaporates. “We’re having a moment.”

You are going to lose your mind.

In fact, you are already losing it.

You lost it approximately seventeen minutes ago and you’ve just been running on the fumes of it.

And Caleb is still working that slow deliberate circle with the head of his cock and squishing your lips between his fingers with the focus of a man who has found his calling.

“You’re so goddamn soft,” he says, and now his voice has dropped all the way down, into that register that does things to your ovaries.

“You know that? Every time I think about how — “ he presses down harder, rolls, and you make a sound that does things to his expression — “how fucking small you are—“ another stroke, the tip dragging slick — “I can’t even, Pips. I would fill you up to your throat, do you understand that? I’m not — I’m being serious right now—“

“Caleb—“

“Sir,” he says again, more firmly this time, though it’s undercut by the fact that he’s clearly struggling to form sentences himself.

His hips have started moving again with that roll, working himself against you, and the slick built between you is audible and continuous and bubbly. “I would split you in half, sweetheart, I would be so far in you—”

He cums.

It happens mid-sentence, which would be funny under other circumstances. His voice just stops, replaced by a rough broken sound, and he tilts forward and his cock kicks upward and he paints you with it. Long white stripes landing across your stomach and the open front of the costume jacket, soaking into the fabric and your skin alike. And he keeps stroking through it with his fist, milking every last drop out, watching it land.

The uniform is destroyed.

It is a complete loss.

There is no dry cleaner in the world that could help this uniform.

You don’t care. You reach out and grab his wrist.

“Again, sir,” you say, which is what he said earlier.

He looks at you. His chest is heaving. His hair is messed up, falling across his forehead. His pants are still at his knees, which looks ridiculous, but on Caleb it just looks like a man who didn’t have time for niceties.

He tries. He genuinely tries.

His hips shift forward, his hand moves, and then his whole body seems to make a decision. Caleb falls forward, catching himself on his forearms on the desk, and lowers his head until his forehead rests in the crook of your neck. His weight on you but managed, warm and enormous, his breath coming against your collarbone in deep, ragged pulls.

He doesn’t move.

The room is very quiet.

After a moment, Caleb says, in a muffled, genuine tone, “I think my soul just left my body, Pips.”

You stare at the ceiling. Your chest is heaving.

There is cum on the costume. There is cum on you.

Your pants are in pieces on the floor and you are sitting on his work papers and his face is in your neck and he has just, apparently, experienced some kind of astral event.

“Are you dead?”

“Yes.” A pause. “Don’t tell Gran.”

You bring your hand up — slowly, because everything is a little slow right now — and rest it on the back of his head.

His hair is soft. It’s always soft, stupidly soft, and he makes a low satisfied sound at the contact like a very large, very spent dog who has found his spot and has no plans to relocate.

“Don’t die yet,” you tell the ceiling.

Caleb laughs into your neck. It’s muffled and helpless and warm, and it shakes through his whole chest and into you, and you feel it everywhere.

“Yes, ma’am.”

Refer to Party RSVP

Comment to be tagged!

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"You promised." Shoko glared at you as you finished explaining the night's events. You kept your gaze fixed on the floor, ashamed of your own weakness. "I didn't mean to! I regret it. He's an ass. I promise you, I'm genuinely done with him this time."

Shoko looked at you, clearly unconvinced. "You said that literally two nights ago!"

"Well, it's not my fault! I thought he really loved me. I guess I was wrong. Maybe he thinks I'm ugly and only cares about the sex.." A frown deepened on your face—doubt, cold and heavy, beginning to settle in.

Shoko softened. She grabbed your shoulders, forcing you to meet her eyes. "Okay, listen to me. He's an ass. You are absolutely not ugly. Hell, I bet half the guys in this school want you! You just need to realize it."

A determined look crossed her face. "I'm going to prove it. We're going out tomorrow."

You looked at her, stunned. "Sho..I know you want to help, but how can I ever get over him? It's Gojo. There's literally no guy hotter."

You sighed, feeling the weight of the situation, but Shoko only grinned. Without a word, she grabbed her phone. "Are you calling someone?"

Shoko didn't answer. Her eyes lit up. "Choso! Hey, remember that party you're hosting tomorrow? I'll be there. And I'm bringing a friend, bring one too yeah?" She smiled as she hung up.

"What the hell are you doing?" you asked, confused. Shoko hated parties—you were usually had to drag her to them. "I'm showing you how to move on," she shrugged.

A small smile finally broke through your gloom. You were so lucky to have a friend who cared this much. "Thanks, Sho." You leaned in to hug her.

"Of course," she murmured, hugging you back.

"Tomorrow we'll get outfits, yeah?" she added.

Your eyes lit up. "Shopping? Hell yeah!"

"Shopping freak," Shoko rolled her eyes, though her smile widened. She was about to say more, but your phone buzzed, followed immediately by another. You reached over to check the notification, and Shoko peered over your shoulder.

Toru ♡ 11:54pm: "Hey, are u still awake?"

Toru ♡ 11:55pm: "Sorry for earlier. You know I didn't mean it, right, love?"

Your heart stuttered. Shoko groaned as she read the messages. "Nope. No way. He does not have the audacity!" She snatched the phone from your hand.

"Hey, wait, Sho! Let me respond first." Shoko narrowed her eyes. "No! He has you on a leash, literally. You're going to sleep now. Tomorrow? Class, then shopping. No Gojo."

She shut your phone off and set it aside. Your lips parted to protest, but she silenced you with a single, sharp glare. "Ugh, fine. Night, Sho." You moved to your side of the room, climbing into bed. "Night (name)."

As Shoko turned out the lights, you lay there in the dark, your mind racing. Is there anything you can do to make him want to date you? Does he really only care about the sex? Why are you never enough?

You bit your lip, squeezed your eyes shut and tried to force your thoughts into silence until sleep finally took you.

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"Satoru, what's gotten into you? You never go to Psychology class. Like, ever." Geto walked behind Gojo, who stopped just outside the lecture hall.

"It's time for a change, Suguru," he shrugged, stepping inside. Geto shot him a look before sighing and following his friend. Gojo's eyes immediately scanned the room, ignoring the professor entirely. They landed on your figure near the back, completely engrossed in your notebook. He grinned.

"Satoru and Suguru! This is the last time I will tolerate you two being late and interrupting my class!"

"Yeah, yeah, we're so sorry, Miss," Geto said with a wink. The professor's face flushed a deep red as she turned away, trying to hide her reaction.

Gojo made his way toward you, watching the moment your eyes met his. For a split second, he swore he saw a flicker of emotion in your expression before it turned cold and unreadable.

He slid into the empty seat beside you. "Hey, love. I texted you last night."

"I know."

He frowned at your attitude. "Uh, well..what are you doing later?"

"Why do you care?"

"I wanted to take you out. There's this party—" You looked up from your book and his heart skipped a beat. "Gojo, just don't. I'm going to another with someone else already."

Gojo's eyes darkened. Someone else? "Who?" he snapped before he could stop himself. "None of your business. Now, if you don't mind, I'm trying to pay attention."

You turned back to your book. Gojo kept his gaze fixed on your profile, shocked by the sharpness of your tone. A gloomy, bitter sensation coiled in the pit of his stomach. Did you really have a date? Was it someone who wasn't him? He gritted his teeth, refusing to call the feeling jealousy.

The bell rang, signaling the end of class.

"(name)..why are you being so bitchy?" he asked.

"What—you know what? Fuck you Satoru."

You packed your stuff and stormed off. He watched as you walked away without looking back. "Shit, she looks mad as hell," Geto noted, stepping up beside him.

"Shut up," Gojo muttered.

.

.

.

"Sho, I felt so bad," you whined, sitting with her on the bleachers. You had just recounted the psychology class confrontation.

"Why would you feel bad?" Shoko asked, taking a bite of her sandwich.

"I was so rude to him! I was this close to cracking and apologizing." You showed her the tiny gap between your thumb and index finger.

Shoko rolled her eyes. "Oh, please! You don't think he talks to his friends about you like that? Besides, he didn't even apologize for his behavior last night."

You frowned, pouting. She was right. You shouldn't be pitying him. But you did.

"Uhm..well, I lied," you admitted quietly. "I told him I had a date to the party."

"It's not a lie. You have me," Shoko shrugged. You laughed, rolling your eyes as you leaned back. "Sure. Be my guest."

"Okay, seriously though," Shoko said, her expression turning serious. "I need to find you a real date."

.

.

.

The party was everything you expected and better. The music was heavy, the crowd was massive, and the bar? The bar was actually well-stocked. To be frank, this was a massive upgrade from Gojo's usual parties.

​You sat on the couch, punch in hand, feeling a bit adrift. Shoko had abandoned you fifty minutes ago the second she spotted Geto. You sank deeper into the cushions. It was the definition of a "good time," so why were you so bored? Your mind kept drifting to Gojo, which annoyed you. Unsurprisingly, Gojo hadn't shown up at all—which is expected considering he hated Choso.

​"You look lonely."

You looked up, your eyes meeting Toji's. He sat next to you, his massive frame making the couch cushions dip heavily. You've seen him a lot of times around campus but up close, he was even more intimidating—broad shoulders straining against a black compression shirt, a faint, jagged scar at the corner of his mouth and those sharp green eyes of his. In reality, he was hot—like really hot.

​"Uh..yeah. A little," you admitted, swirling the punch in your cup. Toji leaned back, one arm draped lazily over the back of the couch behind you. He wasn't touching you, but the proximity felt deliberate. "Choso throws the best parties ever and you're over here lonely?"

​You let out a laugh. "Fair enough."

​"Name's Toji. You are (name) right?"

​"Yeah."

​"Ah. You're the one always running around with Shoko." You raised an eyebrow. "You've noticed me?"

​Toji shrugged, taking a slow sip from his own drink. "I notice a lot of things. Especially when it's someone as beautiful as you who looks like she'd rather be anywhere but here."

​You blushed at his compliment, a small smile taking place on your face. "Thank you."

Almost easily, you both fell into conversations quickly. You told him about the cycle you were stuck in with Satoru—for some reason, letting it out felt much better than expected. Toji listened without interrupting, just nodding occasionally, his expression never pitying you.

"Sounds like you've been dealing with a jerk," he says after you finished. "Guys like that are all the same. Think the world spins for them. They take until you've got nothing left to give."

You bit your lip. "Yeah..I guess so."

​Toji's voice dropped, turning gravelly and serious. "Stop choosing him. It may not be it's easy, but staying stuck? That's worse."

​You laughed softly. "You make it sound so easy."

​"Cause it is," he replied with a lazy grin. "You just have to commit to it."

​You guys spoke even more as he began talking about his own life. To your surpise, he did underground fighting matches to gain extra cash. Even more—you were surprised to find out you were actually enjoying listening about him.

​"You're really easy to talk to," you said after a while, surprised by your own honesty. Toji chuckled at your words. "Don't tell anyone. I've got a nonchalant personality to maintain."

​"Oh shut up." you smiled at him as the conversation continued. Eventually, the party started thinning out. Toji turned fully toward you, his green eyes locking onto yours. The teasing smirk softened into something more genuine.

​"Look, I'm not gonna bullshit you. I like talking to you. You free this weekend? Let me take you out. A real date."

​Your heart skipped a beat. Well he was certainly straight-forward. But for some reason, it felt different. Way different. You smiled, "Yeah..I think I'd like that a lot."

​Toji pulled out his phone, his smirk returning. "Give me your number before you forget yeah?"

​You both exchanged numbers the same time Shoko came back from wherever. You finally stood up to leave and he walked you and Shoko to the door, his hand resting lightly at your back.

​"I'll text you later about the details," he said. "Don't make me wait, princess."

​"Okay." You walked away with the biggest grin on your face. Shoko nudged your shoulder, a knowing finding her face. "Okay...that was smooth. And he's hot. Tell me everything!"

​You laughed at her teasing, for the first time ever you realized, you had not once thought about Gojo. "Okay so..."

.

.

.

Unsurprisingly during the weekend, the news spread faster than expected.

Gojo was sprawled on the couch in his dorm, scrolling through his phone with one hand while Geto made coffee. Some guy had sent a message in the group chat earlier, casually mentioning how Choso's party went.

That's when Geto spoke. "Hey uh...your girl kinda hit it off with Toji at the party. Seemed really intense." Geto said casually. "Sho told me they were going on a date too..like..today."

Gojo froze mid-scroll. His usual grin dropped instantly. "Toji?" He let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "That walking fool? She's going on a date with him?"

Geto shrugged. "Sounds like it. They exchanged numbers and everything. Choso said Toji seemed actually interested, which is insane since he's usually never.

Gojo sat up, jaw tight. That same ugly feeling clawed at his stomach—heavier this time. He stood up abruptly, grabbing his jacket.

"Dude, where are you going?" Geto asked, already knowing the answer.

"To remind that asshole who she belongs to."

.

.

.

Toji had just finished working out. He places the towel around his neck while checking his phone. A smile finding his face when he sees a text from you.

Princess 10:34am: hii:) I just got ready! Can't wait to see you.

Toji responds immediately, telling you he's sure you looked beautiful. Toji turns to leave when he sees Gojo walking towards him, Geto trailing behind looking worried.

"The fuck do you think you're doing?" Gojo snapped, stopping right in front of him.

Toji raised an eyebrow. "Leaving the gym? What does it look like Satoru?"

"You asked her out?" Gojo's voice was sharp, eyes flashing filled with rage. "You really trying to move in on what's mine?"

Toji's expression darkened as he realizes what this is about. Geto flashed Toji an apologetic smile.

Toji tossed the towel aside and crossed his arms, muscles flexing.

"Yours?" he laughed, low and mocking. "Last I checked, you told her you don't do relationships. Not only that—she's a person, not your damn toy."

Gojo stepped closer, chest bumping against Toji's. "Stay the fuck away from her Fushiguro."

"Guys, come on this is really silly—" Geto trails off helplessly.

"Yeah? Or what?" Toji smirked, tilting his head. "You gonna cry about it?"

That was the last straw.

Gojo swung first, punching Toji in the face. A surpised laugh slips from Toji, blood dripping down his nose.

"Oh, you wanna go down that path?" Toji growled.

He grabbed Gojo by the collar and shoved him hard, slamming him back against the brick wall of the gym. Gojo grunted but recovered quickly, driving his knee into Toji's side. They wrestled each other to the ground until Geto and a couple of other guys rushed in, pulling them apart before it got worse.

Toji wiped the blood from his lip, breathing heavily. "You're pathetic. She deserves better than some insecure little shit who only wants her when you want your dick wet."

Gojo glared at him, chest heaving. "This isn't over."

"Yeah? Tell that to her while she's on a date with me," Toji shot back with a smirk before walking out.

.

.

.

You've been waiting for twenty minutes for Toji who seemed to forgot. You sipped on a cold drink and checked your phone to see if he sent any messages. The waitress had already come by twice, asking if you wanted to order anything while you waited—which you politely declined.

A small pit of disappointment was forming in your stomach as you wait. Just as you were about to stand up to leave you spot Toji.

Toji jogged up the sidewalk toward the café, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his phone. His lip was slightly swollen and there was a fresh cut near his cheekbone. His black shirt looked a little rumpled too. He spotted you immediately and his expression softened.

"Shit..sorry I'm late, princess,” he said as soon as he reached your table. He pulled out the chair across from you and sat down, leaning forward You stared at the cut on his face, frowning as you look at him. "Toji..what happened to you?"

He touched his split lip and gave a lazy smirk, like it was nothing. "Nothing important. Gojo didn't like hearing I asked you out."

Your eyes widened. "You fought Gojo?"

"He started it," Toji shrugged. " Don't worry about it, I'm here now yeah?"

"I'm sorry," he said again, more seriously this time. The sincerity in his green eyes made your chest feel warm. You smiled at him.

"It's okay, don't apologize. I'm just glad you came."

Toji's smirk returned, softer this time. "Good. I've been looking forward to this since Thursday."

He waved the waitress over and ordered for both of you. You guys spoke for almost 2 hours. It wasn't your fault really, who wouldn't wanna talk to Toji?

He was straightforward and really funny. He teased you when you got shy, made jokes about campus life and actually listened when you opened up about stuff. You laughed more than you had in..forever with him. He had this thing about him that made you feel safe.

At one point, he leaned back in his chair, watching you with half-lidded eyes. "You've got a really pretty smile, you know that?" he said casually.

"Smile more often it suits you." Your face heated up at his words, feeling like a teenage girl all over again. Toji chuckled at your reaction, loving how easy it was to get you flustered.

After your date he took your hand leading you outside. "C'mon. I wanna show you something before I take you back."

You raised an eyebrow as you followed him outside. "Where are we going?"

"You'll see."

He led you back towards the older part of town—a place you normally heard criminal stories about. You got closer to him out of instincts as the streets got narrower, the buildings more run-down. "You're not killing me right?"

Toji laughed at your words. "Nah. You're too pretty for that."

Eventually, he stopped in front of an old abandoned warehouse with a faded metal door. He turned to look at you. "This is where I fight sometimes, the underground ground ring I told you about? I want you to show you..if you wanna of course."

Your felt your heart beat a little faster. He took you to his scared place? You nodded with a grin. "Are you kidding? Of course I wanna see!"

Toji's lips twitched into a smile. "Good. Stay close."

He squeezed your hand and led you inside. The air was thick with sweat, smoke and loud music. A large makeshift ring sat in the center under harsh lights. People were shouting, money was exchanging hands and two fighters were already going at it in the ring. Toji kept you close to his side, one arm protectively around your shoulders as he guided you through the crowd. Your eyes widened in amazement as you scanned the area around you.

A few guys nodded at Toji in respect. One older guy with a scarred face grinned when he saw him. "Toji! You fighting tonight or what?"

"Nah, not tonight," Toji replied, voice calm. "Just showing someone around."

He found a slightly elevated spot near the back where you could see clearly but safe enough from the chaos. The fight in the ring was chaotic—the crowd even worse. You watched with wide eyes as Toji leaned down, lips close to your ear so you could hear him over the noise. "This is how I let everything out," he said. "You scared yet, princess?"

You looked up at him. The colorful lights from the ring reflected in his eyes. He looked rough and masculine in the most delicious way possible standing there. He stared at you in such a way, you felt butterflies in your stomach.

"Nope." He grinned at your answer. "Good."

After the fight ended, Toji decided not to stay long, especially with you there. He said his goodbyes to some people and led you back outside. Once you were outside, he stopped and turned to you, brushing a strand of hair from your face.

"Was it too much?" he asked, a hint of uncertainty in his voice.

You shook your head. "No..I think it's pretty cool actually."

Toji's expression softened at your words. He loved that you were honest and didn't judge him for the person he is. He leaned down and kissed your forehead.

"Alright princess. Let's get you back to your dorm."

He walked you all the way back, hand in yours the entire time. When you reached your building, he stood infront of you. "Next Saturday. I have a match, do you wanna come?"

You looked up at him, biting your lip to hide your smile. "Yeah. I'll be free."

As you turn to enter your dorml, he caught your wrist. "Hey, I really enjoyed today."

A warm feeling spreads through your chest as you hear those words. As you looked at him, the biggest smile finds your face. "Me too. Thank you."

"Of course princess."

Toji waited until you were inside before finally leaving. As you enter, still smiling you were greeted with your best friend's gaze.

"Oh my god! You guys went on a date (name)! It's getting serious?" Shoko questions excitement clear in her voice. Your smile only gets wider.

"I'm not sure..I mean he invited me to his fighting match next Saturday."

"Girl? Are you serious? Toji never, and I mean never invited a girl there before—Choso told me all about it."

"Are you joking?"

"Uh..no!?"

You stared at Shoko, completely surpised. Learning this new fact about Toji made your heart flutter. You were the first girl he invited to watch his match? "See, I told you, getting over Gojo would be easy."

Right Gojo. He hadn't ran through your mind the entire time you were with Toji, nor the previous day. The mention of him now was the first time you ever actually thought about him. "Oh right. He got into a fight with Toji, can you believe that?"

Shoko laughed in disbelief, looking surpised. "No way? Tell me everything!"

.

.

.

A few days later you were lounging on the couch. Shoko had gone to visit family for a few days and Toji had been a bit busy. Just then, your phone buzzed. Picking it up you frowned at the message you saw.

Toru ♡: Hey love. I've been thinking about you. Come over? Just a movie night at my dorm. I miss you. Please?

You stared at the message for a long time. A part of you knew this was a bad idea—especially now that Toji was in your life, but the familiar ache in your chest won. Gojo had always been your weakness—even if you hated it.

You: Okay. Just a movie though.

Toru ♡: That's all I want. Door's open for you <3

When you got to his dorm, Gojo opened the door with that bright, charming smile—the one that always made your heart flutter even when it shouldn't, except this time there was nothing there. Not a spark or flutter. "See? Told you it'd be chill," he says, closing the door behind you.

"Whatever..let's just watch the movie."

"Sure, love."

For the first minutes of the movie, it was actually nice. You enjoyed the movie and Gojo kept his hands to himself. Was he finally changing?

However, just as you begin to think he had gotten better, his hand slid onto your thigh, squeezing lightly. Then it got higher. He leaned in, lips brushing your neck as he murmured, "You look so good love..I miss having you in my bed."

"Satoru.." you shift away, pushing his hand away. "I just wanna watch the movie."

Satoru however got bolder. He pulled you closer, hand slipping under your shirt, fingers tracing your waist as he kissed along your jaw. "The movie's boring anyway. Let me make you feel good. You know I can."

His touch grew more insistent—palm sliding up to your breasts, lips pressing harder against your skin. You felt yourself melting in his touch as guided you to lie back on the bed, hovering over you with that cocky little smirk.

"I missed this body," he whispered, voice husky as his hand moved lower. "Missed how you sound when I—"

You pushed against his chest. "Satoru stop."

He paused, but his eyes were dark with want. "You came over here wearing that..you knew what this was. Don't act like you don't want it too."

You frowned at his words. Usually, his boldness would really get you going but for some reason, all you could think about is how wrong it is. You had Toji, even though you weren't dating..it's Toji.

You sat up, pulling your shirt back down. "I came to watch a movie, not have sex with you. I'm trying to move on, Satoru."

Gojo sat back, running a hand through his hair. His expression twisted from frustration to something meaner. "Move on? With Toji?"

He laughed bitterly. "That's cute. Real cute. You really think he's gonna stick around for you? Some clingy bitch desperate for love and attention?"

Your breath caught. He'd never gone this low before. You and Gojo had your fair share of arguments but it never once got personal. He doesn't stop, instead he kept going, his voice getting meaner.

"You're so fucking attached, (name). Your dad dies and suddenly you need everyone to fill that void? That's why you keep coming back to me. Because I give you just enough to feel wanted, Toji can't give you that?"

Tears burned your eyes and your chest tightened painfully at his words. Years of pain you struggled so hard to bury began resurfacing.

"And be real with me," he continued, "Toji wouldn't want an insecure girl like you, always asking if you're good enough. Maybe that's why you spread your legs so easily—it's the only thing guys actually like about you.”

The words hit like knives. You raised your hand, slapping him across the face. "You're an asshole Satoru. Fuck you."

You stood up fast, grabbing your jacket with shaking hands. You slammed the door behind you, tears streaming down your face as you practically ran back to your dorm. The walk felt endless. Every cruel word replayed in your head on loop. Were you really only good for sex?

As you reached your dorm, you were a mess. You collapsed on your bed in tears. For years you've struggled with your body and father's death and he knew that—hell he comforted you. To have it used as a weapon by the same person who comforted you broke you even futher. You end up falling asleep from crying for so long.

Gojo on the other hand couldn't handle you leaving him properly. He sat on the floor of his room, surrounded by empty cans and a half-empty bottle of vodka. The argument played on repeat in his head—the way you looked at him before you left. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw you with Toji. Every time he did, he drank more. Gojo had never gotten this bad before. He loved you. Of course he loved you, you were the best thing in his life but he just couldn't do it.

"Fuck this," he muttered, taking another long swig. The alcohol burned, but it numbed the ugly knot in his chest. A few hours passed and he had drank at least 4 bottles of alcohol. His hurt twisted into rage—hot white rage.

He opened his phone, having only one thought in mind. If he couldn't keep you to himself, he'd ruin you for everyone else. He started with texts in group chats—the ones that included half the campus.

Satoru: You all think (name) so sweet and innocent right? Lol she's a whore and has been riding my dick for months and still begging for more like a desperate bitch.

Satoru: Dead dad and she still needs someone to fuck the sadness out of her every night.

Satoru: Dumb bitch went on to Toji next thinking he'll pity her too.

He went into the hidden folders on his phone, finding photos you had sent him months ago. Half-naked selfies. One in just his shirt, another in lingerie you'd bought just for him and aa few more photos where you were topless or completely naked.

For a moment he paused, he wondered if he would be going too far but the thought in head kept saying: "She sends all of these to Toji. You're not special to her anymore, pathetic."

In his drunken haze, he doesn't hesitate.

He posted everything onto his story. Gojo laughed bitterly as he hit send, then passed out on the floor, phone still in his hand.

By morning, it had spread like wildfire.

The screenshots were everywhere. Group chats, Instagram stories, Twitter—someone had even saved the photos and posted them on a campus confession page with your name attached.

Each comment underneath the posts were brutal and mocking. Your phone was blowing up—waking you in a confused haze.

You checked your phone to see dozens of notifications. Unknown numbers sending the photos. You frowned as you opened one message. There you were, an unknown number sent you a picture of your naked body. The caption underneath it saying: "Are you that easy? If I tell you you're cute will you let me fuck lol."

Your heart dropped. You felt sick as you checked the groups you were in, photos and messages of you filling each groupchat.

Their words were even worse than the photos. You saw Gojo's story, each one another exposed photo of you. You ran to the bathroom, feeling sick, everything you ate from the previous day found it's way back up.

You were a mess, you sat against the bathroom wall after throwing up, crying and shaking at the horror. Years of built up confidence, acceptance and self-worth came crashing down as you sat there. The dark thoughts you hoped to once gotten rid of found its way back once more as you began drowning in hate.

Now you knew for sure, all your chances with love..or with Toji were ruined. He would never want a girl like you, not anymore. You were all alone.

Shoko was still gone for the day. You had no one left by your side as the dark thoughts began taking a hold of you.

.

.

.

Toji was in the middle of his class when his phone started blowing up. First it was Choso, then a couple other guys he was acquainted with. Toji got annoyed by the notifications and finally checked them. Opening Choso's chat, he expects to see something dumb, but instead what he saw made his blood run cold.

There you were, a half-naked picture of you being plastered everywhere with disgusting captions. Toji's grip on his phone tightened until the screen nearly cracked. He saw red. There was only one person he knew would do this.

"That fucking piece of shit..."

Without a second thought, he got up and left the class. Ignoring the professor who repeatedly called his name. He found himself at the Psychology lecture hall where he knew Gojo had class that morning. The professor was mid-sentence when he slammed the door open.

Toji's eyes immediately found Gojo sitting near the back, looking like complete shit. "Sir you can't just—"

Toji ignores the professor, "Gojo." Toji's voice was low and filled with rage as he marched down the aisle. "Get the fuck up."

Gojo smirked at first, but it faltered when he saw the pure rage on Toji’s face. "The hell do you want?"

Toji grabbed Gojo by the collar and yanked him out of his seat, slamming him against the desk hard enough for the wood to creak. "The hell I want?"

"You leaked her nudes. You posted her fucking body and mocked her dead dad? After everything you already did to her? You pathetic fucking parasite."

Gojo tried to shove him off, but Toji's grip was strong. Gojo laughed, his breath smelling like alcohol. "Whatever. Why do you care? You just want to fuck her too—"

Toji's fist crashed into Gojo'a face with a sickening crack. Gojo's head snapped back. Blinded by rage, Toji punched him over and over, despite the screams of the others.

"Who the fuck do you think you are?" Toji sneered. "She trusted you, you worthless piece of shit!"

Gojo tried to fight back, landing a couple weak hits, but he was no match for Toji, especially not in his drunken state. Geto and a few others finally rushed in and pulled Toji off, but it was already too late. Gojo was slumped against the desk, his face as bloody mess.

"If I see you near her again Satoru I'll kill you."

Then he stormed out, pushing past the security with only one thought in mind.

You.

He arrived at your dorm within a few minutes, not bothering to knock. He opens the door, calling out your name. He frowns when he got no response.

He heads towards your bedroom when he sees the bathroom door slightly open. He paused, opening it wider and stepping in. Toji froze for half a second when he saw you on the floor with the blade. "What the...?"

In an instant he was on his knees in front of you, taking the blade from your hand and tossing it across the room. He looks down at your wrists, faint marks already there from earlier pressure.

"Fuck—hey, look at me princess," he said, voice cracking as he cupped your face with both hands. "I'm here. I've got you..it's okay. You'll be okay."

He pulled you into a hug, gently whispering words of comfort to you. You began crying the moment he hugged you. Your body shook as he gently strokes your hair. He didn't leave.

He came for you.

"I saw what he did." he whispered against your hair. "I dealt with it. But princess, I need you here...Shoko needs you here, we all do okay?

Toji stayed there with you on the bathroom floor as you cried your heart out, thanking him for not leaving too.

"I'd never do that princess. What kind of man would I be?"

.

.

.

Shoko came back the exact day she received the messages. She stayed by your side every single day, slept next to you, sat on the toilet while you showered—even took notes for you.

It has officially been two weeks since Gojo leaked everything for you. Even with Shoko and Toji there, the first few days were the hardest for you. You barely ate or slept. Every time you closed your eyes, it felt like you were reliving the day all over again.

Thankfully, you weren't alone—ever. Choso showed up with snacks one day when Toji had to take care of an issue. He sat with you and watched whatever you wanted to. Once it helped to distract your mind from those hateful thoughts.

Geto's first visit surpised you. Afterall, he was Gojo's best friend. He apologized on Gojo's behalf and helped with whatever you needed.

Your biggest supporter however was Toji. Toji was there every single day—well almost. He never pushed you to talk unless you wanted to. He stayed by your side throughout it all, he even managed to get every single picture of you taken off the internet—of course he doesn't tell you how. It didn't matter. The fact he was there for you and did that was enough.

For the first time sinfe then, you were outside sitting in the park with them.

Shoko and Geto sat next to each other, debating which was the better lover. Choso sat across from you, sharing a bag of chips with Yuki who tagged along and Toji sat right behind you, his legs stretched out so you could lean back against his chest.

You felt at ease. You were eating regularly again. The dark thoughts had subsided once more and you did therapy twice a week (thanks to Shoko).

"You know," Shoko began, looking at you, "you're glowing (name). I'm so proud of you."

You smiled at her words. "I couldn't have done it without you guys. Seriously, I'm beyond grateful."

Choso shrugged with a small grin. "We got you, especially now that you're Toji's girl." He winks.

Toji's arms tightened around your waist from behind at Choso's words. Although neither of you had confessed yet, everyone knew there was something there—it was painfully obvious. Ignoring Choso's words he looked down at you.

"You're strong princess, don't ever forget that."

You leaned your head back against his shoulder, feeling safe in his warmth. "Thank you."

You excused yourself for a moment, wanting to take a small walk. You headed towards the lake, watching in awe at the swans you saw. That's when you saw him.

Gojo was seated on a bench near the lake, a spot you both used to meet. He looked horrible. You headed towards him, sitting next to him.

"You got my message, I'm glad. Can we talk?"

You hesitated for a moment. "Okay."

Gojo stared at his hands for a while before speaking. "I fucked up," he started, voice cracking. "I know that's not enough..of course it isn't but I need you to hear this."

"What I did to you, leaking those photos, saying all that shit about your dad, your body...it's unforgivable. I was drunk and hurt and jealous, which isn't an excuse, especially knowing I violated your trust."

He looks up at you, tears in his eyes. You kept silent. He surpised you. When he texted earlier wanting to meet, you expected something really bad. Not tears and sincerity. "I was scared. You were actually moving on with Toji and I was losing the one person I truly love and I didn't know what to do. I never deserved you. You gave me everything and I took advantage of that because I'm a coward. I'm so fucking sorry (name). I really am, for everything."

Silence stretched between you. You stared at him, not knowing what to say to him. He loves you. A month ago, hearing those words would have been the best thing that happened in your life. But now, it's not. It could never be.

"I hated you for a while," you whispered. "When everyone saw everything about me, those hateful comments..I really wanted to die. I almost did too."

Gojo's eyes widened at your words. You wanted to die? Because of him? His heart sank as he listened to you.

"But I'm better now," you continued. "Thanks to Shoko, Choso, Geto and Toji. Toji especially. I really do love him Satoru, he makes me feel seen..cherished..everything you haven't."

You took a deep breath before standing. "I forgive you, Satoru."

His head snapped up, eyes wide with surprise. Tears streamed down his face at your words. He lost you completely.

"Thank you." he whispered, voice breaking as he stood. You smiled at him. "Well, I need to get back, take care Satoru."

"You too (name), he smiled sadly. "You deserve the world, I'm sorry I couldn't give you that. I hope Toji can."

"He does." You tell him honestly. "And it's time for him to know how I feel."

.

.

.

Shoko decided to stay the night at Geto's. Toji didn't want to leave you alone and decided to stay with you. You two had been watching a movie on your laptop, but Toji couldn't pay attention. He tried—he really did.

But you were curled up against his chest on your bed, his arm wrapped around you. He couldn't pay attention, all he could think about was the fact he loved you. He knew he did since the moment he met you—but now? You needed to know that.

He paused the movie and closed the laptop. He shifted so he could look at you properly. "Hey..come closer," he murmured, pulling you closer until you were straddling his lap. His big hands settled on your waist, thumbs gently rubbing circles over your shirt. Your hands rest on his shoulders instinctively as you stare at him. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing's wrong," he said quietly. "That's the thing, princess."

"These past few weeks..seeing you hurt, almost losing you, it fucked me up a lot," he admitted, voice

filled with sincerity. "I've never cared about someone this much before. I thought I was just looking out for you at first, but it's more than that."

His hands tightened slightly on your waist as he meets your eyes. "I love you, (name). I love how strong you are even when don't know it, I love how beautiful and honest you are, I love how you're just you. I'm not good with this romantic shit, but I want you."

Your eyes filled with tears at his words. Your heart felt so full you worried for a moment it could possibly explode. This was the best thing you've ever dreamt of.

"I love you too," you whispered, voice trembling. "I love you so much. You stayed when I was at my lowest. You saw all my mess—yet you still stayed, made me feel safe again.."

Toji gently wiped away your tears, being so gentle with you. "I'd never leave you princess. You're too good to me."

He pulled you into a kiss. It started slow and tender but the longer it went, the more hungrier Toji got. His hands slid under your shirt, caressing your skin like he was memorizing every inch. You tugged at his shirt and he helped you pull it off, revealing his toned, scarred torso. You ran your hands over his chest as he kissed down your neck, gasping in pleasure.

"Do you want this, princess?" he asks against your skin, making sure you're comfortable before he goes any futher.

"Yes," you whimpered. "I want you."

Toji was patient with you. He kissed every part of you—worshipped every inch with his mouth and hands. Both of you were soon stripped naked by each other, completely lost in passion.

"You're so beautiful," he growled softly between kisses. "Every fucking part of you."

He finally pushed into you, it was slow and gentle, making sure you could adjust to him before moving further. You moaned, gripping his shoulders as he filled you completely. Toji buried his face in your neck, groaning your name, pleasure filling him at your tightness.

"M-move..please, I need you." You begged desperately, your cunt gushing around him. The rhythm Toji chose was gentle, but he quickly grew impatient, his thrusts becoming meaner. His hips rolled against yours, hitting every spot that made you moan. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.

"Fuck—I love you," he whispered again, voice strained as he thrusts into you, his tip hitting your cervix each time. "I love you so much."

"I—hah—love you too!" You cried out as pleasure built, tears of overwhelming emotion mixing with the sensation. Toji held you through it all—praising you for taking him so well. His fingers found your clit, rubbing in circles to drive you crazy. You came first, clenching around him with a broken cry, your back arches as he continues to fuck you through your orgasm. He doesn't last long however, following right after, burying himself deep and groaning as he cums inside you.

Toji stayed on top of you, holding you as you both caught your breath. His fingers stroked through your hair gently as he slowly pulls out, admiring the mess you both made.

"I love you princess."

"Mmmm..I love you too 'ji."

Coach Yaga says it dryly as he slaps a paper down onto the desk in front of him.

Satoru doesn't flinch. In fact, he laughs.

"You can't bench me, Coach," he says, leaning back in the chair. "It's finals season."

"I can, and I am." Yaga points to the top of the page Satoru still hasn't bothered looking at. "You have an overall 2.0 GPA."

Okay. So maybe he is good at everything except academics.

"What's the problem?" Satoru asks lazily, though he straightens a little in his seat, scratching the back of his neck. "It's not like you need math to qualify for the pros."

"The problem is you need it to graduate. Do you seriously think scouts only come to watch you play?"

"Well… yeah."

Yaga pinches the bridge of his nose. "They watch you play, then they check your standings. No one is going to recruit you with grades this bad."

Satoru scoffs immediately. "That's bullshit. I've had plenty of options." He gestures vaguely. "Look at all the scout business cards I've got."

"And how many called you back?"

That shuts him up for a half a second.

His jaw ticks. "Whatever. This is stupid. I'm your best player—the captain! Finals are in like six weeks."

"Looks like you have six weeks to get your grades up if you want to play." Yaga slides the report closer toward him. "There's information for the tutoring center attached. I suggest you use it."

Satoru stands abruptly, shoving a hand through his white hair. "This is fucking bullshit," he mutters, snatching the paper off the desk.

He looks it over with disgust before turning on his heel and storming out of the office.

He makes it exactly three steps before someone throws an arm over his shoulders.

"Yo! Number 8!" Ren says loudly. "Did you get the lineup for Friday?"

"No."

"Ooookay…" he drags out. "Then why were you in there so long? Yaga chewing you out for bad form?"

"No."

The bulky goalie smells badly of BO with a poor attempt of covering it with body spray. And if he keeps talking for another five seconds, Satoru is genuinely considering punching him in the throat.

"Then what's this?"

Before Satoru can react, the paper's ripped right out of his hand.

"Yo—give me that shit back!"

"Ooooh, no fucking way." Ren beams down at the page. "Yaga was talking to you about grades?"

Satoru snatches it back with ease, exhaling the rage from his nose. "Yeah. But it's whatever."

"Those grades are shit. Did he bench your ass?"

Silence immediately bounces around the locker room.

Then Ren bursts out laughing so hard he nearly doubles over, drawing the attention of the few teammates still hanging around after practice.

Great. Perfect.

"You're benched?" one of the defensemen asks, staring at him.

"No way," another joins. "Right before finals season?"

Satoru closes his eyes for a brief second, summoning every ounce of patience he has left. When he speaks again, his voice is tight beneath the usual cocky edge.

"Yeah, well, you idiots better pray I fix my grades, otherwise you can kiss that sweet championship goodbye."

"You don't think we can win without you?" someone calls from the showers, towel slung around his neck.

"Hah. Absolutely not. You guys are shit without me."

Satoru nearly regrets the words as soon as they leave his mouth; not that he'd ever admit it out loud.

Their team is good. Really good. There's a reason they've made it this far, and it wasn't just because of him, even if he likes acting like it was.

Luckily, the team knows him well enough not to take it personally.

A chorus of fuck you's, middle fingers, and dramatic threats about replacing him as captain follow him out of the locker room while he flips them off over his shoulder.

But by the time he gets back to his dorm, his irritation has settled into something heavier.

He drops onto his unmade bed, staring down at the paper in his hands. His grades.

His future.

School has never mattered much to him. Why would it? Hockey is the plan. Hockey has always been the plan. Sitting through lectures about subjects he barely understands feels pointless when he is destined to be in arenas packed with screaming fans anyway.

But underneath all the arrogance is something he rarely admits, even to himself.

He genuinely didn't get any of it.

Half the shit his professors ramble about all blur together after about ten minutes. He stopped trying a long time ago.

His fingers pinch the attached business card, pulling it free from the paperclip.

TUTORING CENTER

M-F | CALL FOR MORE DETAILS

Satoru flops backward onto the mattress he barely fits on, holding the card above his face. He stares at the number written across the back for a long moment.

And honestly? He actually considers calling. Right up until he scoffs and flings the card across the room instead.

He doesn't need a fucking tutor.

─── ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ───

He needs a fucking tutor.

When Satoru shows up to practice the following Monday, he leaves even more pissed after realizing Yaga had actually been serious about keeping him off the ice.

No games. No practice. No hockey, until his grades came up.

And despite how unbelievably stupid the whole thing is, he can't sweet-talk his way back into playing. He actually has to fix the problem.

So he starts going to class.

Turns out attendance is a giant part of his grade. Unfortunately, being so far behind means that his professors talking just sounds like another language. The last two mornings end the same way too—with his arms crossed on the desk, sunglasses barely hiding the fact he'd fallen asleep halfway through the lecture.

Back at the dorms, he opens the stupidly expensive laptop he bought solely because people said he "needed one for college," then starts dragging himself through missing assignments. The few he barely understands take hours.

Even with all that effort, his grades barely move.

The only real option left is acing midterms and finals while grinding through extra credit. And looking over the study guide makes one thing painfully clear.

He is absolutely fucked.

Maybe it is pride, but calling the tutoring center feels humiliating. Star athlete Gojo needing help understanding basic concepts? People would laugh. Word would spread. It'd be a disaster.

So instead, he ends up at the campus library.

People study here all the time. Easy. He'll just find some nerd willing to discreetly help him out and charm his way into a few lessons.

The library is quieter than he expects, nearly empty except for a few scattered students hunched over their laptops.

Satoru adjusts the strap of his bag, feeling out of place wandering between the shelves toward the back study booths.

And there you are.

Sitting alone with one headphone in, the other hanging loose against your sweater. Wire-framed glasses rest on your nose—which he thinks are kind of hot—while you chew absentmindedly on the end of a pen, eyes scanning over a textbook filled with enough highlighted notes to make him nauseous.

Perfect.

Without hesitation, Satoru slides into the seat across from you.

Your eyes lift immediately, widening just a little with recognition when they meet his. A faint blush dusts your cheeks.

"Hey."

"Hi," you answer softly. "Can I help you?"

"Actually," Satoru drawls, leaning forward onto his elbows to casually invade your space. "I think you can."

You blink at him, visibly confused.

Of course you know who he is. Everybody does. Satoru Gojo makes his presence known whether people want him to or not. Why he is suddenly sitting across from someone like you, though, clearly isn't adding up.

"You're smart, right?" He nods towards the mountain of notes spread across the table. "I need to get my grades up. Think you could be a sweetheart and help me out?"

The nickname immediately makes your face warmer.

"I'm sorry," you say carefully. "I don't really tutor, but I can refer you to the tutoring center."

Satoru pushes his bottom lip out dramatically. "Already tried. They suck." Total lie. "C'mon, really? Not even for me? I'd… compensate well."

You hesitate, still trying to figure out why he is talking to you in the first place.

But extra money is tempting.

"How much? Would you pay hourly?"

A grin spreads across his face instantly, arrogant enough to light the whole room.

"Well, I was thinking maybe I could pay a different way."

"I only take cash or Apple Pay."

Satoru chuckles.

"What if we could have some fun instead?”

You stare at him.

"Fun?"

"You know." His smirk deepens. "You come back to my dorm, I show you a good time."

Your eyes widen, complete shock washing over your features before it's replaced with pure disgust.

"Are you kidding me?" you whisper-yell. "Absolutely not!"

Satoru leans back just as fast, momentarily forgetting all about his grades as offense flashes across his face.

"What do you mean, absolutely not?"

"I mean," you hiss, "I am not sleeping with you! Who even asks someone that?"

"Who do you think you are to reject it?" he shoots back automatically.

A sharp shush comes from somewhere deeper in the library. He lowers his voice, but not the attitude.

"Do you know how many people are waiting to fuck me?"

You let out a sharp, bitter laugh, completely flabbergasted while starting to stuff your things into your bag now that your concentration is completely ruined.

"Well, I certainly am not."

"Why not?"

"Because you're not my type."

Satoru scoffs. "I'm everyone's type."

You don't even bother responding.

Still visibly horrified by the audacity of the entire interaction, you swing your bag over your shoulder and briskly walk out of the library.

Satoru stays there for another minute, slouched back in his chair with his arms crossed tightly over his chest, irritation buzzing hot beneath his skin.

Nobody ever flat-out rejects him like you just did, and sure as hell nobody looks at him like what he said was actually offensive.

You are just being dramatic.

He throws his bag back over his shoulder with far more force than necessary before leaving the library.

Barely halfway to the dorms a familiar figure materializes at his side.

"You look irritated."

"I'm not."

"Mhm. I mean, you do always look like there's a hockey stick up your ass," Suguru snickers.

Satoru turns his head sharply, a muscle ticking in his jaw as narrowed eyes lock onto his best friend, whose smirk only widens in the dim glow of his phone screen.

After a second he shakes his head and focuses forward. "Some uptight nerd just ruined my night."

"What'd you do?"

"Nothing!" Satoru scowls. "Why are you assuming I did something?"

Suguru chuckles, locking his phone and shoving it into his pocket as they enter the dorm building. "Maybe because I've known you for years. Or lucky guess."

"I didn't do shit. It was her that made it all a big deal."

"Oookay…" Suguru pushes open the door to their shared room and toes off his shoes. "What exactly did you say?"

The blue eyed hockey star flops face first on his mattress, voice muffled by the pillow beneath him. "I offered to sleep with her in exchange for tutoring."

"And?"

"And…" he hesitates, suddenly feeling embarrassed to recount his rejection out loud. "She stormed out. Bein' dramatic and whatever."

There's a moment of silence before Suguru bursts out laughing.

Satoru rolls onto his back so fast he nearly falls off the bed, glaring daggers at his dark-haired friend as he doubles over, clutching his stomach.

"The fuck are you laughin' at?"

"Did you hear what you just said?" Suguru wheezes.

Satoru snatches the nearest pillow and launches it at his head. "Fuck off."

Gratefully, Suguru does eventually shut up, though the lingering grin on his face remains as he pulls his headphones over his ears and starts minding his own business.

Lying flat on his back, Satoru stares at the speckled ceiling above him and tries to brush the entire thing off.

Except he can't stop replaying it.

You're not my type.

His nose wrinkles.

What the hell did that even mean?

He is tall, attractive, popular, athletic—objectively speaking, there wasn't a universe where Satoru Gojo isn't someones type. Half the campus practically throws themselves at him on a daily basis. Hell, he's rejected more people this month alone than most people get approached in their entire lives.

And yet, you'd looked at him like he'd tracked mud onto your favorite shoes.

The more he thinks about it, the more annoyed he becomes.

Whatever.

He didn't need you.

Tomorrow he'll find another tutor, get his grades up, get off academic probation, and get back on the ice where he belongs. Then everything will go back to normal.

Except the following day is a complete disaster.

It isn't hard for him to find a tutor, but finding one he can actually tolerate is the issue.

The first girl he meets spends the entire hour flirting instead of teaching. Twirling her hair around her finger, batting her eyelashes, leaning over the table enough that her breasts nearly spill out—so every five minutes she is exaggeratedly adjusting her shirt while explaining the same equation for the third time.

Normally he doesn't mind the attention. Actually, he loves it.

But with midterms approaching and Coach breathing down his neck about his grades, the whole thing just rubs him the wrong way. He doesn't need someone giggling every time their knees brush under the table. He needs someone who can explain concepts before his GPA tanks hard enough to permanently bench him for the championship game.

So he tries again.

The second tutor of the day lasts all of ten minutes before recognizing him from the hockey team and deciding he isn't interested in "helping arrogant assholes coast through college."

Apparently his reputation is worse than he'd thought. Which is bullshit, honestly.

Satoru is already in a foul mood by the time he wanders toward the coffee shop off campus, desperate for a pick-me-up. Hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie, he moves on autopilot, barely registering where he's going until something solid slams into his chest.

"Ah— shit—"

He looks down.

And there you are.

Again.

For a second, time genuinely seems to stop.

Your eyes widen in surprise, fingers tightening around the drink in your hand before recognition flashes across your face.

You are close. Close enough for him to notice the irritation bubbling in your expression and catch the faint scent of whatever perfume you wear. And really, what are the odds? He doesn't really believe in fate, but perhaps you are some form of academic savior.

Then your face hardens.

"Are you serious?" you snap. "Could you please watch where you're going?"

"Right, yeah." Satoru steps back immediately, hands lifting slightly in surrender. "Sorry. My bad."

"Yeah, your bad," you snap, sidestepping him before briskly walking past.

Satoru watches you go for half a second, hesitating, trying to decide if what he was about to do is a good idea.

"Hey—"

"No."

He sighs, jogging to catch up anyways. "You don't even know what I was gonna say."

"I don't need to. The answer is no."

"C'monnn," he groans, dragging the word out shamelessly. "Look. The sex thing was—"

"Horrifying? Degrading? Borderline sexual harassment?"

He visibly winces. "I was gonna say misinterpreted…"

You stop walking so abruptly he nearly walks into you again.

"How," you ask slowly, turning toward him with narrowed eyes that are quite terrifying, "do you misinterpret offering me sex in exchange for tutoring?"

"…Yeah, alright," Satoru admits after a beat, for once looking a little ashamed.

But you do not care, continuing your swift walk away from him.

He moves fast, stepping in front of you before you can get far, blocking your path with an awkward sort of determination.

"Dude."

"Just hear me out for like—thirty seconds."

"No."

"I'm sorry.”

The words come out quieter this time, genuine enough to make you pause. Satoru stuffs his hands into his pockets, expression tight with obvious discomfort at having to say any of this in the first place.

"You're right. It was outta line."

"Tch," you scoff, but stay still. "You're telling me."

"Look, I…" He exhales sharply through his nose, visibly struggling with the vulnerability of the situation. "I really need help, okay? I'm benched right now and if I don't get my grades up soon, I'm going to lose everything."

You blink once as he continues.

"I don't get the material," he mutters bitterly, gaze flicking away for the first time since you'd met. "Like at all."

"And all of this is my problem how? Why don't you ask someone else?"

"I've tried!" he says instantly, sounding genuinely exasperated now. "Seriously, do you think I'd be standing here begging for another chance if I had found another option?"

It's quiet for a long moment, the two of you standing there beneath the afternoon sun, locked in a strange standoff right outside the coffee shop.

Satoru searches your expression carefully, waiting for any sign that you are considering it. And as much as you already loathe this guy, you know you have the upper hand.

"Cash only," you say finally. "Eighty bucks for two hours, Tuesdays and Thursdays only, and I want the money upfront."

The relief on Satoru's face is immediate, but you hold up a finger before he can speak.

"Absolutely no flirting. No touching. No missing sessions. If you do any of that or say one more weird thing to me, I'm done tutoring you. Got it?"

Satoru looks down at you, confidence slowly returning now that he can practically see himself getting back onto the ice.

"Yeah," he says quickly. "Okay. Got it."

"Great. You got money?"

A breath of laughter escapes him at how serious you sound. "Yeah."

You hold your hand out expectantly, opening and closing your fingers against your palm.

Satoru reaches into his pocket, pulling out his wallet and a crisp hundred dollar bill before slapping it directly into your palm.

"Keep the change."

"Meet me here Tuesday at twelve," you say, tucking the bill into your bag. "Whatever subject you need… just don't make me regret this."

"Trust me, sweetheart, you'll—"

Your glare sharpens, and he stops himself with a cough.

"…not regret it," he corrects.

"Mm."

With one last suspicious look, you turn and walk away.

Satoru watches until you disappear down the sidewalk, and weirdly enough, his chest feels lighter.

He finally secured a tutor.

─── ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ───

Tuesday comes faster than expected.

And Satoru is ten minutes late.

He shoves through the coffee shop doors in a rush, drawing irritated glances from the students sitting near the entrance as cold air sweeps in behind him. His bag hangs loose over one shoulder, white hair a mess from sprinting all the way across campus the second he realized what time it was.

Relief washes over him when he finds you sitting at a little corner table near the windows, notebook open neatly in front of you beside an untouched drink. One leg is crossed over the other as you absentmindedly tap your pen against the page.

You waited, which surprises him.

He's walking a tightrope with you, he knows that much. Showing up late to your first tutoring session together surely earned him another lecture, and he feels oddly foolish as he approaches the table.

"Sorry for being late," he says, mildly sincere.

"Save it," you reply, though the words lack the sharp bite from your previous conversations. "Sit. Do you have a subject that you want to focus on today?"

Satoru obeys, dropping into the seat across from you with obvious relief that he escaped being scolded. He shrugs off his bag and pulls out a notebook that looks brand new.

"Yeah," he replies. "I was thinkin' stats."

You only nod before opening your own bag, and Satoru notices the thing looks heavy enough to kill someone. Folders, binders, loose papers, color-coded everything.

"Damn," he mutters, leaning back in his chair. "Do you carry an entire office supply store around with you or what?"

You ignore his comment completely.

"How far behind are you?"

Satoru waves a hand dismissively. "Not that bad."

"Mhm." You click your pen. "Can I see your grades?"

"…Why?"

"Because if I'm tutoring you, I need to know where you're struggling."

Satoru felt his confidence shrivel and die, crossing his arms defensively. "Look, all you need to know is that I need help in basically every class."

You blink at him, entirely unimpressed and a bit annoyed. "Do you want me to help you or not?"

He exhales slowly before reluctantly pulling out his phone. After a painful amount of hesitation, he opens the student portal and slides the device across the table.

The moment you start scrolling, his stomach twists.

"…Satoru."

"What?"

"How are you even academically eligible to still attend this school?"

He snatches the phone back immediately, "Okay, don't be dramatic."

"You have a forty-three percent in statistics."

"That's basically fifty."

"That's still failing."

Satoru slumps back in his chair while you jot down something in your notebook.

"I just suck at tests," he defends.

"And homework."

"Homework's stupid."

"And attendance."

"Okay, well attendance being graded is dumb."

You stare at him for a long moment before exhaling slowly through your nose.

"Alright," you mutter, flipping open the folder. "Let's figure out what you actually know."

And for the first twenty minutes, it becomes miserably clear that the answer is close to nothing.

Half of the concepts you mention from the syllabus sound completely unfamiliar to him, and with every note you scribble down, Satoru becomes increasingly aware that he may have genuinely fucked himself over. Hockey. Graduation. His future. Sitting across from you in that tiny coffee shop, and all of it suddenly feels a lot less stable than he’s been pretending.

But as the time passes, and he admits he doesn't understand something, you don't look surprised or judgemental.

You just adjust.

When he gets lost reading through textbook definitions, you stop relying so heavily on the slides and start explaining concepts out loud instead, breaking them down in ways that somehow make way more sense than any lecture he has ever sat through—which isn't many.

Still.

It's weirdly natural for you despite claiming you "weren't really a tutor." Because you are really good at it.

"You should probably write this down."

"Oh, right," Satoru snaps from his daze, reaching into his bag.

Nothing.

He digs around harder, and still, nothing. No pen. No pencil. Not even a half dead mechanical one shoved in the bottom somewhere.

"You have got to be kidding me," you mutter.

Satoru looks up sheepishly. "How obvious is it that I didn't think this through?"

"Painfully." You sigh, reaching into your pencil pouch before holding one out towards him. "Don't lose it."

His fingers brush yours briefly as he takes it, that stupid cocky grin finding its way back onto his face.

"I'll treasure it forever."

"Just focus."

And… he does.

Not very gracefully or quietly. But somewhere between borrowed pens, a bruised ego, and your increasingly exasperated sighs, Satoru Gojo finds himself actually trying.

He sits in that coffee shop making study sheets about standard deviation and solving equations filled with words like probability and distribution. Every time he gets confused, he asks questions instead of brushing it off, determined to get something out of the hundred bucks he'd spent.

The two hours pass faster than he expects.

And by the end of the session, he feels… productive. Like he actually learned something for once, even if he got almost every practice problem wrong.

"Here." You slide a stapled packet across the table toward him. "I wrote out a practice sheet. Give me eighty and we can review it Thursday."

"Homework on the first day?" he smirks.

You close your eyes and rub at your temples.

"What!" he laughs, pulling out his wallet. "You said no weird comments, not no charming ones."

And he swears the corner of your mouth twitches upward for half a second before you look away.

Thursday he shows up on time.

Satoru completed the worksheet, brings his laptop, and even remembers a pen—though halfway through he still ends up using yours because he likes the way it writes better.

Of course you notice.

"That's mine," you point.

"Mhm."

"…so give it back."

"You can pry it from my cold dead hands."

You huff. "You are genuinely the most irritating person I've ever met."

Satoru grins lazily, clicking the pen obnoxiously while leaning back in his chair. "And yet, you came back to tutor me another day. Curious."

Your eyes narrow. "Don't push your luck. Finish question six."

Right.

He learns quickly that you are harsh with criticism in a way that normally would have pissed him off. You don't soften corrections or sugarcoat mistakes to protect his ego, but after the first few comments, Satoru starts realizing you are not trying to make him feel stupid.

You really want him to understand.

It's weird. Really weird.

No professor has ever bothered slowing down long enough to figure out why he gets lost halfway through explanations or give up after realizing he zones out every five minutes. But you adjust without making a big deal out of it.

And it works. It’s effective enough that he finds himself less awkward when he slides the latest assignment closer to you, tapping the paper with the end of the pen.

"Hey… uh, is this the correct formula?"

You tilt your head, leaning slightly closer to examine his work. A few strands of hair fall forward as your eyes scan over the equation.

"Yeah," you say after a second. "Just keep following through and you should get the correct answer."

Satoru nods, pulling the paper back towards himself. The tip of his tongue sticks out slightly in concentration as his—your pen scratches across the paper. His brows pinch together while he works through the rest of the problem, muttering numbers beneath his breath before circling the final answer.

Then he slides the worksheet back toward you for validation.

"Yup. Good job."

And damn does that tiny bit of praise hits him embarrassingly hard.

Satoru ducks his head back towards the paper, biting the inside of his cheek to hide the smile threatening to spread across his face while he works through the remaining problems.

Ridiculous, honestly.

Two little words of encouragement shouldn't be rewarding enough to make his chest feel warm.

But things continue shifting in ways Satoru doesn't notice at first.

The sessions have settled into routine surprisingly fast. Tuesdays and Thursdays at the coffee shop. You arrive with a bag overloaded with enough supplies to survive an academic apocalypse, and he shows up with slightly fewer missing assignments and just enough effort—and money—to keep you from giving up on him completely.

Today, you have spent a lot of time chastising him for fidgeting or cracking jokes instead of focusing.

"Can you sit still for like five seconds?"

"No."

"You've tapped your pen against the table thirty-seven times."

"You counted?"

"I wanted to know."

"Wow," Satoru smirks. "Obsessed with me. I was wondering how long it'd—"

Your notebook smacks loudly against the table, cutting him off before he can finish the sentence.

"Question eight."

Satoru makes a face at you before reluctantly turning back towards his laptop, adjusting his grip on the pen to continue the assignment.

You can complain all you want, but he knows for a fact you've laughed at his jokes before.

Once.

Kind of.

It was more like a scoff, really, but your mouth did twitch upwards while you shook your head at him, and ever since then he's started slipping dumb comments into conversations just to see if he can get that sound out of you again.

Sometimes he does.

Most of the time you just roll your eyes so hard he thinks they might permanently stick that way.

"You skipped a step."

Your voice drags Satoru out from his thoughts. He glances down at the latest problem he'd solved, confused because he is almost positive the answer is correct.

"What's the issue?"

"You missed a step," you point at the worksheet before explaining the concept again.

"Yeah, I did it. Just in my head."

"Your professor cannot grade your thoughts, Satoru."

"But I still got it right."

You stare at him blankly before snatching the worksheet out of his hands.

Satoru leans back smugly, folding his arms behind his head while you scan over his work, actively searching for something to criticize. Your eyes move across the page, brows pinching together with growing annoyance.

Low and behold—

He is correct.

You frown slightly.

"Huh," he grins. "Look at that. Natural talent."

With a huff, you shove the worksheet back across the table so hard the paper flutters towards his chest.

"Whatever. You still need to show all your work for full credit."

"You know what I think?" he asks, spinning your pen between his fingers now. "I'm academically gifted too. I just needed a little push."

"Don't get ahead of yourself. You still have a D minus."

His smile drops instantly.

"Man," he groans dramatically, letting the pen clatter to the table. "Why do you always gotta humble me?"

"It comes with the tutoring session, free of charge." You quickly snatch your pen back from him before pointing towards his backpack. "Now get out your economics stuff. You seem to have the hang of stats."

Satoru wants to complain about losing the pen, but it feels like a breath of fresh air to move on from weeks of mathematical equations trying to kill him, so he lets it go without much of a fight.

Tucked away at your usual corner table, you begin explaining different ways he could salvage his grade in the class before the semester ends. Satoru is mostly paying attention, lazily playing with a highlighter while you talk—pulling the cap off with his teeth before snapping it back on over and over again beneath the table. His eyes drift between your face, your notes, and the little doodles crowding the corners of your notebook page.

He probably should be focusing more. And he is really going to tune into whatever you're saying that has you tapping your fingers against your coffee cup, but then the bell above the coffee shop door chimes.

And instead of ignoring it he glances up automatically—

Then immediately whips his head back down.

Fuck.

At least five members of the hockey team walk inside, loud and sweaty from practice. Their voices carry across the room, familiar enough to make Satoru physically tense.

He has been so focused on studying lately—so focused on these sessions and getting his grades up—that hockey hasn't crossed his mind once while sitting here with you.

And now it's hitting him all at once.

The first round of playoffs is approaching fast. If his grades continue to go up, there is actually a chance he can get back on the ice to play.

But persuading Coach is not important right now, because he completely forgot to mention he would really appreciate it if you didn't actually tell people you are his tutor.

"Okay," you say, tapping your pen against his notebook. "Explain what I just said back to me in your own words."

Satoru blinks and looks up slowly, a faint flush dusting across his cheeks and climbing towards the tips of his ears.

You sigh, but it isn’t as dramatic as it used to be. "You didn't hear a word I said, did you?"

"Yeah. Sorry," he mutters quickly, subtly shifting his body farther away from the counter as his teammates move deeper into the cafe. "I got distracted."

Perceptive as ever, your gaze follows his before landing on the group.

"Hey," you start slowly. "Aren't those your—"

"Shh!" Satoru hisses, leaning across the table so fast his knee bumps yours underneath it. "Don't—" he lowers his voice further, eyes widening in genuine panic, "don't draw attention."

Your lips slowly curl upward as realization clicks into place.

"Ohhhh," you drag out quietly. "You don't want them knowing you have a tutor?"

"Tsk. No. I don't care if they know."

"You just panic shushed me."

"Because… they're annoying."

You press the end of the pen to your lips, grin widening by the second while Satoru very deliberately keeps his eyes on his notebook instead of the hockey team.

"Oh my god," you laugh softly. "You're embarrassed."

"I am not."

"You are totally embarrassed."

"Look," Satoru grumbles, running a hand down his face before flicking his hood on. "It's already bad enough that they know I'm benched because of my grades. A tutor on top of that? I'd literally never hear the end of it. And I'd prefer to keep my image intact."

You hum thoughtfully, eyes flicking briefly towards the group before landing back on him, tilting your head. "And what exactly is your image?"

"The hot, strong, and not completely stupid hockey captain," he answers. "Obviously."

"Riiight."

Satoru looks down at his notebook, distractedly scribbling bright yellow ink onto the corner until the page starts curling beneath the saturation.

"I'm not asking you to do anything," he admits after a second, voice more subdued than usual. "You're already helping me enough."

"But?"

"But…" he shrugs one shoulder awkwardly. "Nothing, I guess."

Because he has already decided that you will probably laugh at him for caring this much in the first place. Honestly, maybe he deserves it.

But instead, you shrug back, your teasing expression softening into something more understanding.

"If they come over, just say we're studying together." You gesture between his notes and your own work spread across the table. "I mean… that's technically what we're doing anyway, right?"

Satoru finally looks back up at you properly. Your expression stays completely casual, and something loosens in his chest.

"Right," he says faintly. "Right, yeah."

"But only because you're actually trying," you add promptly, pointing the pen at him now. "So don't make me regret it."

A grin tugs at his mouth again.

"Wouldn't dream of it."

Thankfully, his teammates never notice him. The group stays crowded around the counter for a while before eventually piling back out of the shop just as loudly as they entered. The second the door shuts behind them, Satoru relaxes in his chair.

You snort. "That was pathetic."

And instead of being annoyed, he finds himself laughing with you.

By the time the two-hour session ends, the tension from earlier has dissolved into something softer. The two of you pack up your papers in a comfortable silence, shoulders occasionally brushing in the small space between chairs.

"Alright," you say, sliding your laptop into your bag. "See you Thursday?"

"Uh, yeah," Satoru slings his backpack over one shoulder. "Definitely."

"Cool."

Both of you end up walking out together, stepping into the warm midday glow side by side. It's pretty peaceful here away from the campus buzz, and Satoru doesn't feel particularly rushed to leave.

"Hey, earlier…" he starts lightly, shoving his hands into his pockets. "Thanks. For not, y'know… outing me."

"Oh. Yeah. It's whatever."

"No, really." His voice softens just slightly. "It means a lot."

Your smile is strangely smaller at that. Almost shy. "Yeah, no problem."

The silence that follows isn't awkward anymore, and Satoru glances sideways at you after a moment.

"Do you maybe want to meet at the library next time?"

You meet his gaze.

"It's quieter," he adds quickly, trying to be casual about the way he can't ignore the sun glinting in your eyes. "Probably easier to uh, focus. Closer to campus too."

The suggestion seems to brighten your expression.

"Let's do it."

"Cool," he clears his throat, looking away. "See you in two days."

"Two days it is."

And you walk off towards campus, disappearing into the distance. Satoru watches you go before turning in the opposite direction, realizing halfway down the sidewalk that you hadn't even asked for payment upfront this time.

─── ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ───

Satoru Gojo was early.

It wasn't the first time he was early to something. Sometimes he showed up before practice to get extra laps in on the ice, or arrived at games ahead of everyone else just to skate alone while the arena was still quiet. He liked the feeling of being settled in before the noise started. Before people started expecting things from him.

He was early for things that mattered.

And apparently, your tutoring sessions were becoming one of those things. The realization annoyed him enough that he tried not to think about it too hard.

He watches the door for you, and when you finally walk into the library, scanning the rows of tables beneath the dim overhead lights, something strange tightens in his chest.

You aren't wearing your glasses today.

It shouldn't make that much of a difference, but without them your face looks softer somehow. Less hidden. He can see your eyes more clearly, and the second they land on him, his heartbeat picks up stupidly fast.

"You're here early," you say, lacking the teasing edge you normally bring with you. "Didn't think you'd beat me here."

Satoru stretches his arms lazily across the back of the bench seat like he hasn't been sitting there waiting for the last fifteen minutes.

"I was just nearby."

A hum is the only response before you settle in across from him.

"So… no glasses today?"

"Oh," you blink, tugging your sleeves over your hands when cold air drifts from the vent above. "Yeah. Contacts."

"Nice. You look cool."

Seriously?

Satoru barely recognizes his own voice and immediately decides he should probably stop talking before another painfully lame comment slips out.

The library feels different from the coffee shop. Smaller somehow. More private. There are no dishes clattering or loud conversations filling the silence between you both. Just the quiet typing somewhere deeper in the building, pages turning, and the soft scratch of your pen against paper.

Satoru finds it distracting.

Or maybe the distraction is just you.

He tries focusing while you explain concepts in that calm, patient voice of yours, but his attention drifts anyways. Towards little things he normally wouldn't notice.

Like the sticker wrapped around your drink peeling near the seam because you keep picking at it every time you concentrate too hard.

Or your rings spinning against your fingers whenever you pause to think.

Something about it makes him realize that despite spending hours with you every single week lately, he barely knows anything about you at all.

Satoru isn't used to that.

Most people hand him pieces of themselves without him even asking. Girls tell him their life stories just to keep his attention for a few extra minutes.

But you don't.

He doesn't know your major. Doesn't know what music leaks faintly from your headphones. Doesn't know what your dorm looks like, or what time you usually go to sleep, or if the faint shadows beneath your eyes are because you weren't getting enough of it.

He shouldn't care, except you seem completely fine keeping those things to yourself, and it bothers him more than it should. And makes him notice more instead of less.

The first conclusion he comes to is that you're actually kind of shy.

Not in an obvious way. You aren't nervous or awkward, but you lower your voice whenever someone walks pasts your table. You never hold eye contact with him for too long before looking back down at your notes. Even when your mouth gets sharp with him, Satoru notices you don't actually like attention very much at all.

Then suddenly he realizes what he's doing and looks back down at his study sheet, internally scolding himself for being weird and not focusing on the midterm tomorrow.

The session remains quiet.

Truthfully, he could've finished most of the material on his own tonight, which still feels insane to think about considering where he started.

But you don't seem eager to leave either.

You work through your own assignments across from him while faintly nodding along to whatever song was playing through your headphones, occasionally pushing hair behind your ear.

At some point, the library empties almost entirely. Neither of you notices how late it's gotten until Satoru leans back to stretch and catches sight of the windows.

"Woah," he mutters. "The sky looks sick."

You turn your head, eyes landing on the streaks of orange and pink spilling across the darkening campus skyline.

"Oh," your voice is soft. "Yeah, that's really pretty."

You both continue looking out the window, letting the moment linger for just a second longer.

"Didn't realize it was so late," you add.

And just like that, you start packing your things because that's just what the two of you always do when the sessions end.

Satoru finds himself packing up automatically too, shoving loose papers into his backpack before you can finish first and disappear on him.

"Thanks for the company today," he says, mostly to fill the silence. "I know I didn't really need that much help."

"No problem," your smile is gentle. "I'm glad you're actually improving."

"All because of you."

The words come out way sweeter than intended, and judging by the way you look at him, you notice it too.

Satoru looks away, pushing himself away from the table and making a quick escape toward the exit before he can embarrass himself further.

The air outside is cold enough to sting a little, bits of winter still clinging to the early spring. He watches you adjust the strap of your bag, and before he can really think too hard about why he wants to, the words leave his mouth.

"I'll walk you to your dorm."

You look up at him in surprise. "Oh. You don't have to do that."

"Yeah well." He shrugs. "It's getting dark. And if you get kidnapped, I lose my tutor."

"Campus is pretty safe, I think I'll survive."

Satoru groans. "Oh c'mon. Humor me."

Your cheeks warm slightly before you finally nod. "Alright. Fine."

You start walking down the path towards the dorms, Satoru falling into step beside you. He shoves his hands into his pockets, glancing sideways at you every couple seconds while trying to think of literally anything to say that doesn't involve tutoring or the fact he's spent the last few hours noticing entirely too many things about you.

"So, uh, what do you like to do for fun? Besides tutoring, of course?"

"First, I don't tutor. Second, you think I'd do tutoring for fun?"

Satoru laughs. "Okay, throw me a bone here. I'm trying to make small talk."

"Ah," you hum. "First time for everything huh?"

Satoru looks at you flatly. "You're brutal."

"Truth hurts."

God. Were you always this—

Satoru cuts the thought before it can root, kicking a loose stone and watching it skitter across the sidewalk.

"So?" he presses. "No sports? Clubs? Anything?”

"Not really."

"Why not?"

"Just never interested me much."

Satoru doesn't buy that for a second.

"If I admitted stuff, you have to too," he nudges your shoulder lightly with his own. "Only fair."

You hesitate before answering.

"There's just a lot of expectation for me to do well in school. From my family. From myself too, I guess. I focus on that."

"Yeah," he exhales slowly. "I get that."

You look at him curiously. "With hockey?"

"Hockey's kinda my whole life. So not being able to play feels…" he trails off. "I dunno. Weird."

"Do you miss it that much?"

"Do I?" A thousand different things come to mind. "Yeah. It kinda feels like I'm screwing up the only thing I'm supposed to be good at."

The vulnerability is so raw, you both can feel it in the space between you. Satoru isn't used to this feeling, and immediately tries covering it back up.

"But y'know," he grins weakly, "I'm Satoru Gojo. I've got everything handled."

The statement falls flat, he knows it does, but you don't pity him too badly for it.

"Give yourself more credit," you look over at him. "You've been working really hard this last month."

Satoru nods, absorbing your words into his heart instead of his ego. People compliment him all the time, but not like this.

"I guess."

You look up towards the sky, as if the answer for him is written somewhere within the stars that begin to shine.

"Perhaps you are just growing into a different version of yourself."

Satoru snorts softly. "That sounds poetic."

"I've always thought I should become a poet"

That pulls a laugh out of him.

The rest of the walk passes with light conversation about favorite foods, movies, places to waste time and things that could disappear from the earth without either of you shedding a tear.

Turns out you both have a mutual hatred for weather that's way too hot, and engage in a passionate debate about which type of sushi roll is the best.

Talking to you is easy, and Satoru feels very irritated at how fast the dorm building appears in front of you both.

Neither of you say goodbye immediately, you just stand there awkwardly beneath the streetlight for a second.

"Thank you," you break the silence first. "For walking me back. I'm sure you scared off all the potential kidnappers with your…" you gesture vaguely towards him, "…everything."

Satoru smirks, but it's kinder. The light is hitting your face just right, and he really doesn't want the conversation to end.

"Oh, shit" he reaches for his wallet. "I forgot to pay you for tonight and last time."

"Don't worry about it," you insist, waving him off. "Consider them free since you weren't a menace."

"You sure?"

"I'm sure." You start backing towards the dorm entrance. "Good luck on your midterm tomorrow."

Shit. Right, that was tomorrow.

"Yeah," he clears his throat. "Right. Thanks."

Your hair swishes as you turn, fumbling briefly with your keys before unlocking the door. Right before stepping inside, you glance back and give him a small wave.

Satoru lifts his hand automatically in return.

Then you disappear into the building, and he stays there way longer than he should, thinking about how he just voluntarily spent hours studying, walked a girl home, and paid attention to the way she doodles in her notebook.

Since when did he care about stuff like that?

What the hell was going on?

─── ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ───

He is still benched for the first playoff game.

Satoru tries not to let it get to him, really. But after all the bullshit assignments he's dragged himself through lately, still not being allowed back on the ice feels genuinely insane.

I mean, come on. His statistics midterm scores came back.

Eighty-one percent.

At this point, he's half convinced you're a witch, because there's no other explanation for him suddenly pulling scores like that. But apparently your weird tutoring magic only works on grades and not on convincing Yaga to stop being stubborn, because despite looking impressed for maybe half a second, the old man still doesn't budge.

Something about the lineup already being finalized. Plays already built around the current roster. Team chemistry and all that shit.

And just to piss him off more, they fucking win.

Satoru watches the celebration through Instagram stories with his jaw clenched so tight it aches. The team group chat won't stop blowing up while he's stuck in his dorm reviewing flashcards like some miserable honors student, trying to keep his GPA high enough for second-round eligibility.

It's humiliating.

Satoru doesn't think of himself as an angry person. Hockey usually burns the worst of it out of him before it settles too deep under his skin. Without it, the frustration just sits there festering, hot and ugly beneath the surface.

So by the time he's shoving through the crowded hallways to get to class the next morning, he's in a terrible mood.

Then the universe decides to fuck with him even more.

He rounds the corner and spots you immediately.

And some guy.

Talking with you.

Not casually, either.

No, Satoru knows flirting when he sees it. He's mastered it, perfected it. He knows every little trick—the slight lean in, the lowered voice meant to force someone closer, the subtle shoulder brush that lingers just long enough to test boundaries and see what someone will allow.

How funny.

So this random asshole gets to flirt with you, but he isn't allowed to?

Maybe it's the leftover rage from being benched. Maybe it's something else entirely that he refuses to unpack anytime soon.

Either way, his feet are propelling him forward before he fully thinks it through.

"Hey," he cuts in smoothly, interrupting the guy mid-sentence without a shred of guilt.

Satoru steps directly between the two of you like it's the most natural thing in the world, broad shoulders blocking the other guy out completely before he glances down at you.

"Still on for this week?"

Your eyes widen slightly. "Hi, Satoru. Um, yes?"

"Mm, good."

Behind him the guy scoffs. "Hey, dude. We were kind of having a conversation."

Satoru turns slowly like he genuinely forgot another person was right there.

"Oh, were you?"

The guy straightens a little at that, clearly trying not to back down. Kind of funny, honestly.

"Yeah," he says. "We were."

Satoru stares at him for a second before a grin spreads lazily across his face.

"My bad," he laughs.

His tone says the exact opposite, and it gets him the reaction he wants. The guy's expression tightens before he mutters something under his breath and walks off, deciding you aren't worth dealing with an asshole this early in the morning

The smug grin is still sitting on Satoru's face when he turns back towards you, but slowly drops the second he sees your expression—the same look you gave him after he fucked up the first time you met.

Shit.

"What the hell was that about?" you ask, arms folded tightly across your chest.

An answer doesn't come fast, because really, what the hell was he doing?

It’s all he knows, so his voice turns defensive automatically. "What? I can't come talk to you?"

"Obviously you can. I'm not referring to that."

"Then what are you referring to?"

You exhale slowly, tilting your head in exasperation. "Don't play dumb."

Satoru runs a hand through his hair, biting the inside of his cheek until it stings. He probably should feel ashamed, but the anger inside is boiling over that feeling.

"I'm not."

You gesture toward the hallways the guy disappeared down. "You totally scared him away."

"So?"

"So?" you echo incredulously. "So that was rude."

"Oh, what, so you care about him or something?"

"That's not the point! He was probably a really nice guy. Why does it matter to you anyways?”

Satoru turns his head away, jaw flexing.

Of course you'd want the nice guy. The guy who walks you to class instead of riling up the students in the hallways. The guy with perfect attendance and a normal future that doesn't revolve around bruises, aggression, and chasing adrenaline across ice rinks every night.

Why does it matter?

"Whatever."

"Satoru—"

But he's already in motion, speed-walking away from you before you can say anything else, shoving his headphones over his ears to drown out the sound of his own heart pounding violently against his ribs.

The anger doesn't dissipate.

And maybe that's a good thing, because Coach lets him play that night for the second round of playoffs.

Satoru arrives to the rink early, skating hard laps around the ice until the cold air burns in his lungs harder than the frustration clawing through his chest. He only stops to grab his stick and start firing pucks into the net from every angle he can think of.

Each shot is harder than the last. Sharp cracks echo through the empty rink as puck after puck slam into the net.

Your face keeps flashing through his head between swings.

The softness of your expression during tutoring.

The irritation in your eyes this morning.

He shoots again, too hard this time, and the puck ricochets off the goalpost with a loud clang before skittering across the ice.

A miss.

How fucking ironic.

"Sure you're ready to be back?"

Satoru doesn't even bother turning around. "Not in the mood, Suguru."

"Oh, you're never in the mood."

Suguru skates closer, dark hair tied back into a loose bun, already fully dressed in uniform.

"Is it that girl?"

"What girl?" Satoru grumbles, skating over to retrieve the puck.

Suguru steals it before he can reach it, smoothly dragging it away with his stick as he glides towards the opposite goal.

"Your tutoring chick."

Satoru goes defensive instantly—with hockey and everything else

"What about her?" He shoulders Suguru hard enough to steal the puck back before skating towards the net.

"You like her, huh?"

The words catch him off guard for half a second, more than enough time for Suguru to swipe the puck back into his possession and skate past him.

"I don't fucking like her," Satoru snaps, chest heaving as he pivots to chase after him.

Suguru shoots. Scores.

The net snaps and waves with the force before Suguru circles around it with a laugh.

"And is that supposed to convince me or you?"

He doesn't give Satoru time to answer, already skating backward toward the tunnel while calling out something about not missing the pregame meeting. Captain duties.

Satoru stays where he is for a moment, standing alone at the center ice while Suguru's words settle uncomfortable deep in his chest.

He doesn't like you.

No fucking way.

Except it's all he can think about for the entire game.

They win, obviously, but not without a fight.

The energy in the arena is brutal from puck drop, bodies slamming hard into the boards, skates carving sharp lines into the ice as the game turns increasingly aggressive by the period. Satoru throws himself into it recklessly, like if he hits hard enough or skates fast enough he can physically outrun the mess in his head.

It doesn't work.

He misses passes, takes risks, and ends up shoved into the penalty box after nearly starting a fight in front of the net.

And sitting there behind the glass with adrenaline pumping in his veins, your voice is louder than the crowd—where you are no where to be found.

By the time the final buzzer sounds and the crowd erupts around them, he barely feels the excitement.

They're headed to the conference final. His teammates are yelling, shoving each other around, celebrating as they skate off the ice.

But Satoru doesn't linger. He rips off his helmet the second he reaches the tunnel, damp white hair sticking to his forehead as cool air rushes against his overheated skin, trying and failing to calm the lingering buzz of the game—and something much deeper inside his chest.

─── ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ───

They said that falling for someone was like falling asleep. Slowly, then all at once.

Satoru remembers reading that cheesy ass quote somewhere online once and laughing his ass off about it because seriously, who even writes stuff like that?

Apparently someone wiser than him.

Because this? Whatever the hell this is, sneaks up on him so quietly he doesn't realize he's screwed until it's already happened.

Satoru had completely ghosted you.

For the first time in over a month, he skips tutoring without warning. Then he skips again. And again after that.

He tries not to think about you sitting alone at the library waiting for him. Tries not to picture your eyes lifting every time the door opens before falling again when it isn't him walking through. He hopes you didn’t eventually check the coffee shop just in case he went there instead.

At least you never exchanged numbers. That fact feels equally relieving as it does horribly disappointing.

He's still mortified about the last time he saw you. The jealousy. The possessiveness. The way he shoved himself between you and that guy like some territorial jerk.

It's insane, because you two weren't anything, and Satoru doesn't do jealousy. He flirts. Hooks up. He gets bored.

So he handles you the same way he handles every other girl: distance himself before things get messy.

Except its already messy, and the more he avoids you, the worse it gets.

Because Satoru Gojo has real feelings for you. Actual feelings that make him restless and irrational and weirdly miserable because you don't worship him like everyone else does, you see him exactly how he sees himself sometimes.

Arrogant. Performative. Kind of an asshole.

The version of himself he hides behind because it's easier than letting people get too close.

Those quiet tutoring sessions felt more real than packed screaming arenas ever did. No expectations ever came from those moments between flashcards and stolen glances. And he can't tell if it terrifies him because he ran or because he wanted to stay.

The rink is freezing at eight in the morning. Empty too.

Satoru skates mindless laps around the ice, sharp turns cutting white lines into the fresh surface while cold air burns in his lungs. There's no practice today, No game. Just him trying to outrun his own head.

The rink door opens, then closes.

He notices you immediately.

You don't speak at first, just linger near the entrance by the glass, bundled against the cold with your hair braided back. Your eyes meet his before dropping away again. Even across the rink, he can see the hurt sitting on your face, and his stomach twists unpleasantly

Pretending he's irritated is easier than admitting he feels guilty, so Satoru keeps skating.

One lap. Then another.

The scrape of his blades echo through the arena while he acts like you aren't standing there watching. But when it becomes obvious you're not leaving, he finally slows near the boards, snow spraying beneath his skates as he exhales through his nose.

He still can't fully look at you.

"What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you."

"Why?" The roughness in his voice sounds forced, even to him.

"Because you missed tutoring this week." Your voice bounces off the walls in the empty arena. "Again."

Satoru keeps his eyes down, dragging the tip of his skate against the ice.

"I figured you were still pissed," he mutters. "And you were probably gonna drop me anyway since my grades are decent now."

Silence.

Then—

"Do you always make assumptions?"

Icy blue eyes finally lift to yours, but before he can answer, you walk towards the benches and crouch down to pull something from underneath them.

Satoru blinks.

Are those—

"What the hell?"

You sit casually and start lacing up a pair of skates like this entire situation is completely normal.

"Where did you even get skates?"

You gesture towards the rental storage closet near the front. "They left it unlocked."

"So you broke in?"

"One could phrase it that way."

"You're a criminal now?"

"And you're not guilty of anything?"

Satoru swallows hard while you stand and wobble towards the rink entrance. The second your blade touches the ice, your balance completely disappears. You slam yourself against the wall before you can fall.

Satoru stares at you because you are actually unbelievable.

"Okay," he sighs, skating over before you crack your head open. "What exactly are you doing?"

Your cheeks are flushed pink from the cold. Or embarrassment. Maybe both.

But despite how obviously nervous you are, you straighten stubbornly and meet his gaze with a determined look that makes warmth bloom painfully in his chest.

"I'm gonna ice skate," you declare. "What does it look like?"

"It looks like a baby deer who’s learning how to use its limbs."

You glare. "Well, teach me then."

"Me teach you how to skate?"

You scoff and push away from the wall too confidently and immediately start flailing. Satoru catches both of your hands on instinct before you eat shit.

"Gonna yell at me for breaking one of your rules?"

"Shut up."

Something helplessly fond pulls at his mouth as he begins slowly skating backwards, keeping your hands in his while guiding you forward. Skating he can do, so his focus directs to that.

"Bend your knees a little," he says. "You're too stiff."

"I'm trying."

"You're just letting me drag you."

"Because I don't wanna die."

He laughs quietly.

God, he missed this.

"Okay, you're not gonna die." He says. "Push with one foot first. Not too hard." He tightens his grip when you wobble again. "Alright. You're doing it. Kind of."

"Wow. Such encouragement."

"You want me to lie?"

You roll your eyes, but try again.

The rink settles into silence again, broken only by the scrape of blades across ice. It's a sound he's heard most of his life, but right now it's completely new.

Little by little, your movements smooth out. The death grip you originally had on his hands loosen and your shoulders relax. Satoru keeps skating backwards in front of you, guiding you through slow turns while trying not to focus on how cold your fingers are against his palms.

Or how badly he doesn't want to let go.

But you've found your rhythm, so he starts pulling one hand free, only to be met with your fingers tightening around his before he fully can.

"Why did you stop coming to sessions?"

Satoru debates lying, and almost does. But the rink is empty, your hands are in his, and somehow honesty feels easier here.

"I didn't know how to see you again after how I acted."

"Why?"

He lets out a dry laugh. "What do you mean, why? I was being a douche bag. Acting weird. Scared off your boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend."

"Whatever. Still." His jaw tightens slightly. "How I acted was not cool. I know that."

"Why didn't you just apologize then?"

Satoru spins you both slowly in a small circle before bringing you to a stop.

"Pride," he admits.

You just nod lightly, like that answer makes perfect sense. Like you understand him.

"So do you not need a tutor anymore?"

He looks away. "Yeah. Guess not," he forces a shrug. "You're free now. We don't have to see each other again."

"You're so dramatic," you remark. "I said you don't need a tutor. Not that you have to banish me completely."

Satoru huffs out a laugh through his nose. "Well. I still owe you an apology." He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. "So… I'm sorry."

"And I forgive you."

Simple and easy, like you hadn't spent the last few weeks wondering why he'd disappeared, and he wondering why he did.

Guilt still sits ugly in his chest, but it loosens enough for him to breathe around it now.

"Alright," he says finally, changing the subject before anything else can slip free. There's already too much lingering in the air between you both. Too much he doesn't know how to unpack yet. "You wanted to skate? Lets skate."

It's like the roles reverse.

Satoru teaches you something he's actually good at, just like you'd done for him all those days at the coffee shop and the library. He corrects your stance lightly when you lock up. Laughs when you panic every time you gain speed.

While you skate, he learns about you—and not just the simple little things, like your favorite color or why you decided to come to this college. The deeper parts of yourself that most people don't know because they don't come easy.

Why you find yourself anxious over things that seem small to everyone else. Why some nights sleep feels impossible no matter how exhausted you are.

He shares things about himself, too.

Not the version of Satoru that everyone else knows, but the real parts. The pressure he puts on himself. The moments he wishes he could take back.

The chasm created doesn't feel so vast anymore. Like maybe it could be crossed if he stopped being afraid of it.

Eventually, he lets go of your hands completely.

For three whole seconds, you're actually skating on your own, face lighting up in disbelief right before your balance gives out.

"Oh my god—"

You pitch forward, the world tilting before one arm wraps around your waist the other finding your wrist, the force pulling you flush against him before you can fall.

Everything goes still.

Your bodies press together, skates drifting slightly while cold air fogs between you.

Too close.

Way too fucking close.

Satoru can see every detail of your expression—the surprise in your eyes, the slight part of your lips, the way your lashes flutter when your gaze drops to his mouth.

His own eyes follow before he can stop himself, and for one second, he really thinks you might kiss him.

He thinks maybe he'd let you. Or maybe he'd stop being such a coward and kiss you first.

Then you pull away suddenly, scrambling clumsily against the ice with one hand pressed against his chest, face burning red.

"Thanks," you stutter. "Sorry."

"It's cool."

But his heart is racing, hands still tingling where he held you so close just seconds ago.

Satoru bites the inside of his cheek, and he's genuinely about to say something he's never said to anyone else before.

Then the rink doors swing open.

"What the— hey!" an older employee yells from the entrance. "We're closed right now!"

Your eyes widen in panic, and Satoru just bursts out laughing.

"Gojo!" the man calls again. "I'm serious. Get your ass off the ice or I'll make you drive the Zamboni."

"You act like that's a punishment, Lee!" he shouts back before turning his gaze back to you. "C'mon, lets go."

He offers his hand, and you take it without hesitation. He keeps one hand hovering behind your lower back as you carefully step off the ice onto solid ground again, prepared to catch you if needed.

Down you both collapse onto the bench side by side, shoulders brushing while you unlace the skates.

"So,' he says, focusing too intensely on the laces so he doesn't have to see your reaction. "Are we cool?"

"Yeah," the reply is immediate. "Of course we are."

Pure relief. Enough for him to ask something bigger.

"We've got the conference finals this weekend. Big game."

"Mm."

"You should come."

You pull your feet free from the skates and glance up at him. "To your game?"

"Obviously."

"Oh should I?" you tease. "After you avoided me?

Satoru can't stop the cocky grin on his face at your banter, feeling more like himself.

"Hey, I said I'm sorry," he says. "And I just saved you from a concussion."

Your socked foot kicks his shin lightly, and Satoru grins so hard his face hurts.

"Really though," he gets quieter, his smile softening around the edges. "You've only ever seen me challenged." His eyes finally meet yours. "I think it'd be cool if you saw me doing something I'm actually good at."

You just look at each other, the almost-kiss swirling electric and unfinished in the space between you both.

"I'll come to your game, Satoru."

"Yeah?" his voice lifts an octave higher.

A small smile spread across your face.

"Yeah."

─── ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ───

There's two things that Satoru is going to do tonight.

First, he's going to win the conference game and drag his team straight into finals.

Then he's finally going to tell you how he feels. No more dodging around it like a coward.

After you left the rink that morning, after that almost-kiss still burning hot in his head, Satoru spent the next few days mentally kicking his own ass for not just doing it. For not telling you the truth and then grabbing your face and kissing you stupid right there on the ice while you looked at him like that.

It was fine. He'll make good on it after the game.

Assuming these idiots listen to him for once.

"Yo!" he calls over the locker room noise buzzing with a mix of pregame excitement. Gear clatters against benches while music blasts faintly from someone's speaker. "C'mon. Huddle up."

The arena tonight is massive compared to their home one. Packed, too. Satoru could hear the crowd before they'd even stepped onto the ice—a least a hundred voices blending into one roaring pulse of excitement that vibrates through the walls.

He hopes yours is somewhere inside it.

"Listen," he says, his voice carrying that intense captains edge he slips in naturally. "I don't need to tell you shit you already know. You guys can play. It's why were here."

A few guys laugh. Someone shoves another.

"So just… don't fuck it up at the last second." He points around the circle. "Let's win this game, so we're closer to taking that pretty cup home, yeah?"

The response erupts loud enough to shake the room, and adrenaline floods his veins instantly.

The tunnel to the rink glows brightly ahead of them, arena lights spilling across the ice while the crowd explodes the second the team skates out.

Satoru isn't paying attention to any of it.

The pregame announcements blur together while he skates a lazy loop around the ice, scanning rows and rows of faces. Girls scream near the glass when he passes, whistles echoing behind him while people pound excited fists against the barrier trying to get his attention.

Usually he'd grin. Wave. Feed into it.

Tonight he doesn't care. Not until he sees you.

Halfway up the lower section you sit, wire-rimmed glasses catching the lights but not hiding the way you're watching him.

The noise disappears the second your eyes meet. No screaming crowd. No announcers. Just the violent pounding of his own heartbeat.

You're here.

And when he finally skates past, forced to break eye contact, the sound comes rushing back in as he goes to the center.

The game starts brutal. From puck drop, Satoru plays like he has something to prove.

The opposing team is good, but comes out aggressive immediately, throwing hard checks into the boards and trying to force sloppy passes under pressure. Satoru reads through them fast. Their defense is overcompensating and they leave gaps open whenever they get impatient.

So he exploits it.

Hard.

The first interception happens barely four minutes in. Satoru cuts across center ice, steals the puck clean off their right wing, and accelerates so fast the crowd rises before he even shoots.

The goalie barely reacts before the puck rockets into the top corner.

The arena erupts, and you're on your feet too. Smiling so hard it nearly knocks the air from his lungs.

The rest of the period moves fast and violent.

The opposing team gets close to scoring but loses the puck in a battle. Satoru intercepts another pass late in the first, setting up an assist that is barely caught by their goalie.

It's alright. It's still one-zero.

By the time line changes finally roll around, his chest is heaving with exertion. He taps gloves with his teammate before collapsing onto the bench, spitting his mouth guard free.

He squirts water into his mouth, then leans forward and lets some droplets spray onto the ice.

And immediately catches you staring.

Your chin rests against your hand, eyes locked onto him with complete focus until you realize he's looking back. You turn away too fast, fingers spreading across your cheek to hide your face.

Satoru bites back a grin.

You're so fucking cute.

"Gojo!" Yaga snaps. "Quit flirting with the crowd!"

The second period gets uglier as the other team starts losing patience.

A defenseman twice Satoru's size drives him hard into the boards after a whistle, a shoulder slamming into his ribs hard enough to make the glass shake. The crowd boos, and Satoru shoves him back without hesitation.

"Get off me, fucker."

Then the guy grabs his jersey.

"Back off, pretty boy," the defenseman spits.

Satoru grins meanly, his glove shoving against his chest to break free. They bicker for another minute before the ref breaks it up.

As he skates off, he secretly flips him off behind the ref's back while sticking his tongue out, making the guy nearly lunge for him again.

Penalty box for them both.

Worth it.

The game tightens by the third.

Two-one.

Then two-two.

He didn't think the game would be easy. He didn't want it to be. By the time overtime hits, his lungs burn and his legs feel heavy, but the rush buzzes through his body hard enough to make him forget it.

Sudden death. First one to score wins.

So Satoru scores first, obviously.

The puck snaps clean off his stick, low and fast, sliding past the goalie before he can react. The buzzer erupts through the arena a second later as their spot in the championship is secured.

His pulse pounds violently while he rips off his helmet, white hair damp with sweat and sticking it messily to his forehead. His teammates crash into him, shouting into his ear, patting his back hard enough to jostle him forward.

But he just needs to get to you.

Breaking free as fast as possible, he rushes through the handshake line with barely enough patience to be polite before disappearing through the tunnel. He only stops long enough to swap out his skates, fingers trembling from the energy while his heart refuses to slow down.

You're already waiting for him when he exits the locker room.

His uniform is still on, bulky, but doing absolutely nothing to hide how broad he is, how tall, and how unfairly good he looks flushed from a game. Sweat darkens the collar of his undershirt, strands of damp hair falling into eyes still bright from the win.

You'd never been to a hockey game before.

Never realized how intense it was. How violent and fast and overwhelming. How hot it was watching players slam each other into the glass.

Or maybe it was just him.

Your cheeks warm as you slowly meet him halfway.

Words, Satoru thinks desperately. There were words. He had practiced them for days—actual sentences that were smooth and honest. But standing here with the high of winning and you right there, none of them feel big enough.

"Hey, nice game—"

He cups your face before he can stop himself, and then his mouth is on yours.

The kiss lands messy with excitement, somewhere between soft and starving. He exhales softly against your lips, thumbs pressing lightly against your cheeks like he's been wanting to do for weeks.

You're stunned at first, fingers twitching against his jersey before you start to lean into him—

"Gojo! Get your ass back here for huddle."

Satoru is going to fucking kill his team.

He pulls away too fast, breathing hard as the realization burns the tips of his ears pink. You stand frozen in place, lips glistening and still parted from the kiss.

His team starts yelling from down the hall, and then, somehow, they're physically dragging him backwards.

He shoves at them, stumbling away. "I hate every single one of you."

They only laugh harder.

"Don't wait up!" he calls quickly, eyes darting back to you. "I'll— I'll come to your dorm after!"

The words are rushed, nervous in a way Satoru Gojo never sounds.

But he does show up.

After the debrief, the celebration, and the fastest shower he can take, Satoru practically sprints to his car and speeds to campus until he gets to your dorm with damp hair and a wrinkled shirt.

Now that the adrenaline is fading, anxiety takes it's place immediately.

He kissed you.

Didn't even confess first like he planned. Didn't ask. Just completely short-circuited and kissed you in the middle of a hallway like an idiot.

And you hadn't fully kissed him back—granted, his team interrupted after like three seconds, but still.

Maybe he got carried away. Maybe he read this whole thing wrong. Maybe you only tolerated him because you were nice and he turned that into something its not.

By the time he reaches your door, his stomach is in knots.

He knocks anyways.

And the door opens.

You've swapped your clothes for something softer that makes him ten times more nervous. Everything feels more real and every thought in his brain trips over itself.

"Hey. I'm sorry for just kissing you after the game. I don't wanna come off weird, or like a complete fuckboy like I did when we first met. I've actually been trying really hard not to say dumb shit around you because I respect you. Like, genuinely."

He inhales sharply, running a hand through his still-damp hair before continuing without giving himself time to stop.

"I just—fuck. I really like you. Like, a lot. And I've never really had feelings for someone before, so I know I'm probably terrible at this, but if you don't want anything to happen, then nothing will. I can deal with it. Probably." He laughs anxiously at himself. "But I think of you constantly. Anytime I smell coffee or see shelves of books or—"

Satoru cuts himself off abruptly and stares at the floor for half a second, horrified. Just how long has he been talking? Why are words still coming out? Why haven’t you kicked him out yet?

“Are you done?” you ask softly.

“I think so,” he answers weakly.

“Good.”

Your fist curls into the front of his shirt, tugging him down before he can process anything else.

And then you’re kissing him.

Actually kissing him.

Every ounce of tension in his body melts instantly at the feeling of your lips moving against his. He lets out a startled breath into the kiss, hands finding your waist on pure instinct while he walks you backwards without ever pulling away.

His hand fumbles behind him until the door shuts with a quiet click.

You taste like something sweet and instantly addictive.

The kiss deepens, his thumbs brushing along your jaw as his tongue swipes against your bottom lip. A groan catches in his throat when you let him in, the sound swallowed by your mouth before it can fully escape.

He walks you back a few more feet. One hand cradles the back of your head until your shoulders meet the wall. The impact is soft, but the way he melts into you isn't.

Your hands disappear into his hair, nails scratching lightly against his scalp as need shoots through him so fast it nearly makes him dizzy. He exhales sharply against your lips, fingertips toying with the hem of your shirt.

Then they slip underneath.

"Is this okay?" he finally gasps, managing to pull away only enough for the words to brush against your lips.

"Yes," you whisper.

Satoru lets out a soft sigh before capturing your mouth again. Higher his hands roam, tracing the curve of your spine while you arch instinctively into his touch.

Of course you're not wearing a bra.

He's always been dominant, always the one in control—but he's more than willing to follow when your hands press firmly against his chest, breaking the kiss only long enough for you to shove him backward.

His brows shoot up as he stumbles towards the couch, landing against the cushions with a soft grunt, hands immediately finding your waist as you climb onto his lap.

And that's when Satoru turns pink.

He's painfully hard from nothing but making out with you, and the warmth between your thighs pressing exactly where he's throbbing beneath his sweats is not helping.

His hands tighten slightly at your waist as a slow, knowing smirk spreads across your face.

Satoru knows he's in serious trouble way before you dip your head and start pressing kisses along his jaw. Then lower, hunting for a sensitive spot to latch onto.

And then you start grinding your hips. Just slow, lazy passes that drag yourself over his length.

"Fuck," he pants.

His hands slide down to your ass, grabbing a handful in an attempt to slow you down. It does the exact opposite, and you whine against his skin before rocking your hips faster.

"Shit— you gotta—" his eyes squeeze shut. "Are you sure?"

"Satoru," you breathe against his neck. "Can you not tell how much I want you too?"

Something about the way you say those words—soft and sweet—snaps the last thread of restraint clean. His mouth finds yours as he starts pushing you forward, meeting every roll of your hips with one of his own.

His shirt is gone first. Yours follows seconds later.

The moment you're bare to him, he's all over you. Mouth dragging down your neck, across your collarbone, then circling your nipple with his tongue until it hardens beneath the attention.

You moan, a syrupy little sound he's no longer shy about chasing.

He guides you off his lap only to tug at the rest of your clothes, fumbling in impatience to find out just how many more of those noises you can make.

You dissolve into giggles.

"Move," you laugh, swatting his hands away. "You're going too slow."

He huffs but relents, yanking his sweats down while you finish stripping yourself. The thin cotton of your panties brushes against the hard length straining in his boxers when you settle back onto his lap.

You bat your lashes innocently, dragging your fingers beneath the waistband, tracing his hips.

"You want it?" you purr.

"Do I—" Satoru lets out a strained laugh. "Yeah. I fuckin' want it.".

"How bad?"

He catches your chin, forcing your gaze down. His cock twitches impatiently beneath the fabric.

"That bad."

You don't pull away from his grip, just smirk as you tug his boxers down. His cock springs free, smacking his stomach lightly. Angry red at the tip, a bead of precum already gathered—his need is obvious.

And so is the fear he's absolutely going to embarrass himself.

Satoru's flush spreads down his neck as you wrap your small hand around his cock, instantly pumping your fist.

"Oh s-shit—" he chokes out, his head falling back and exposing the long line of his throat.

"Mmmm… so big, 'Toru…"

Eyes squeezed tight, he tries to focus on anything—anything at all. The couch. The wall. The weather. Anything except the fact that he feels like he's about to bust a load already from a few dainty strokes of your oh-so-soft hand.

But your squeezing him just right, stroking in a perfect rhythm while making these little knowing giggles—

"Ah— okay— stop," he pries your hand off, flushed and laughing in embarrassment. His Adam's apple bobs. "If you want this to last, we gotta stop for a second."

"You okay?"

"Yeah, I just…"

He trails off, deciding his best reply is leaning forward to capture your mouth instead of explaining anything at all.

The movement presses your nipples flush against his chest and his cock twitches against your lower stomach.

His hands explore, swiping aside your panties and finding the warm, sticky mess between your thighs. You mewl into his mouth as his fingers find your swollen clit, rubbing slow and gentle circles until you're squirming on top of him.

Then he shoves his fingers inside you, working you open as your breath catches in sharp little bursts against his cheek.

"Satoru… oh god… fuck," you coo. "Please… please put it in."

His fingers don't slow, thrusting against the spongy spot inside you. "Okay…. okay, do you have protection?"

"I'm on the pill."

Satoru groans.

You're really gonna fucking kill him.

He gently pulls away his fingers, your slick mess stretching like a web between them as he helps you hover over his length. You slide his cock through your folds, coating him in a mix of your wetness and his precum.

"You're…" he tugs his lip between his teeth as you nudge the tip just barely inside. "A fucking tease."

You hide a smile. "You love it."

Then you sink down.

He's so thick, stretching your gummy walls perfectly. The agonizingly slow descent is on purpose, letting him feel every flutter of your pussy swallowing every inch.

Satoru thinks the next few minutes he blacks out.

He thought you were such a sinless sweetheart, but the second you adjust, a mischievous glint hits your eyes right before you brace your hands on his shoulders and start bouncing on him.

Straight from a wet dreams, you take him deep, tits bouncing with the movement as everything between you turns slick.

He's moaning— fuck, whimpering at how good you feel, letting praise slip from his mouth in jumbled slurs of pleasure he can't even think through.

"Fuck, baby— just like that— feels amazing— good fucking girl, take my cock—"

You let out a series of pretty whines, accompanied by the obscene sound of how wet you are each time you slam your hips against his.

And you're so beautiful. And you're his. And holy fuck it's only been a few minutes but—

"Shit—babe—" he gasps. "Wait— I'm gonna cum if you don't—"

But it's too late.

Satoru lets out a strangled moan as his cock throbs violently, hips driving upward and pressing his tip against your cervix before shooting rope after rope of his warm release inside you.

He's trembling from the ecstasy and pure embarrassment from his body's betrayal. He doesn't think he's cum this fast in his life, ever, and hides in your neck as he floats back to earth.

Your hands gently stroke his back, grounding him with kisses to his sweat-slicked shoulder. "You okay?"

"No," he grumbles, returning a lazy kiss to your skin anyways.

"Why not?"

"You know why."

He takes a few more deep breaths before clutching your body close and flipping you both with easy strength until he's braced on his forearms above you. His cock is still nestled inside you, sensitive, but still really hard.

His lips find the shell of your ear, nibbling the lobe before he whispers. "Promise I'm gonna make you cum, sweet thing."

And then his hips snap forward hard, dragging a broken moan out of you. The couch shifts beneath you both as he starts fucking you into it, determined to make you a babbling mess by the time he's done with you.

─── ˗ˏˋ ★ ˎˊ˗ ───

It's loud. So loud it feels the celebration is cheering inside his skull.

Winning the cup is no small thing. It's what he's worked toward for as long as he can remember. Every morning practice, every brutal loss, every moment that should have broken his dreams but didn't.

And yet, somehow, none of it hits him as hard as you running toward him on the ice.

As you jumping straight into his arms.

He catches you instantly, crushing you to his chest and spinning you in a light circle that lifts your feet. You squeal and it locks itself into his mind as the sound he wants to hear forever.

Your laugh.

When he finally sets you down, he doesn't let go. His arms stay firm around your waist, keeping you close just in case the chaos around you tries to steal you away. Your eyes are bright when they look up at him, confetti tangled in your hair and blue stars painted across your cheeks from your support.

"Congratulations!" you beam, practically vibrating with joy. "You were so amazing out there!"

"Thank you," he says, grinning as he leans in and tilts your chin up. "You look really cute."

You blush, which is the exact reaction he wanted.

"Be my girl," he blurts over the noise. "I should have asked you way sooner."

But you only grin.

"I thought I already was."

2026 © thewrldx

nanami tried to be reasonable. he tried to tell you that you needed rest, that you were sick, that this could wait, but you'd just shaken your head and hooked your leg around his hip, and the sound you made when he'd accidentally pressed against you — half groan, half whimper, all desperate need — had shot straight to his dick like a live wire.

so now here he is.

here he is, kneeling between your thighs on the rumpled sheets of your shared bed, the soft glow of the bedside lamp painting everything in shades of gold and amber. here he is, watching you completely fall apart beneath him, your skin flushed an impossible pink, your lips parted and wet and whispering his name like a prayer.

and here he is, losing his goddamn mind.

because you're hot. not just in the way you always are — the way that made him fall in love with you in the first place, the way that still makes his breath catch when you smile at him across the dinner table — but actually, physically hot. like a furnace, like sin wrapped in skin and slick heat and the kind of wet that has him groaning before he's even all the way inside.

nanami sinks into you slow — he always does, because well… he's nanami kento and he believes in savoring things, in making them last — but the moment the head of his cock pushes past your entrance, he freezes.

"f-fuck," nanami breathes, and his voice cracks on the word, splinters right down the middle.

you're so warm.

you’re so impossibly, unbearably warm; it's like slipping into a bath that's just this side of too hot, the kind of heat that steals your breath and makes your muscles go liquid. your walls flutter around him, clenching and pulsing like you're trying to pull him deeper, and he has to brace one hand against the headboard just to keep from collapsing on top of you.

"kento?" your voice is soft, hazy, your eyes half-lidded and glassy in a way that has nothing to do with the fever and everything to do with him. "you okay?"

nanami laughs — it was a short, broken sound that's half sob, half something else entirely.

"am i okay?" he repeats, like you've asked him the most ridiculous question in the world. "sweetheart, you're—"

his hips twitch, an involuntary little thrust that sinks him another inch deeper, and the sound you make is so sweet, so wrecked, that he has to close his eyes.

"you're so hot. inside. it's—god, it's like—"

nanami can't even finish the sentence, he doesn't have the words for what it feels like. the heat is radiating through him, climbing up his spine, settling low in his belly like embers catching flame. every single nerve ending is on fire, every muscle pulled taut, and he hasn't even started moving yet.

you shift beneath him, trying to take more of him, and your hand comes up to cup nanami’s jaw, your thumb brushing over his cheekbone. your skin is warm too — not as searing as the rest of you, but warm enough to make him lean into your touch like the tide answering the moon.

"then move," you say, simple as anything else, like you haven't just turned nanami’s entire world inside out. "kento, please. i want you to move."

he's never been able to deny you anything, so he moves.

slow at first — because nanami is trying, he's really trying, to keep some semblance of control. he pulls out until only the tip of his cock remains, then pushes back in with a steady, rolling movement that has you arching off the bed, your nails digging into his shoulders. the wet sounds are obscene, amplified by the quiet of the room, and every single one of them makes his stomach clench with want.

but it's the heat that undoes nanami.

every single thrust feels like coming home and getting burned at the same damn time.

your body is so hot inside, so slick and welcoming and tight, and nanami can feel the fever radiating off you in hot waves; it's in the way your breath stutters against his neck, in the way your legs shake where they're wrapped around his waist, in the way your pulse flutters wildly against his lips when he leans down to kiss your throat.

"you feel—" he gasps, and his hips stutter, rhythm faltering. "you feel incredible. i can't—fuck, sweetheart, i can't think."

and nanami can't.

his brain has completely short-circuited, reduced to nothing but static and sensation. every logical thought has been burned away by the heat of you, replaced by something primal and desperate and almost frightening in its intensity. he wants to be gentle. he wants to take his time, to worship you the way you deserve, to show you just how much he loves you with every careful, deliberate movement.

but his body has other plans.

nanami’s hips are moving faster now, snapping against yours with a rhythm that's more urgent than he intended. the headboard knocks against the wall in a steady, rhythmic beat, and nanami knows he should care about that — nanami knows the neighbors will probably hear, nanami knows he'll be embarrassed about it tomorrow — but right now he can't bring himself to give a single shit.

not when you're making those sounds.

soft little gasps and moans that pitch higher every time he bottoms out, your head thrown back against the pillow, your throat bared and vulnerable and so beautiful it makes his chest hurt. your hands are everywhere — tangled in nanami’s hair, scraping down nanami’s back, gripping nanami’s hips like you're trying to fuse yourself to him.

"k-kento," you whimper, and it's broken, shattered, the kind of sound that goes straight to nanami’s dick and makes him see stars. "kento, don't stop. p-please don't stop."

"not stopping," he grits out, and his voice is ragged, wrecked, nothing like the composed, collected man he usually is. "never stopping. not when you feel—fuck, not when you're this—"

nanami loses his words again, and he buries his face in the curve of your neck instead, breathing you in. you smell like sweat and illness and something uniquely, achingly you, and he wants to live in this moment forever. he wants to drown in the heat of you, in the tight grip of your body, in the way you moan his name like it's the only word you remember.

you're clenching around him — tighter now, your orgasm building, and he can feel it in the way your thighs tremble, in the way your nails dig crescents into his back. but more than that, he can feel the fever; the heat that seems to intensify with every thrust, radiating from your core and soaking into his skin, making him sweat, making him need.

"sweetheart," nanami gasps, and his voice breaks on the word, splinters into something raw and desperate. "i'm—i'm not going to last. you're too hot. you're so hot, i can't—"

you turn your head, catch his mouth in a kiss that's all teeth and tongue and clumsy urgency. it's not graceful — nothing about this is graceful — but it's real, it's you, and he groans into your mouth like a man dying of thirst.

"then don't," you whisper against his lips, and your voice is thick with fever and want and something softer, something sweeter. "don't last. i want to feel you. want you to—ah—want you to cum inside me. please, kento. want to feel you."

nanami going to die.

he's actually going to die, right here, inside his wife, and he's going to die happy.

his hips snap forward harder, faster, every single ounce of control he had evaporating like water on hot pavement. he's gripping your thigh with one huge hand, holding you open for him, and the other is fisted in the sheets beside your head, knuckles white. nanami’s whole body is trembling — from the effort, from the pleasure, from the sheer overwhelming muchness of feeling you like this.

"you're everything," nanami hears himself say, and his voice sounds so strange, so distant, like it's coming from someone else. "you're everything to me. fuck, sweetheart, i love you. i love you so much. i love—"

he's rambling now, words spilling out of him unchecked, and he simple can't stop, he doesn't want to stop.

you're so hot, so wet, so perfect, and every time he pushes inside you, he swears he can feel your heartbeat, he can feel the fever thrumming through your veins, he can feel the way your body clings to him like it never wants to let go.

your orgasm hits you without warning — nanami feels it in the way you gasp loudly, in the way your back entirely bows off the bed, in the way your nails rake down his spine hard enough to sting. but mostly nanami feels it in the way you clench around him, a vise of slick, searing heat that pulses and flutters and tries to completely milk him dry.

"oh god," you sob, and there are tears on your cheeks — from the pleasure, from the fever, from the sheer overwhelming intensity of it all. "kento, oh god, oh god—"

nanami watches you fall apart beneath him, and it's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

your eyes are squeezed shut, your mouth open in a silent scream, your whole body shuddering through wave after wave of pleasure. and through it all, you're so hot, so impossibly, devastatingly hot, and nanami can feel your orgasm like it's his own, nanami can feel it in the way your walls massage his desperate cock, nanami can feel it in the way his name falls from your lips like a benediction.

he follows right after.

there's no warning, no buildup — just a sudden, violent crest of pleasure that crashes over him and drags him under. he buries himself as deep as he can go, hips flush against yours, and spills inside you with a groan that's almost a sob. the heat of you surrounds him, consumes him, and for one perfect, eternal moment, there's nothing else in the universe.

just you.

just him.

just the two of you, unreservedly tangled together in the sweaty sheets, trembling and gasping and so full of love it might actually kill him.

nanami collapses on top of you — careful, always careful, one arm bracing his weight so he doesn't crush you — and presses his forehead to yours. your skin is still warm, still flushed with fever, but there's a softness in your eyes now, a drowsy contentment that makes his heart stutter in his chest.

"that was—" you start, but your voice is hoarse, faded, and you have to clear your throat before trying again. "that was not how i expected tonight to go."

he laughs, breathless and a little unsteady, and presses a soft kiss to the corner of your mouth.

"you're sick," he says, like it's just now occurring to him. "you have a fever. i shouldn't have—we shouldn't have—"

"kento." you cut him off with a hand on his cheek, turning his face so he has to look at you fully. "i wanted to. i want to. always want to, with you."

he closes his eyes, lets out a shaky breath, and when he opens them again, there's something soft and wondering in his gaze.

"you're going to be the death of me," he murmurs, but it sounds like a declaration of love.

you smile — that bright, brilliant smile that made nanami fall in love with you in the first place — and pull him down for a kiss that's slow and sweet and tastes like forever.

"good," you whisper against his lips. "then you'll die happy."

nanami laughs again, real this time, and gathers you into his arms. you're still too warm, still sick, still in need of soup and water and cool cloths and rest, but right now, in this moment, none of that matters.

right now, you're both exactly where you're supposed to be.

it wasn’t supposed to rain that evening, nor did you expect to be told your usual subway stop was out of commission due to emergency maintenance. the closest bus stop didn’t have a covered waiting area. you looked up at the grey clouds slowly changing to black, gentle raindrops bouncing off of your cheeks. it turned into a downpour within the matter of seconds. you frowned, flickering your gaze to the pavement below you, shoes soaked, reflection of yourself in the puddle showing how drenched you were. your laptop was probably completely water damaged at this point, despite your bag being waterproof. you were cold, long stringy droplets of water connecting the ends of your hair to your coat sleeves. you really should just carry an umbrella around with you on the regular.

and, it went without saying, being in the middle of winter didn’t help your misery.

suddenly, you couldn’t feel the rain anymore, a shadow now looming above your head. you looked up, seeing there was a man standing beside you. he kept his gaze forward, one hand holding the umbrella over the both of you, while the other was stuffed into his coat pocket.

“shit weather, huh?” he said after a few moments, glancing at you with a friendly smile. “the forecast always lies.”

he was beautiful. you’d never seen anyone like him. “yeah,” you agreed, silence following.

it was only the two of you waiting at the stop, the sound of pattering rain and passing cars nearly overstimulating your system. you stood still, breathing slowly, praying your body would start warming up while you were still forced to stand outside, soaked and cold.

you heard the man shuffling through what sounded like his pocket, holding a pair of handwarmers out in front of you once he found what he was looking for.

“here,” he offered, “i know it won’t do much, but at least it’ll warm you up a little while we’re stuck out here.”

your lips parted, “thank you,” whispering to him in gratitude.

he didn’t say anything further, just nodding and sending you the same, sweet smile he had when he first arrived at the street corner.

the bus was on time, thankfully. you didn’t expect the man to sit next to you for the ride, but he did. you jumped, slightly startled when you suddenly felt something weighted on your shoulders. you looked to see he had removed his jacket, much dryer than your own, and placed it over you.

“you need it more than i do.” he stood up before you could protest, beginning to walk towards the door to exit. his stop was next.

“wait,” you grabbed his wrist before he could get very far, “you’ll freeze out there!”

he chuckled and shrugged. “i’m only a block from the stop. just return it to me tomorrow.”

he was at the door now. you didn’t even have time to ask for his name, nor where you were supposed to meet him to return the jacket. you just stared in shock as you watched him step off the bus into the storm. he sent you a wave through the window as it drove off, a playful smile on his face despite his circumstances of now being the one freezing in the rain.

is he crazy?

✧･ﾟ: ✧

you tried for the remainder of the week to find him when you left the office in the evenings, eyes jumping around from face to face in the bustling rush hour crowd as you made your way towards the subway station to return home after work. you sighed, tired from carrying his heavy puffer jacket around with you for three days straight, but also from feeling bad that you still had it. you just hoped he owned a second winter coat he was utilizing for the time being.

it was sunnier that day, warmer, in terms of january weather. you sat on the park bench just above the grounds of the station for a moment to catch your breath. the train wasn’t due to arrive for another fifteen minutes, anyway.

you huffed, tossing the jacket next to you onto the bench and crossing your arms. “how does he expect me to return it to him when i have no idea who he is?” you scoffed aloud.

you heard a chuckle from a few inches away, your eyes shooting in the direction of the sound. there he was, hands nonchalantly stuffed into his pockets once again. this time, an amused smirk rested on his face, rather than the kind smile he showed you the first time you met.

“maybe i wanted you to keep it longer,” he teased, having heard what you said. you blushed, feeling a bit embarrassed, sending your gaze straight into your lap and away from him. he laughed again, taking a seat beside you, his jacket acting as a divider. “thanks for keeping it safe for me, rain girl.” you shot him a glare, which only caused him to laugh even harder. he picked up the jacket, draping it over his forearm before he stood up again. “i’m yuta, by the way, since you were wondering.”

you rolled your eyes at his playfulness, too tired to be in the mood for it. “and you couldn’t have told me that in the bus, plus where to find you? my arms hurt! your jacket must weigh, like, one hundred pounds!”

“couldn’t miss my stop,” he shrugged, still keeping up with his teasing antics. you tsked. he just kept smiling. “what’s your name?”

“i think i should make you chase me around now, trying to find me before i tell you that,” you shot back, half joking, “give you a taste of your own medicine.”

“i like you,” he complimented, grinning ear to ear, “you’re full of spunk and it fascinates me.”

“how did you even know it was me sitting here?” you groaned, throwing your head back in frustration before standing up to your feet.

“i’ve had that jacket for years, i could recognize it from a mile away.”

“right,” you huffed, “anyway, now that you have it, i’m leaving.”

“w–wait,” he stopped you mid-step, “are you really not going to tell me your name?”

you stared at him blankly, but eventually fell into a softer expression. “it’s y/n.”

“y/n,” he repeated, as if he was analyzing it, “beautiful name.” you choked, not expecting him to compliment you like that. he hummed delightedly, tucking his hands back into his jeans and taking a step closer to you. “you get flustered so easily.”

“i–i don’t–,” you sighed, “i’ve known you for a grand total of fourty minutes and i can already tell you’re a menace.”

he pouted playfully. “man, you have that impression of me already?”

“yes.”

he stuck out his tongue, “good,” then turned swiftly on his heels and stepped away from you in the opposite direction, “see you around, y/n.”

you were astonished by his attitude. he was slightly irritating, sure, but you found yourself very attracted to him. he exuded confidence, unapologetically himself, having fun and not taking life too seriously. you were intrigued. captivated. moved. perhaps you could learn a thing or two from him.

you couldn’t stop thinking about him that night, the scent of his woodsy cologne somehow still embedded in your nose. you curled up into your bed, squealing as you kicked your feet like a school girl with a crush.

“what the fuck?” you groaned, face palming yourself. “what has he done to me?”

✧･ﾟ: ✧

you couldn’t help it. every night you left the office, you looked for him. you’d see a puffer jacket in the swarm of bodies, but the shade of black was slightly off. a similar haircut and hue of brown would catch your eye, but the person’s height wasn't quite right. sometimes, you’d be halfway calling out his name, only to stop yourself when you realized it wasn’t him.

he almost felt like a mirage, someone you had just made up to curb your loneliness. you’d felt that way for a while– lonely– most of your friends either married or moved far away, not having much time on their hands to lend you anymore. in fact, you couldn’t even remember the last time you had a proper conversation with any of them past the surface of 'hope you’ve been well' monthly check ins.

sighing, you accepted your defeat, and that your life was fated for painful, agonizing solitude. you didn’t feel much else at that point, so what were you really missing out on?

“looking for me?”

a vibration of life rushed through you the moment you heard his voice, completely erasing your gloomy thoughts in an instant– yuta. you turned around, him standing now in front of you with a cheeky grin.

he held up the small plastic bag in his hand. “i bought some melon buns if you’re hungry.”

“somehow, you just keep finding me,” you exhaled, smiling.

“i’ve seen your face enough times now to recognize it.”

your heartbeat quickened. he rumaged through the bag, pulling out two packages of the bread, “want one?”

you nodded, taking it from his hands. you two sat down on the same park bench you had the previous week when you returned his coat to him.

the bun was still warm, you humming as it heated your body pleasantly while you ate it. “i haven’t had one of these in so long,” you expressed, savouring the treat, enveloped in nostalgia, “thanks for sharing.”

he shrugged, lips tugging upwards. “don’t mention it.” he took a bite of his. “you’re helping me portion control, otherwise i’d eat them all in one sitting.”

you snorted, swallowing the soft-textured pastry. the business complex quieted down fairly quickly as the two of you sat together. all of the employees had pretty much left the area to return home from their shifts by the time you both finished eating.

“ah,” you started, crumpling up your empty wrapper. you stuffed it into your pocket once you realized there wasn’t a trashcan nearby for you to throw it away in. “before i forget, should we exchange numbers?”

“thought i was a menace?” yuta teased, fishing for his phone

“you are,” your lips went straight, but not for long. “but, i don’t know. maybe we could be friends? we get along well enough, right?”

he smiled. your heart fluttered. you watched as he opened up a new contact file and passed you his phone. “here.” you quickly filled in your information and texted yourself before handing it back to him. for a moment, you thought you noticed a flicker of something unreadable flash across his face as he looked at the screen. there was a faint smile, and was he… blushing? it was a bit hard to tell in the dark evenings of the mid-winter season, but the screen brightness made it seem as if there was a tinge of red resting on his cheeks.

he offered to take you home that night, to ride the subway with you to your stop then walk you to your house from there. you refused, however. despite your friendliness, he was still a new person, and you were wary of trusting him that easily. he understood and didn’t press you, though he did feel nervous leaving you alone when it was so dark out.

“i’ll be fine,” you assured him, “if i told you the amount of times i’ve stayed overtime and left the office even later than this, it would probably send you into cardiac arrest,” you joked.

he chuckled lightly, pursing his lips in acknowledgment. “fair enough,” he said, stepping away from you just a little to start parting ways, “you’ll let me know when you get home, yeah?”

you nodded. “promise.”

he smiled. “okay. get home safely, then.”

“i will.”

you did text yuta when you arrived home, keeping your word, his heart settling immediately as he received your message. he chuckled at the selfie you sent along with it, too, a goofy look plastered on your face as you thumbed up the camera in what looked to be your kitchen.

you: safe and sound!! [image attached] yuta: great 😁 sleep well, y/n

✧･ﾟ: ✧

april

life felt a little brighter now. for the past few months, you and yuta texted and met up fairly regularly. sometimes you would meet at a cafè on weekends, but most of the time, it was just evenings after work, ever since you learned his office was located in the same complex as yours– which was easy enough to figure out as you two ran into each other in the area the first few times. now, it was just planned, rather than spontaneous. the park bench had become a second home to the both of you.

“you know,” you started, swallowing your bite of kebab, “it’s so nice to have someone to talk to. all of my friends– i mean, if i could even still consider them that– we barely talk anymore, and i haven’t seen them in over a year.”

“you must feel pretty lonely,” yuta deducted, voice completely serious.

it caught you off guard, since you were so used to his playful tone. “yeah,” you nodded, him nailing it right on the head, “you have no idea.”

his heart ached. he was happy to give you some comfort and company with his presence. “glad i can be of service,” he saluted you jokingly, and you nudged his side with a laugh.

you started allowing him to ride the subway with you to your neighbourhood stop, but still didn’t let him walk you home afterwards. as usual, he never pushed you to open up to him further. he wanted you to share what you wanted to in your own time. your comfort was important to him. he liked hanging out with you. he wasn’t in a rush to know everything about you, in fact, part of the beauty in friendship was the process of getting to know someone over time. he would cherish every moment, enjoy the present experience without worrying about what comes next.

he could feel your pain, no matter how unspoken it was. you mentioning your lack of friendships was only the tip of the iceberg of what he sensed you were battling with silently. there was this deep need within him to be with you, protect you, heal you, in some capacity. you only gave him a sliver of who you were beyond the surface, but his heart shuddered nonetheless. you were clearly hurting, and he wanted to help you fix whatever it was if it was within his means to do so.

yuta: brunch saturday? you: sure, send me the place? yuta: nah, your pick you: what about here? [map location] yuta: fuuuuck, they have shakshuka? sign me up you: 😋 10 sound good to meet? yuta: absolutely. see you then!

the rest of the week came and went, saturday arriving quicker than expected. you popped on a layer of lipgloss, checking yourself all but ten times in the mirror before making your way towards the restaurant. you had to stop a few blocks away from the building to calm yourself down before entering, because you were getting way too excited and ahead of yourself. you were taking this new friendship too seriously. lipgloss and a miniskirt? who were you kidding? you were growing a big, fat crush on yuta– if it wasn’t obvious already.

he was already sitting at the table when you entered, face beaming once he saw you step through the doorway of the establishment. you smiled, heart melting. he always seemed so happy to see you, like you simply existing brought him the greatest joy.

you stepped closer. his heart skipped a beat, now that he had a better look at how you were dressed, eyes trailing from your face down to your exposed thighs. you pretended not to notice, but god, was he shit at hiding his emotions. that’s something you learned about him pretty quickly. his analysis made you nervous, cheeks flushing even after he finally snapped his sharp attention away.

“you look great,” he cleared his throat, plastering his typical friendly smile onto his face. he was clearly trying to hide that fact he was just checking the fuck out of you.

“thanks,” you grinned, taking the seat across from him, “you look nice, too.” he did. he was wearing a beige crewneck and a slick pair of light blue jeans. casual, yet highly effective.

brunch was comfortable. warm– the kind of warmth that mimicked seeing wildflowers in spring for the first time. his smile was like that. every time his cheeks puffed out, eyes crinkling, melodic laughter escaping from deep down in his chest, you just wanted to bottle up that moment and keep it forever. to turn it into a film strip you could replay in your mind whenever you wanted. he was truly beautiful, every moment you spent together bringing more and more light into your dark days. your lonely heart was slowly starting to lift with each moment yuta was a part of. the dynamic between you two seemed so natural, almost too much at times.

something shifted not too long after that day. perhaps it was the fiery energy beginning to fill up the air as may was approaching that triggered the change.

you may not have invited yuta over to your place yet, but that didn’t mean he couldn't bring you over to his.

maybe it was the vanilla of your perfume that did it, or possibly the way your skirt was riding up your thighs just enough to tease him while you two walked through the art exhibit that evening. admittedly, he was barely looking at the actual displays at that point, far too distracted by the fact, if your hem lifted just a bit further, your panties would be visible. it was times like these that he was reminded that he was, indeed, a man, and no matter how respectful and gentle he treated you, he couldn't ignore how sexy you were; how often he dreamed about exploring between your thighs and fucking you until you couldn’t walk. what you tasted like, sounded like.

yuta had you trapped between him and the front door, locking it behind you once you were both inside of his apartment, breaths heavy, chests nearly pressed together. your fists clenched at your sides, lips parting and begging, legs trembling with pure desire.

“fuck,” he cursed, mouth dropping over your ear. you released a sound that was nearly inaudible. he chuckled darkly as he heard it. “do you have any idea how fucking crazy you were making me back at the museum?” you shivered. “your legs were practically begging to be spread apart in the middle of the fucking place.”

you could hardly breathe, heat pooling to your stomach, cunt soaked, knees turning to jelly as you prayed for him to do more. if his voice and words alone were enough to ruin you, then how much more could he wreck you with his cock?

you needed to know.

“you’re shaking, baby,” he cooed, daring to drop his hands from caging your head to land softly at your hips. he squeezed them, not too much, just enough to alert you of his intention, a quiet whimper falling from your lips. he pulled back to look at you, mischief written all over his face as he brought you in closer. this side of yuta was the polar opposite of what you were used to– and you liked it. “does somebody need me to touch them, hm?” he taunted, “does your pretty little pussy want to be fucked?”

“p-please,” you whined, almost instinctively, back sliding slightly down the door panel.

he licked his lips before dropping to his knees, hooking his fingers around the straps of your panties and pulling them impatiently down to your ankles. you lifted your feet to assist him in removing them completely, watching as he tossed them aside carelessly. he forcefully spread your thighs apart, your body causing the door to rattle as it slammed against it a little from the sudden movement. he peered up at you, eyes glistening, ready to devour your cunt, keeping his gaze burning into your eyes as he spread your folds apart, fingers tracing and pressing into you with different levels of pressure.

“jesus christ,” he huffed, elated, “you’re fucking dripping,” removing his hand off of you for a moment and lifting it to show you, “you fucking see this?” he moaned, stretching his fingers smugly as he observed your sticky mess expand between his coated fingers. “so perfect,” he placed his hand back where you needed him the most, “gonna make you scream for me.”

your nails dug into your palms as you stood there, biting your lip to silence your sweet cries, walls pulsing as he kitten-licked your bundle of nerves. the tips of his fingers prodded open your entrance, the singe from the stretch of his three fingers causing you to bite down hard enough to draw blood. you moaned, head falling back against the door while you lifted your hands to grab his hair. you were moving against him now, fingers squelching inside of you, so filthy and beautiful, while his tongue ate you out like a starved man. he could feel you were close, chuckling as he slowed the thrusts of his fingers to curl up into you hard and deep. a broken cry erupted from your throat, your grip in his strands growing devoutly as you pressed him firmer against your cunt.

“y–yu– oh, fuck,” you exhaled, eyes rolling back, unable to keep yourself from riding his face. “i’m gonna fucking come!”

“let go, baby,” he muttered against you. the vibration nearly pushed you over the edge, “give me your sweet cum.”

with one final curl of his digits and circle of the tongue, you reached your peak, hips jolting forward so violently that he just barely managed to catch your thighs to keep you still, helping you ride out your high with soft kisses and sucks on your pussy. your voice was loud, raspy, cracking as you trembled in his touch, mourning the absence of his fingers when he finally removed them from your hole. he stayed perched on his knees, looking up at you while he cleaned all of you off of him, humming blissfully at your taste. you watched him despite your blurry vision, his fingers shoved down his throat, your chest heaving.

yuta returned to his feet, face smug and full of pride, leaning forward gently to kiss your lips. you melted into him as you tasted yourself on his mouth, tongues gently rolling over each other as they snuck past teeth. your arms wrapped around his back, gripping at the material of his shirt as he deepened the kiss, his hands trailing up your spine until they reached your zipper. you heard the faint sound of undoing it down, permitting yourself to let your dress slide off your body and pool at your feet. you stepped out of it, pushing the two of you away from the front door, just leaving it there on the floor.

he picked you up, a small yelp escaping you as you folded your body around him, hands messily tangled in his hair, thighs squeezing his waist, kissing him fervently, him chaotically stumbling towards his bedroom. he dropped himself onto his back, pulling you to sit on top of him. you ground your hips against him once you settled around his lap, your arousal coating the outside of his pants.

“fuck,” he hissed, breaking away from you to breathe. his fingers dug into your waist as he forced you down onto him again, harder this time. “look at you soaking my clothes, baby,” his cheeks were flushed as he increased his speed, “might just come like this.”

you were panting, nearly out of the breath, blissful heat surging against your skin from the friction. his bulge pressed against your already sensitive clit, head falling forward limply with each thrust.

“oh– oh, shit,” he groaned, making a mess inside of his boxers with a piercing cry. he laughed, elated, gradually slowing your hips on him. he lifted you gently to sit you beside him, shimmying out of his saturated clothing and dropping the articles onto the floor beside the bed. you stared at his cock, hard and throbbing again, sticky, wet cum all over his length and thighs. “look at what you did,” he purred, flickering his gaze between you and the mess in his lap, “wanna clean it up for me?”

you were already drooling, licking up the insides of his thighs until you reached his tip, lips finally wrapping around his dripping length without giving him a verbal answer. he growled, fisting your hair to push you further along his cock, bucking up into your mouth with fervor. “yeah, like that,” he choked, back of his head pressing deeper into the pillows, “milk me again, sweetheart. swallow me.”

you struggled to take all of him, spit dripping all over his pelvis and thighs below you and down your chin. he watched you ruin yourself, sucking him in so earnestly, biting his lip, spurts of hot semen rushing down your throat as he unloaded every drop of his second orgasm into your mouth. you whined, his grip on your head loosening, you pulling away when it became too much. he watched his cum spill sloppily down your chin, your mouth unable to hold all of it. he smirked, coaxing you to move up his body further so he could help you. he licked the rest of his release off your face, swallowing the salty mixture before pushing your bottom lip down with his thumb. he grinned wickedly when he saw you had successfully swallowed what you could manage of him.

“such a good fucking girl,” he cooed, pecking your lips sweetly once, then twice, “taking me like a champ.” your mouth quivered. he could feel your skin pulsing desperately with need beneath his touch, grin spreading wider. “does someone want more?” you nodded. “baby needs my cock inside of her, doesn’t she?”

you swallowed, “yuta,” calling his name shakily, “i need you– fuck, please.”

“go ahead, then,” he taunted, moving your hips downwards to position your cunt above his tip, “let me watch you fuck yourself.”

you allowed yourself to sink down onto him, the stretch so painfully good, surging through every fiber of your being like a drug. you both moaned together, his hands settling behind his head as he watched you intensely, licking his lips, legs twitching as you slid along his length. you pressed your palms flat against his abdomen, uneven pants leaking out of you like your slick, lashes fluttering, hips moving faster.

“s-so good,” you choked every time his tip met your cervix.

he smiled at your determination; he found it so cute and endearing. “keep going like that then, baby,” he coached you gently, breaths exponentially growing shorter as you sped up, “shit– fuck yeah.” his hips were lifting to meet yours now, skin smacking against skin, passion in your veins swallowing his cock as filthy moans spilt out of you. “god, your sounds are so pretty.” he hit your pleasure point hard and deep, forcing a ragged cry out from the back of your throat. “that's it," he growled, "get loud for me.”

you did, succumbing completely to the pleasure, electricity flowing through your veins as if his cock is what you kept you alive. his hands were on your waist now, hips pistoning up into you mercilessly as you collapsed forward onto his chest. he wrapped his arms around you, squeezing you tightly as your head rested beneath his chin. he could feel your drool coating his chest.

“f-fuck, yuta!” you screamed, clawing at his shoulders “gonna– ah– gonna–”

“squirt on me,” he growled, hips stuttering against you as you clenched around his length. he was nearly about to explode. “let me feel you.”

with a final cry, you released, hot liquid streaming down the sides of his shaft and all over his pelvis. he grunted loudly, voice cracking, eyes squeezing shut violently as he let go a second later, painting your battered walls with his hot, white seed.

“holy fuck, baby,” he hissed, gradually stilling inside of you, releasing his tight grip around your body slowly as you both struggled to catch your breath again. you stayed like that for a while, lying chest to chest, him still pulsing inside of you, your walls teasingly continuing to clench around him. with a satisfied hum, you managed to pull yourself up enough to look down at him, fucked-out smile looking so perfect on your face as if it belonged there.

“you feel okay?” you asked, words slurring.

“yeah,” yuta grinned, lifting a hand to tuck your sweaty, loose strands of hair behind your ears, “you?”

you exhaled, smile extending past your cheeks, “yeah. really okay. so good, actually. i feel amazing.”

he chuckled, protruding his head upwards just enough to place a delicate kiss on the tip of your nose. you scrunched it teasingly. “let’s get cleaned up, then i’ll order some takeout for us, yeah? sound good?”

you nodded, body still trying to settle. “i want fried chicken.”

✧･ﾟ: ✧

things with yuta felt… perfect. too perfect; it was almost unsettling. you couldn’t help the doom constantly lingering in the back of your mind, waiting for the other shoe to drop. he hadn’t made things official yet, despite you two having had sex multiple times and going out on numerous of what you assumed were dates. that was probably your first mistake– assuming. you were practically dating, right? that’s what this was, right?

yet, the ache stayed there, embedded and insulting you from the inside out.

maybe you were being ridiculous. it’s not like you didn’t have the power to ask him to be your boyfriend. the man didn’t have to be the one to do it. but, still, you wondered if he was feeling things as deeply as you were. if he saw you as more than a close friends and a good– really good– fuck.

it didn’t seem like he was seeing anyone else. he was so attentive to your needs, even remembering the silly little things, like how your favourite coffee shop put a little too much foam for your liking on your lattes sometimes, so he’d take a spoon and scoop the excess off the top and eat it for you. you’d smile, blushing at the sweet gesture, before enjoying your now perfect drink.

he was very present, too, not only in your life, but when you were intimate. he could sense every little change in your expressions, every tremble of your skin, like he was working to memorize every inch of you. he checked in with you often, making sure you were comfortable and felt okay, even in the midst of him pounding you into oblivion. his sweet words never felt like nothings. there was no way he didn’t feel more for you… right?

he noticed one night while you two were making slow, sweet love in your apartment. you had finally reached the point where you felt safe enough to share more with him, inviting him over, the lighthearted evening turning into a night of passionate sex.

“fuck, y/n,” he groaned, sliding into you steady and deep, “you feel so perfect around me.”

he detected the way your body clenched him ever so differently than usual. even with such a small sign, he knew. his eyebrows furrowed slightly, looking at you curiously as he came to a still.

something was clearly wrong.

he pulled out of you gently, sitting up on his knees. you looked at him, confused why he stopped. you realized soon after, though, that the lump in your throat wasn’t going anywhere. you should have known he’d figure it out sooner or later, that something was amiss.

“what’s going on?” he asked, softly, “you seem… off.”

the closer he got to you, the harder it was to suppress your feelings. he could read you all too well by now. “i’m–” you started, trying to gather your thoughts, “what are we?”

he looked surprised by your question. “what do you want us to be?”

for yuta, he was open to all possibilities. he liked you– a lot– but at the same time, he was an adult, willing to enjoy your company without the labels if that’s what you wanted.

“i really like you, yuta,” you whispered, “if that wasn’t obvious already.” he smiled. “i want us to be official. i don’t care about seeing anyone else, in fact, the thought hasn’t even crossed my mind since you shared your umbrella with me.” his heart warmed from the memory. “is that something you would want?”

in that moment, he grinned wider, heart fluttering in his chest as he leaned over to kiss you deep and sweet. he pulled away a few seconds later, resting his forehead against yours, your anxious breath mixing with his calm. “yeah,” he said, voice low and certain, “i want you to be my girlfriend.”

you bit your lip, unable to contain your happiness. your chest swelled with joy, pushing the lurking loneliness aside again. “thank god,” you laughed, relieved, “i was afraid you’d say no.”

“how could i ever say no to you?” he cooed, dropping his head slowly and deliberately to your still bare core, nipping your skin along the way, “i love taking care of you."

✧･ﾟ: ✧

july

yuta: did you try on that dress i bought you yet? you: not yet, i’ve been meaning to tho yuta: put it on when you get home tonight. im taking you out. you: oh? surprise date? yuta: of course. meet me here at 8 [map location] you: okay, mr. rizz 🤭 see you then

you stared at the clock. tick, tick, tick. it was only 1 pm– you had four more hours to go until you were finished working, five if you counted the commute home. you were buzzing with anticipation for whatever yuta had in store for you, conjuring up all sorts of scenarios in your head. your cube mate, kento, dropped his half-empty water bottle in front of you onto the desk, the sudden slam causing you to jolt, startled.

“what the hell?” you snapped.

“you’re daydreaming again,” he sighed, plopping into his chair. “we have a deadline to meet, y/n.” he turned to face you, legs and arms crossed, a cunning look resting on his face. “i bet it’s a guy.”

“what?” you gasped, shocked he was saying such a thing. you two weren’t close like that. you didn’t consider him a friend at all, just an acquaintance due to circumstances– you could hardly avoid a coworker, especially one that your boss partnered you up with often at that. “it’s not– you know what? it’s none of your business.” you huffed, refocusing on your work.

he chuckled, biting his lip in amusement as he turned back to his computer, as well. “definietly a guy.” he repeated, quieter this time.

the rest of the day dragged on so much that it felt like you were breathing for the first time in years when you stepped out of the building. the fresh, summer breeze brushed across your face, nearby food stalls with various culinary delicacies caused you to salivate. you weren’t sure if yuta had dinner planned, he didn’t specify, but with your meeting time, you assumed you would be having some sort of meal together. for that reason, you decide to fight your cravings for a small, tasty treat to enjoy on your commute home in hopes of not spoiling your expected dinner.

the dress looked even better on you than the pictures, much to your surprise. yuta had texted you on a random tuesday afternoon a few weeks before, a screenshot of a sage green dress with a decorative cut out on the abdomen area. he simply said ‘it’s otw’ to you without any further context, though it wasn’t hard to put two and two together.

“hot damn,” you smiled, feeling the most beautiful you had felt in god knows how long, “he’s going to freak out when he sees me in this.”

you opted to wear sneakers, accounting for any possible walking you’d have to endure. the pair you chose matched the dress’ colour well. you sat on the ledge of the fountain, just beside the clocktower downtown where he asked you to meet him. your heart was pounding, excitement bubbling in your stomach, as you waited for him to arrive. you were slightly early, only by about ten minutes. he messaged you that he was on his way not too long after you left your apartment.

yuta wasn’t usually one to be late. every time you two decided to hangout, he was always on the dot of your agreed meeting time. you kicked your feet impatiently, figuring he probably got stuck in some traffic. that was to be expected in your bustling city, even during the weeknights. you trusted he’d be there soon.

so, you waited.

and waited.

yuta was panicking in the taxi, running his fingers through his hair, eyes red from fighting back his frustrated tears. the traffic had barely moved for the past twenty minutes. he was still thirty minutes out, according to the map on the driver’s dashboard.

“shit,” he swore quietly, clicking mindlessly at the buttons on his phone that he, unfortunately, didn't get the chance to charge before he left to meet you, and now was dead. “fuck, this can’t be happening right now.” he was too wrapped up in making sure he made it to you on time that he forgot to grab his charger on the way out. he even tried asking the taxi driver if he had one he could borrow for the duration of the ride, but his phone model was different.

he knew how you would react. you’d give him the benefit of the doubt until a certain amount of time had passed, then you’d spiral. you weren’t completely healed of your loneliness, your fear of being abandoned, isolated, and he knew that. he couldn’t help but blame himself. “if only i’d paused for five seconds to grab the fucking charger,” he yelled silently to himself, “i’m so fucking stupid.” he beat himself up for not having memorized your phone number by heart yet to borrow someone else’s phone to reach you. he didn’t know the layout of the city well enough to trust himself navigating through the streets to where you were waiting without his phone. besides, even if he ran, he’d still be extremely late.

he knew it wasn’t completely his fault. he had no control over the pile up occurring enroute, nor your feelings in response. but, he felt it all the same. the guilt, the worry, the sadness. you were probably crying all alone at this point, believing he had stood you up. he had very little hope you’d still be waiting by the clocktower when he got there. he felt sick.

you stared at your phone screen, the text thread with yuta in view. nothing. it was nearly two hours past the time he was supposed to meet you. your heart hammered, louder, but it wasn’t from excitement anymore. it was terror, dreading the reality of the situation.

he wasn’t coming. that’s what you believed.

the corners of your eyes started to water, hot tears prickling, burning as they slid down your cheeks. you whimpered, nearly inaudibly, head pointed downwards as you fiddled with your fingers in your lap.

“what the hell?” you croaked, letting out a deflated laugh, “i can’t believe he actually stood me up.”

your lips quivered as you tugged anxiously at the material of your dress. you knew you were being irrational. yuta had never done this before, and you’d been seeing each other for six months now, give or take three months officially as a couple. there had to have been a viable reason.

but in that moment, every heartache, every painful experience from your past seared inside of your chest, and you couldn’t feel anything else.

you slammed the front door of your apartment shut with a loud bang, allowing your sobs to fall freely out of you once you were inside. you gasped, fists clenched against your chest, knees sliding to the floor as you tried to control your cries. you were so angry, so hurt. “why hasn’t he texted me again?” you gritted your teeth, thoughts loud, “did i do something wrong that made him ghost me?”

these disparaging thoughts mixed with others, all of your worst fears running through your mind. your head was pounding, ears ringing with nothing but horror. “what if something horrible happened to him?” you panicked, “fuck, what if he’s dead?”

you managed to crawl into the kitchen, body weak, head spinning, throwing open the fridge to grab a cool bottle of water. you sat on the floor, back resting against the island as you sipped slowly, squeezing your eyes shut, sobs still quietly escaping from your mouth.

at some point, you managed to make it to the couch, curling up into a ball as your eyes stained red, tired and worn out from crying for two hours straight. you didn’t have the energy to change your clothes, still wearing that stupid, beautiful dress yuta had bought for you.

there was a loud knock at the door around midnight.

“y/n,” it was yuta. you froze, “fuck, please open up. i’m sorry,” he sounded frantic, scared, “let me explain, please, i know you’re probably so mad at me right now.” you swallowed hard, curling up tighter into the pillows. your chest began to shake, slow tears forming in your eyes once again. “baby, please,” he whimpered, forehead bumping against the door as he waited patiently on the other side. “please, let me in. let me talk to you. fuck.”

you wanted to let him in. god, you fucking did. but the part of you that believed he left you stranded on purpose, that he didn’t want you anymore, was so much louder.

you heard him sigh, followed by what sounded like him sliding down the door to sit on the floor outside. “i’ll wait as long as it takes,” his voice cracked, “until you let me in, even if its all night.”

you bit your lip, silent whimpers breaking through your throat. your heart felt like it was being torn to shreds, cycling through disappointment, sadness, shame, and anger; over and over again, like a ticking timebomb.

“y/n,” he called out to you again a few minutes later, voice soft, deflated, “please.”

something broke inside of you right then. you were afraid of this part of you, the part that became enraged every time someone left you alone. you always forced it down, ignoring the pain, allowing it to fester and eat you alive. perhaps, you had finally reached your breaking point. you opened the door, slowly, eyes glowing red.

yuta noticed. he stood up off the floor, giving you a polite nod and soft 'thank you', treading carefully as he stepped into the apartment. you didn’t bother shutting the door behind him gracefully.

“y/n–”

“hours,” you cut him off, shaking in fury. you stood a few feet away from him, nails digging into your palms, “i waited hours for you to show up,” you seethed, accusatory. “no text, no call. nothing.”

“baby, my phone–”

you had him backed against the wall now, pointer digging into his chest. he exhaled sharply, feeling sorry for the deep hurt he had caused you. it was all a misunderstanding, and right now, you were too angry to hear him out. he knew that, unsure if trying to explain what happened to any degree would even be helpful currently. he was sure you’d understand in the morning, after you’d calmed down and rested well.

“fuck, yuta,” you laughed, hysterically, “i told you,” you hissed, “i told you that everyone just leaves me in the end, and what do you do?” he swallowed. “you go and do the same thing to me.”

yuta hated how turned on he was feeling in that moment. jesus christ, you were so fucking hot when you were mad. he tried to refocus on your words, on deescalating the situation, but it was increasingly difficult with the way his dick kept twitching in his jeans.

“do you have any idea how fucking excited i was for tonight? i could barely focus on my work all day,” you gritted your teeth, “and all i got was disappointment in the end.”

you were staring at him now, nostrils flared, fingers curling around the material of his shirt. your heart threatened to jump out of your throat, thighs clenching together as you just stood like that for what felt like hours. he was too afraid to move. you were too lost in your anger to be rational about the increasing heat pooling in your stomach.

for a moment, you forgot he was the one you were mad at. all you knew is that you were mad, and you needed to blow off the steam somehow.

you crashed your lips onto his, messy, hot, needy, tongue prodding his lips apart and sliding to the back of his throat. he grabbed your hips, pulling you aggressively against his body, pressing himself harder against the wall. you sloppily unbuttoned his jeans, shoving your hands into his boxers and freeing him hastily. he choked, hands releasing your sides to grip your hair wildly as you started pumping your hands along his veiny, dripping shaft, precum smearing all over his cock. he peered at you through hooded lids, cheeks flushed, drool sitting all pretty on his lips, while loud cries erupted from his chest.

“fuck– fuck, oh my god,” he growled, thrusting into your fists.

“i’ll really make you fucking sorry for standing me up,” you hissed, pumping him faster, your deadly gaze on his face unwavering.

“m–my phone– ngh– died before i could– jesus– could tell you what happened,” he choked, pulling on your hair hard enough that your head was thrown back. you let out a guttural groan in both pain and ecstasy.

“yeah?” you taunted, bitterly, “making up excuses now?”

“n–no,” he huffed, losing himself extraordinarily fast as you dropped to your knees, taking him into your mouth, “fucking– mph– there was an accident on my– right there, shit– on my route and i– jesus, i’m gonna fill your pretty little mouth– i went all the way to where we were supposed to me– fucking hell– meet, praying you’d still be there, even though i was–,” he tried to breathe, “i was so fucking late, and you were g–gone,” he was a moaning mess, shoving you down onto his cock, your beautiful choking sounds on his size being the most glorious song he had ever heard. “so, i got here as– god, baby, i’m going to fucking come– fast as i could.”

he reached the edge, body shaking violently as he spurted his hot, creamy cum down your throat, helping drag your mouth along him slowly as he rode out his high. “fuck,” his voice cracked, weak, “you’re so fucking perfect, jesus christ.”

you released him with a pop, standing up to your feet, licking your lips clean of him with a threatening look plastered on your face. you looked so hostile that his cock was hard again instantly.

“right,” you spat, tapping his cheeks sarcastically. he inhaled sharply. he always assumed he was the dominant one in the bedroom, but fuck, was he about to bow at your feet in uttmost worship of how mean you were treating him. you started walking away, disappearing into the bedroom. yuta kept his back glued to the wall, unsure if you wanted him to follow or stay put. “are you coming or not?” you scoffed, voice echoing down the hallway.

he cleared his throat, cheeks hot, bumping into the wall as he turned the corner to reach your bedroom. “shit,” he muttered, letting out a quiet groan in pain, rubbing his knee where it met impact.

you were sitting on the edge of the bed, fully bare, arms crossed and tapping on your biceps as if he was running out of time to earn your forgiveness.

“sit,” you said, lips straight, shifting to the side slightly to give him space. once he did, you stood up, positioning yourself in front of him. “shirt off.”

he obliged, head buzzing, while you completely removed his pants. he didn’t dare to touch you, just looked up at your piercing eyes, hands gripping the sheets, while he waited for further guidance.

you laughed, low and wicked, placing a hand on his shoulder as you leaned over his ear. he shuddered from your touch. “i’m going to ride you until you never even think of leaving me again.”

he never thought that in the first place, but he’d pretend he had in this moment if it meant you would ruin him for it. you straddled his lap, knees indenting into the mattress on either side of his thighs, sinking down onto his cock with an elongated, dramatized moan. he was already short of breath, hands hovering over your waist, afraid to fully place them there, while you started bouncing on him.

“mmm, yuta,” you purred, balancing yourself on him by gripping his shoulders, “i hope you know how fucking pissed i am at you right now,” you spat, sucking in your teeth as your cunt swallowed him whole.

“oh– fuck– i know,” he choked, stuttering, “be fucking mad at me,” finally touching your sides, “fucking destroy me if you need to.”

you picked up your pace, his head falling back limply as both his and your nails dug into each other’s skin. you cried, relishing in the sweet sound of your ass slapping against his thighs, hair disheveled and a mess, skin hot and glistening with sweat and dark passion.

his hand found your throat first, teeth gritting and hitting you deep as his hips started meeting yours halfway. you grabbed his wrist for leverage, using your free hand to choke him in return. he let out an ungodly sound, pistoning into you faster the more your fingers squeezed his throat.

“fuck, baby,” he hissed, eyes rolling, breaths raspy, “fucking ruin me.” he leaned forward, wrapping his mouth around you pretty, perked tits, circling them fast and slow as you both plummeted towards release. he nibbled gently on your nipples, you gasping ecstatically. “will you come for me?” he muttered against your chest, “please, please,” begging, “i promise i’ll never hurt you again if you let me feel you.”

you didn’t care if those words were a lie. yuta knew they weren’t, but you didn’t know what you believed right then. all you wanted was for him to fall apart for you and stuff your pretty little cunt with his cum, to milk him desperately.

“touch me, then,” you demanded, prying his hand off of your neck and placing it atop your swollen, puffy clit, “make me come.”

he did as you said, messily coating his fingers with your slick, flicking, pinching, and rubbing your bundle of nerves with every bit of his strength. he didn’t stop assaulting your walls with his cock, either, synchronizing the speeds of his hand and thrusts. you were screaming at this point, drowning out your own anger and focusing entirely on the pleasure coursing through your veins. your fingers tightened around his throat some more, his around your hip as he slammed up into you. you felt boneless, wrecked, nearly about to burst.

“fuck, fuck, fuck,” he growled, pulsing inside of you, buried deep to the hilt, ready to fall over the edge.

he slapped your clit, hard, an ungodly groan coming from your chest. your body shook, eyes rolling violently as you squirted all over his cock, his continuous, ardent thrusts pulling every bit of cum out of you. he sucked in his teeth, pressing hard onto your centre to steady you on him as he released his seed, filling you to the brim. he watched as the mixture of your cums oozed out of your hole, coating his shaft and dripped onto his pelvis.

“holy fucking shit,” he cursed, hips sputtering to a still, “you’re so fucking good to me.”

you collapsed forward, yuta catching you in his arms as he allowed you both to slowly fall back onto the bed together. your body trembled against him, his heartbeat still working to calm itself. his fingers were tracing your spine, listening to your steadying breaths as you settled.

the guilt didn’t give you any time to rest, rising straight into your chest. your eyes went wide once you realized what you’d done right then. allowing yourself to fall into his arms when you were so, so angry. but, not only that, you failed to trust him, to believe that his failure to show up that evening was no fault of his own.

you leaned up, looking at him, panicked.

his eyes furrowed with confusion and concern. he gulped, afraid you were about to tell him you never wanted to see him again.

“i–i’m sorry,” you whimpered, “i don’t know what came over me, i shouldn’t– fuck– i jumped to conclusions instead of trusting you and–”

“baby,” he soothed comfortingly, hands coming up to cup your cheeks, thumbs swiping across them delicately, “slow down.” he moved to rub your back in small circles again, more and more weight lifting off your chest with each rotation. you took a deep breath. “that’s it,” he smiled, voice gentle. he was always so gentle with you. “just breathe.”

“is it true?” you asked, eyes glistening with both fear and hopefulness, “that this was all just a huge misunderstanding?”

he nodded. “everything i said is one hundred percent true. you could even take a look at the traffic maps that matched the taxi route data in my rideshare app and–”

you chuckled, “i’m not going to do that,” rolling your eyes playfully, “i… believe you. yeah.” you nodded proudly, straightening your back with confidence, “i’m not going to allow my past to dictate the present.”

yuta snorted. it was as if you were quoting a movie script, pepping yourself up, and it was adorable. then, he smiled, so honestly and full of love. “i’m proud of you,” he kissed your cheek, “i’m sorry for making you cry and worry and… get so angry.”

“you didn’t do anything wrong,” you shook your head, “it’s all on me for making assumptions.”

there was a moment of silence, his dick urging to speak up. “well,” he pursed his lips, “at least the sex was worth it, don’t you think?”

you scoffed, but smiled all the same. “i’m trying to have a serious moment here!”

“sorry, sorry,” he smirked, throwing his hands up in surrender.

you cleared your throat, “you’re not wrong, though,” muttering nearly silent. he heard you, of course, smiling wider. you sighed, crossing your arms. “anywaaaay,” you drew out dramatically, turning the conversation around. your face softened. “i’m working on things, truly,” you admitted, “and i’m just– really grateful you’re willing to stick by me through all of this.”

“i love you,” he let slip, not even bothering to hide his feelings for you. he didn’t care if it was too soon or not. it was the truth. “of course i’m going to be there for you.”

your eyes widened, breath hitching in your throat. not once have you ever received those three words from someone. you were utterly astounded, unsure how to react. your heart was pounding, mind a mess. “d-did you just–”

“yes,” yuta smiled, lifting his head to kiss you softly. you immediately calmed from his touch. he was always doing that, it seemed. it was like he had some sort of superpower. “i love you, y/n.”

you sat there for a moment, processing his admission. for a while now, you had been highly aware of your own deeply rooted feelings for yuta. and, if you weren’t so convinced no one wanted you, you would have never doubted for a second that he felt the same.

you allowed yourself to finally feel happy– truly happy– and receive the love he was giving you. the love you deserved. your eyes crinkled thin and the corners of your lips spread out from ear to ear. you felt like a kid on christmas.

crimson tainted your cheeks. “i love you, too, yuta. so much.”

✧･ﾟ: ✧

october

“what if they don’t like me?” you panicked, rubbing your palms along your thighs as you and yuta sat in the back of the taxi. “what if they hate me and–”

“baby,” he spoke gently, prying your frantic hands from your lap and intertwining them with his. “you’re doing it again.” you took a deep breath in shakily, remembering what he had taught you; how to calm yourself down when you were spiraling. “good,” he smiled, “in and out, slowly.” he leaned over and kissed your cheek sweetly, fingertips running across your knuckles. you released one final exhale, heart rate balanced again. “better?”

you nodded. “yeah. much.”

he pulled you in closer to his side. you allowed your head to fall onto his shoulder.

“i promise that they’re going to love you,” he whispered reassuringly. “if you get along with me, then you’ll absolutely get along with my friends.”

you nodded, swallowing hard as he squeezed your hands tighter. it didn’t take much longer for you to arrive at the restaurant; it was beautiful, and not too packed, either, so you were able to feel more at ease.

“yuta,” you heard a voice call out from the far left corner, “over here!” you looked up to see a man smiling and waving at the two of you. two others sat with him.

yuta waved back, rubbing your hand gently as a reminder that things would be okay. he turned and gave you a quick peck on the cheek for extra measure before guiding your bodies over towards the table.

his friends watched as he pulled out the chair for you, helping you hang your bag and jacket on the back of it before shuffling to take the seat across from you. they were in shock.

“damn,” one of them whistled, “eighteen-year-old you would have laughed at that,” he joked, “such a gentleman now.”

he tsked, slapping his arm playfully. “those days are far behind me.” you chuckled at the matter. yuta used to be a playboy? you would have never imagined. “anyway,” he cleared his throat, “this is my girlfriend, y/n.” he smiled widely, introducing you to the group. “y/n, this is yuji, toge, and megumi.”

you nodded politely, “nice to meet you,” greeting them softly.

“he hasn’t shut up about you for months,” megumi rolled his eyes playfully, “i’ve never seen him act like this, it’s…” he paused to think for a moment, “nice,” then smiled. “whatever you’re doing to him, keep it up. love looks good on him.”

you choked on your water, toge’s, who sat beside you, eyes going wide as he started patting your back concerningly. yuta frantically grabbed the glass from your palm, standing up to run over to your side.

raising your hand up to stop him, your coughs mixed with laughter. “i’m fine,” you inhaled once you were able to breathe again, “it’s just water.” yuta slowly sat back down in his seat, pulse settling. you were still laughing, and eventually he smiled. “you guys are dramatic.”

“what can i say?” yuta teased, “i learned from the best.”

if it were last year around this same time, you would have been offended by that comment. but, you had come such a long way with healing your trauma and the way you responded to things that you found it comical. “sure,” you snorted, smirking, “you know you’re just as dramatic as me.”

“ain’t that the truth,” yuji laughed, lifting his glass as if he were making a toast.

“so everyone’s just teaming up on me now, is that it?” yuta groaned, pretending to be hurt as he pouted mockingly with his hand over his heart. “it’s fine, i get it,” he fake cried, “i know she’s cooler than me.”

you grinned, satisfied.

the rest of the evening continued on like this, lighthearted banter, as well as the four boys reflecting on their past together. you surely learned a lot about how yuta used to be when he was younger. it was entertaining.

you didn’t expect megumi to stop you to talk with him privately for a brief moment as the five of you exited the restaurant together. he gave yuta a reassuring nod, that it wasn’t anything he needed to be concerned about. he trusted him, the rest of the guys stepping off to the side to let the two of you chat.

“i meant what i said back there,” megumi’s voice was quiet, delicate. he turned and faced you, a soft smile resting on his face. “yuta has been through a lot, i’m sure you’re aware,” you nodded, swallowing hard, “and i truly see how much happier he is now that you’re in his life. thank you,” he said with deep sentiment, “for loving him well."

your heart warmed, fluttering heavily with affection. yuta had poured his heart out to you not too long after you two started seeing each other more seriously over a lazy date night, pizza in his apartment with some card games. you learned quickly that he was not so different from yourself.

“i’ve… never loved anyone like you,” he said, gentle and honest, shuffling the deck. “no woman i dated ever saw me, like, really saw me, until you came around.” he smiled in gratitude. “thank you for letting me in, for trusting me, for allowing me to help you,” every word was felt deep within your body, “seeing you do the same for me is… i don’t know– crazy,” he laughed lightly, still surprised he winded up in this situation, “i never thought i’d have someone care for me the way you do.”

“yuta,” you called him gently, placing your hand over his as he set the deck onto the table. like instant medication, both of your pulses calmed from the shared touch. “the day you walked into my life was the day i knew you were going to be someone special to me,” you smiled. “turns out you're my person and i’m yours.”

you grinned widely at megumi, tears forming in the corners of your eyes from his beautiful words.

he looked horrified. “fuck, did i say something wrong–”

“no,” you shook your head, sniffling a bit, “they’re happy tears, i’m so… god, i feel amazing right now,” you laughed, looking up at him with pure joy and eyes radiating. “i was so freaked out that you guys wouldn’t like me when we met tonight,” you wiped your eyes with the back of your wrist, “i’m just so grateful to know i’m worth it to all of you, including yuta, and to feel so… so loved by everyone.”

megumi pulled you in for a friendly hug, you returning it without hesitation.

“woah, making moves on yuta’s girl now?” yuji joked, he, toge and yuta now joining you and megumi’s side again.

megumi rolled his eyes, pulling away from you with a gentle smile. “ignore him,” he winked. yuta knew everything shared between the two of you in that moment was wholesome and pure, no ounce of jealousy rising into his chest. “don’t fuck this up, you two,” he pointed threateningly between you and yuta, but failed to keep his face straight, “i like you both too much, so i need you sticking together for life.”

something about the evening reminded you of kento, your coworker. he was always friendly and talkative with you, so perhaps, if this successful night of meeting yuta’s friends was proof of anything, it was that it was time to stop being afraid of befriending others. you felt a surge of confidence, deciding that on monday, you’d make the effort to actually get to know him. to become friends. with your old friendships faded, the moment had come to finally put yourself out there and forge new ones.

the taxi ride home was quiet– the soft kind that enveloped you in peace. yuta cupped your cheeks and kissed you deep and full of passion once you two were back inside of his apartment, both of you kicking off your shoes carelessly somewhere onto the kitchen floor as he stumbled to press your back against the fridge. he pulled away, touching your foreheads together.

“told you they’d like you,” he whispered, sticking his tongue out teasingly.

“yeah, whatever,” you scoffed, lips curled upwards.

he kissed you again, tongue slipping past your teeth as you melted into his sweet embrace. his hands moved to your waist, pulling you flush against him. you involuntarily let out a moan.

he cock twitched in his jeans. “you know,” he purred, breaking apart from you again, “this dress has been driving me fucking insane all night.” he gripped your ass, smirking wickedly.

"I know you're sensitive. It's been two weeks." He mumbles, pressing his finger deeper. His finger curls softly, the pads moving against your walls. You try your best to keep your noises down. You're right in the door way, anyone could hear you two.

"Xavier.." You moan out, pressing his head closer to you. Your hips weakly grind against your face, rolling into his touch. You can feel him smiling, slipping another finger into you. You stretch around him with little to no restraint, your body giving into his mouth.

"Did you try touching yourself?" He asks, pulling away from your clit for a moment. Frazzled, you look down with confusion.

"I, uh— What?" You stumble on your words, too engulfed in how he's making you feel. Xavier repeats his question, kissing around your clit. You buck your hips, silently begging for more. "Yeah, it didn't—Ah— go well…" You admit, ears flushing with shame.

"I thought so.." He says softly, returning to your skin. Xavier continues curling his fingers, thrusting them in and out of you. "I am sorry though." He speaks again, pulling his fingers out. You whine at the loss of contact, but Xavier soothes you. He lets your leg fall off his shoulder, opting to wrap his arms around your hips. His thumbs rub at your lower stomach, pushing up your shirt.

His hand smooths over your skin, applying a soft pressure to your pelvis while his thumb rubs at your clit. He dips lower on his knees, angling his head to lap at your slit. Your skin is puffy, desperate for his touch. This time, you pull at his strands with a soft grunt.

"Xavier, please. If you're going to keep teasing me, I'll be even angrier." Your brows furrow, watching his eyes go wide. That pitiful, pathetic stare makes you clench around nothing. But he listens—He's good at that—focusing on the task at hand. Xavier presses his mouth against you, his tongue curling inside of you.

It's an entirely different feel from his fingers, softer yet more prominent. You buckle against his mouth, his thumb continuing to swirl at your clit. It throbs under his fingers as you become nosier. Concern for who can hear you has long since left your mind.

"Fuck, Xavier. Keep going!" You cry out, head resting against the wall. Weeks after working with just your fingers has left you frustrated. Granted, you caused your own issues, but still. Having his mouth and attention on you is suffocating in the best way possible. You want nothing more than drown into his affections and touch, choke on the feeling of ecstasy. He builds you up so gently, guiding you to an overwhelming pinnacle before he guides you down.

The pressure he applies on your lower stomach only adds to the stimulation, driving you crazy. Your head spins with desire, grinding against his mouth. The entire time, Xavier's eyes never stray from your expressions. It's euphoric, being strung so high, knowing you're going to be just as ardently guided down.

Xavier rumbles something against your sex, but you're too far gone to pay any mind. You can feel your orgasm washing over you, ebbing straight into your body. Before you can process it, you're clenching around Xavier's tongue, staining his mouth and chin with your slick.

Xavier doesn't let up though, gently slowing his movements. You pant as roll into his touch before you start flinching away from overstimulation. You push at Xavier's forehead, feeling his detach from you. His arms still stay looped around your hips, pressing kisses into your pelvis and stomach. His chin rests against your stomach as he cranes his neck to look at you.

"My star… Am I forgiven? Or shall I keep going? I'll do it as much as you'd like— I'll do anything." He says it so pointedly you don't have the heart to tease him. You shake your head, letting go of his blondish strands.

"You're forgiven, Xavier…" You say with a sigh, thighs trembling in his hold. "Though, I wouldn't mind a massage—"

"Anything you desire, my love."

ZAYNE 黎深:

"Your greed knows no bounds, Doctor." You remark, narrowing your eyes at Zayne. The blue light of his laptop reflects in his glasses has his gaze flits up to you. He's in his night clothes, yet he's still sitting at his desk. To add salt to the wound, he ate your dessert. Zayne's brows raise slightly, his crimes dawning on him.

"I'll be there in—" Zayne begins to speak, but you abruptly cut him off.

"Ten minutes, I know. I heard that an hour ago, dear." You walk towards the front of his desk, placing your hands on the wood. He stares up at you, eyes flitting down to the screen. You lean in, pulling his glasses off his face. "Don't you think you owe me reparations, Doctor? You ate my pudding and now you're lying to me." You jut out your lip in a faux pout watching his expression morph. Zayne rubs his temples, sighing.

He rises from his desk, glancing at his phone to check the time. He walks around the desk as your eyes follow him, his arms soon caging you against the wood table. He rests his face into the back of your neck, hands smoothing down your sides. You tangle a hand into his hair, guiding his lips towards yours.

As you press into Zayne you can feel his heart beating on your shoulder, the hitch in his throat as you slide your tongue against his. He lowers his head once more, kissing down the back of your neck. Pulling down the straps of your shirt to feel the skin of your shoulder.

"Will this suffice?" It's rhetorical. Zayne knows that you are far greedier than he is. He huffs a laugh near your neck, massaging his fingers into your hips and tail bone. "Tell me how I can right my wrong, darling." He breathes against your ear, guiding your chin back.

Zayne presses his lips against yours, feeling you willingly part your lips for his tongue. His hands stay busy, thumbs pulling down your pants and letting it pool by your ankles. You step out of the fabric, turning around quickly to wrap your arms around his shoulders.

He takes a step back as if to guide you towards the bedroom, but you pull on the collar of his night shirt. You shake your head,

"No. Here. So next time you lie to me, you can remember what it will cost to make it right." You chuckle against his lips, kissing him once more. Your lips move in tandem and Zayne is quick to prop you onto his desk. He shuffles his things to the side, knocking down a few papers in the process.

That isn't important right now.

You raise your hips, slipping your panties off before tugging on the edges of Zayne's shirt. He quickly disposes it, allowing you to feel the contours of his body. Your fingertips glide over his chest, collarbones, and expand over the plains of his abdomen.

Zayne works quickly. An arm wraps around the backs of your shoulders, guiding you to lay across his desk on your hip. Zayne manages to slip a hand between your thighs, knuckles running along your soaked slit.

"Tell me where you want me." He whispers into your ear, kissing the underside of your jaw when you lean back. He manages to get you onto your knees, kneeling on the desk as your back faces him. Zayne kisses down your spine, fingers lingering near your sex.

You take his hand, guiding the tips of his fingers between your folds, dragging them up and down. His fingers flex gently, prodding your hole. Zayne presses a kiss to your shoulder as your hips push back into his hand. Two of his fingers slip effortlessly into you, eliciting a moan from you.

"I should have known you wouldn't wait for me. Did you get tired of playing by yourself?" He questions, holding back a smile. You huff into your forearm, flushing.

"You took too long." You groan, pushing back against his fingers. He curls them into your sweet spot, allowing you to set the pace. Zayne hums against your back, feeling the chill of his skin against yours. His thumb finds your clit, pressing down on the bud as he continues to arch his fingers. You gush around him, squeezing your thighs together.

"My apologies." There's no bite to his words, a soft smile displayed on his face. You glance over your shoulder, brows furrowing as he leans in to kiss you again. You're impatient though, growing far too tired of simply having fingers inside of you. You press the arch of your foot against his thigh, straining your ankle to drag it higher up his leg.

Zayne catches your ankle with his spare hand, pressing his thumb into the center. It effectively restrains you foot, causing it to curl inwards. You whine against his lips, but soon hear him shuffling out of his pants.

"Good things comes to those who wait." Zayne humors you, sliding your foot outwards. He parts your legs, guiding the head of his cock between your thighs. He groans at the sheer heat of you, feeling your ass pressed against his pelvis. "Greedy." He remarks, seeing you push back against him. His hand rests on your hip, guiding you onto him.

You groan as Zayne pushes into you, your body rolling against his hips. He holds you down, keeping you in place despite your incessant whines. Gently, Zayne guides you to sit up, his chest against your shoulders. With his lips beside your ear, you can hear his heavy breathing and groans.

"impatient and greedy." He repeats, coiling an arm around your center to palm at your exposed chest. Your head falls back into his shoulder, sucking and biting marks onto his neck. Come tomorrow, he may flush at the bright red markings on his pale skin, but for now, Zayne allows you to do as you please.

When he finally bottoms out, he doesn't waste anytime. He sets the pace for you, pressing a hand on your lower abdomen. You feel the pressure of him, his cock running into the deepest part of you. It drives you insane, your fingers coiling around his wrist.

The compression on your stomach makes your head spin, not to mention Zayne's moans and scent flooding your senses.

"So noisy. Is this what you wanted, my love? Is this a sufficient apology?" Zayne is aware a conversion will occur later as he peppers kisses into your chest and shoulders, uttering a promise to be more cautious about his time working late at night.

Especially on days where he is supposed to be in bed, curled into your warmth. But for now, he's willing to satiate your desires. Pleasure you until your eyes are rolling back and sweat under the folds and panes of your body. You nod fervently, jaw agape as you pulse around his length.

"Cum, my love. I know you want to. Let me—" Zayne pauses, a moan interrupting his speech. "Ah, let me makes you feel better." His hand drags from your hip to your chin, guiding your lips against his as you shatter in his arms. You can't escape the pleasure and sincerity he's forcing upon you. You're wrapped in his ember, indulging to the highest degree in the pleasure he provides.

Even as your lips part, your foreheads press against one another. Zayne pants against your lips before his orgasm crashes into him. His hips stammer, but continue rolling through the pleasure. Gently, you two ride out your highs together, collapsing against his body.

"I love you." Zayne mutters, imprinting kisses into your shoulder. "I'll manage my time better."

"No, don't." You chuckle, bringing your hand up to his face. You lightly squish his cheek between your fingers. "I like to kiss and make up." Zayne chuckles, shaking his head before pressing a kiss to your sweaty temple.

"Greedy."

RAFAYEL 祁煜:

Rafayel doesn't argue with you majority of the time. When you get angry, fuming at his behavior, he's quick to shrug it off. A master at adverting your attention to anything other than his wrongdoings. He refuses to address any issues with your relationship with the fear that you will give up on him— Leave him for good.

"Isn't this nicer, cutie?" Rafayel's breath tickles your ear, biting down on the soft flesh. You twitch under him, hips rutting into his palm. "You don't need to worry about anything. Just focus on me, okay?"

It's hard to focus on anything except him. His fingers curl into your just right, rocking his palm with the correct pressure. It should be a crime how good Rafayel makes you feel. The way you kiss and make up is addicting. The high you get from arguing to grabbing his collar and kissing him senseless.

Your arms coil around Rafayel's neck, sucking on his skin. He hisses, palming at your hip with his free hand. You bite around his neck and collarbone, decorating him with your markings. You refuse to leave him because regardless of his shortcomings, Rafayel makes up for them in a plethora of ways.

"Are you close, cutie? I can feel you. It feels so good, doesn't it? Grinding on my hand instead of yelling, hm?" He doubles down, pressing his thumb against your clit. He mercilessly swirls the bud, jerking his fingers to press deep inside of you. You moan into his skin, biting down harder the closer you get. Your hips press into his palm, meeting him halfway.

Your body stutters though, the sensitivity growing to an all-time high. Though, just before you cum, Rafayel pulls his hand away from your sex. A string of your slick chases his fingertips, making him smile at the sight. You're huffing, panting as you gaze at him with anger.

"All you do is make me angry." Your words hold no bite though, not when your thighs are shaking with need. He knows you won't be mad for long, not when he holds the power of your pleasure in his palm.

Rafayel snickers, leaning onto his forearms as he undoes his zipper. The bed sinks under his weight as your hands impatiently undo his belt. The metal clinks as it falls to the floor, your body moving in to kiss him. Your hands cup his face, drawing him in as he undresses himself.

You already know what's coming next. He forces you to sit up on your knees, pressing a hand to the backs of your thighs. Rafayel doesn't wait for you, sinking you down on his cock as his tongue takes the opportunity to slip into your mouth. Your moans muffle against his tongue as he pulls you down further.

Your nails drag into his skin, creating red angry marks. You push against his chest, letting him lay flat against the sheets. His hair puffs out, cheeks flushed as you rise up on your knees. Rafayel reaches out to touch you, but you swat his hand away.

"No. Just sit still. Do something good for me for once." You furrow your brows, sinking back onto his cock with ease. He watches from below as your knees spread, the way your head tilts back. Your hand presses onto his chest for stability, arching onto him. You lay flat onto him, your hips bouncing.

Rafayel groans beneath you, the tips of his ears a bright red. The room fills with heavy pants and moans. Despite your orders, his hands rest on your ass, aiding you. Your fingers splay over his sides, leaving marks down his chest and shoulders.

"You're such an ass, you know?" You grunt, legs trembling like jelly as you spread your knees wider. The burn feels so good, blurring the lines of pain and pleasure. "Making me chase you down all afternoon. Just for you to ignore me." Your nails dig into his skin as you try to push yourself up.

You swat his hands away again, ruffling your own hair to bounce on his cock properly. He lies deep in your stomach as you bite down on your lip.

"You're so fucking immature." You drag your nails down Rafayel's torso, his cock throbbing inside of you. You clench around him rhythmically, his hips winding into yours. His hand raises to your chest, pinching your nipple between his fingers. He lets out a strained huff, smiling despite all your insults.

"You still love me though. Right, cutie?" Rafayel pulls you down against his chest, hands grabbing your hips to bounce your ass onto him with a steady pace. You grasp at the sheets, digging blunt crescents into his skin.

"Never going to let you leave me, okay?" He hisses through gritted teeth. Despite his ability to speak, Rafayel isn't faring any better than you are. "We'll figure it out. I'll do better." The base of his spine tingles under your weight, a force driving his climax closer and closer. The longer it goes on, the sloppier Rafayel gets. His body tenses, growing dizzy at your mewls and whines.

His hand leaves your hip, driving your face towards him. The kiss is a mess of teeth and tongue, bitting at each other's lips as you both try to contain yourselves. But it feels too good. The way you tighten and gush around him drives Rafayel insane. In the same manner, Rafayel sinks deeply into you, thrusting his hips into yours with precision.

In sync, the two of you shudder chest to chest. Your nails tug at Rafayel's scalp, the pain forcing his orgasm to crash down. Your entire body trembles, thighs quivering as you gush around Rafayel's length. It's almost painful how hard you cum. You can hear Rafayel moaning into your ears before biting down on your shoulder.

Tit for tat.

Sweat drips down your bodies, slack against one another. Neither of you move, afraid to rock the serenity of the moment. Rafayel rests his hands against your upper back, leaning down to kiss the top of your head.

"I will do better, I promise." He mumbles into your hairline, drawing you in for a much softer kiss.

"We'll see."

SYLUS 秦彻:

The first thing Sylus does when he returns home is seek you out. Especially right now considering he's committed a criminal offense: He has missed date night. A ritual you two have at least once a week. Today though, he was caught in unfortunate circumstances. He almost got caught into a trap, negligent of his surroundings due to his mind being occupied by you. He finds you laying in your shared bed, slumped over the sheets.

You're still wearing your outfit. Your heels have almost slipped off your feet as they dangle over the bed, your dress riding up your hips. He has an incredible view, but he can't help but feel a pang in his chest. He doesn't even shed his gloves before laying beside you. His hand runs up your thighs, massaging the exposed skin of your hip. Sylus pulls you close, watching you rouse from your blissful sleep.

"Sylus?" You breathe out, eyes still shut. Your body curls into his, the cool leather of his hand smoothing over your forehead. Your makeup has gone askew, eyeliner smudging. He gently runs a hand under your eye, smiling softly. The low lights make it easier to see his face even as he draws near.

"I'm late. I'm sorry." There's a deep furrow in his brows, his silver strand swaying. You match his expression, linking your fingers together at your hip bone.

"I got all dressed up. I wanted to see the opera." You're disappointed, he knows it. Sylus leans down to kiss you, lips softly pressed into yours. You turn over, letting him hover over you.

"I know, sweetie. I'm sorry." He mutters into your lips, letting you coil your arms around his neck. You feel the prickly edges of the back of his head, fingers finding his strands. He feels nice pressed against you, holding you through the negative emotions that backpack off disappointment. Sylus cups your ribs, hands molding over your breasts as he kisses down your dress.

"So beautiful, hm?" His lips bite your skin gently, lapping at the wounds. Your thighs make room for his knee as it settles between your legs. You let your fingers make do of his shirt, unbuttoning the top as you tug his tie off. You can see the dust that sticks to his shirt, the splatters of blood on his cheek. You furrow your brows at the sight, pulling him closer.

"Did you get hurt?" You whisper against his lips, afraid that if you spoke any louder it would break the moment. Sylus shook his head, reassuringly kissing you. His lips move with yours in tandem, arms coiling around one another. "I'd be more angry if you did." You tell him when you part. Sylus laughs when your arms slip off his shoulders. You remove his shirt, hands exploring his body.

It's familiar terrain. The small dots on his body, the contours of his abdomen and hips. You know this area well, running a hand over his chest. He's sensitive there. Sylus moans above you, pulling your hips up to fully push your dress up. It clings to your waist as Sylus kneels near the edge of the bed. He pulls you forward with a tug to your ankle as he slips your heels back on.

"Can I walk you through what we would have done?" He mutters against your knee, looking up through his lashes. Your fingers find home against his head, nodding gently as you place your thigh over his shoulder. Sylus smiles softly, the edges of his eyes softening. "The opera would have been the first spot. And dinner afterwards, that's our tradition." He speaks fondly of your weekly routines.

"Then we would walk around a park. You always stuff yourself full, kitten. I'm glad though. Seeing you become greedier as the days pass." Sylus fully settles on his knees now, gently parting your thighs. He can see the way your panties gently glisten under the soft lighting. He smiles, kissing the insides of your knees.

"By then, I would have reaches my limit. Especially when you look this divine. How could I not?" You flush under Sylus's compliments, letting a small giggle slip. "Where would you let me have you? Near the entrance or in the elevator? Perhaps the lower living room? That is your favorite, no?" Sylus slips a thumb under your panties, gently tugging them down your thighs.

"Maybe the stairs on the way to the bedroom. I grow more impatient as the days pass, kitten" You can imagine it now, running away as he chases you up the stairs. Sylus is adept in chasing you though, a master in his craft. Pressing you into the stairs as your thighs squish his head.

That is his idea of paradise after all.

With your panties out the way, Sylus parts your thighs further. You scoot closer, guiding his mouth to where you need him most. He hums, satisfied with your orders. His tongue runs along your folds, wasting no time.

"Maybe the bathtub like last Friday? You enjoyed that greatly, didn't you? I've never seen you make such a face before." Sylus reminiscences the way you were trembling on top of him as your hips rose and sank. Desperately holding onto his hand, tears streaming with need. Tragically beautiful.

His fingers join the mix, circling your entrance to gather your slick. You accept his touch, rolling your hips into his fingertips. He thrives off watching you like so. You let out a shaky breath, his middle finger sinking into you. You feel the bump of his ring by your folds, thighs pressing around him. That has never stopped Sylus though. His free hand dips your body back, laying on the bed flat.

With a hand on your lower back, Sylus raises your hips into his mouth. Your weight settles onto his palm as your legs splay. He gets a clearer view of your sex now, noting the way you pulse around him. Sylus likes the take his time, savor every sound and taste. But tonight he has a mission to fulfill: Satisfy his beloved. Make it up to you.

Sylus does just that, his finger curling into your sweet spot. His fingers are your favorite part of him, long and stocky to hit in just the right places. You fist the sheets, tugging at the burgundy silk. It's sickening how smooth his sheets are. They slip from your fingers as your hips roll into Sylus's touch.

"Please. More, Sylus. Don't tease me…" You moan from above, letting your hand slip beneath the bodice to squeeze your breast. Sylus takes his hand from our lower back to glide up your body. He shushes you, bitting the sensitive skin of your inner thighs.

"Let me. Just enjoy, my love." He cups your exposed breast, kneading the skin before using the sides of his fingers to pinch and roll your nipple. All the while, he slips another finger inside of you. He works you well, curling and prodding your sweet spots. "That's it. It must feels so nice, right?" Sylus rises from your thighs to kiss up your stomach. He's bent at an odd angle, so you pull him back on top of you.

He cages you with his body against the numerous pillows, gliding his tongue against yours. Sylus moans into your mouth, angling his wrist to better touch you. His thumb glides between your lips to press at your clit. You jerk against him, thighs squeezing his wrist. It doesn't stop Sylus though, he keeps his pace.

With his free hand, he fully tugs down the top of your dress and lets the material bunch at your torso. Your nipples harden under the newly found air. Sylus suckles around the buds, but quickly changes his tune when you whine under him. He commits to the act, directly suckling at the bud. It hardens more in his mouth, growing puffy and swollen from his ministrations.

"Kitten." Sylus purrs against your skin, creating bites into your skin. "Beautiful. My beautiful sweetheart. I'm sorry, I'll make it up to you as much as you'd like." His voice rumbles in your ears. Your hands explore his bare body, dragging red lines down his biceps and shoulders. Sylus shudders under the pain, eyes gently rolling back.

He works guides you through it all, murmuring sweet words into your skin while his fingers curl and roll into your cunt. You pulse and gush around him, legs flailing.

"Sylus!" You cry out, tears brimming your eyes. Sylus kisses your lids, smiling.

"Cum for me, sweetie. You deserve that much." He whispers, feeling your body seize under him. It's euphoric, like fireworks exploding behind your eyelids. Your jaw slackens, pitchy moans and whines escaping your lips the longer Sylus keeps your strung out for. His fingers don't stop even as you cum, clenching around his digits. His palm rolls into your clit, hips chasing his movement.

"Good girl, good. I have you, sweetie." He rocks you through your high, even has you slacken under him. Sylus does not stop, gently guiding you into another high. You don't mind it though, your body in desperate need of his touch. Sylus presses a kiss to your lips, saliva pooled around the edges.

"We'll keep going until I've paid my dues, kitten. Be as greedy as you please."

CALEB 夏以昼:

Caleb is a nuisance when you argue. He would perish if he gave you even an ounce of space. He wants to solve issues in the moment rather than letting them linger in your mind for hours on end. Nip it in the bud, kind of guy. You hate that about him though— So clingy and in your face when all you need is a little space.

Though, you can't quite be mad at him when his tongue is buried deep inside of you.

"Pipsqueak, please? I'm sorry, honey. Won't ever put the cameras up again, okay?" Caleb says, pressed into your sex. You push at his forehead, yet your hips chase after his touch. You feel like a fool. How could you fold so fast?! Yet, how could you pass up the opportunity? It's not as if Caleb has ever given you a bad experience in the bedroom— Far from that.

You falter, seeing his eyes glimmering in the low lighting of his home. You shouldn't even be here, you should be ignoring me. You were headed back home after a bad argument, but he insisted you stay for dinner and or at least take something home. Yet, as the water on the stove comes to a roaring boil, Caleb pays it no mind.

"I'll be a good boy, yeah?" Caleb whines, his fingers working into your sensitive walls. You twitch above him, gripping onto the granite tiles. It digs into the base of your spine as you tremble on your toes. You tug at Caleb's strands as your heart races in your chest. His touch drives you mad, tongue swirling over your clit as his fingers veer into your sweet spots.

He plays so unfair.

Caleb presses a wet kiss to your clit, kissing all along the meat of your thighs. His nose rubs into the skin as he hums, watching your composure fail. He draws your hand covering your mouth back to his head, letting you push him further into your wet folds.

"I'll do anything, baby. I'm sorry, okay? I'll be such a good boy." He laps at your clit again, suckling on the swollen bud. Your hips jerk into his mouth, a sharp gasp escaping your lips. Caleb's eye brim with faux tears, pleasuring your most sensitive places. He rambles on, mouth pressed into your folds.

He works into your body, dragging two orgasms out of you. Your legs tremble around his head and thighs before he twirls you around. Gently, with an arm wrapped around the front of your shoulders, Caleb bends you over the table, pulling your panties to the side. From the corner of your eye, you can see your discarded jeans and one of your boots. Your eyes flutter shut as Caleb kisses down your spine, your hand seeking out his.

"Hm? What is it, pretty? You forgive me?" You ignore his teasing, looking over your shoulder to whine at him. Just as Caleb knows your every weakness, you know his all the better: Your needs. With flushed cheeks and glossy eyes, you give him the neediest look you can muster.

"Oh, my baby. Look at you. You just need me, huh?" You nod in reply. Caleb falters, cooing at your expression. He guides you back up, pulling you into his arms. His pants hand low on his hips as Caleb guides you to his bedroom. With your arms looped around his neck, you hold on tight.

"I'll be good, yeah? No more spying on you, baby." Caleb nudged the bedroom door open with his foot, guiding you to his bed. As your placed onto grey-ish black sheets, Caleb hovers over you. He aims for your neck, kissing and lapping at your skin. You let his chest press against yours, legs locking around his hips. "Would you like that, honey? Me being good for you? Is that what you need?"

Again, you don't reply, letting your noises answer for you. His hand rub at your sides, fingers finding their way between your thighs again. A shiver treks up your spine as Caleb's fingers spread inside your walls. He tugs on your earlobe, pulling away with a chuckle when you punch his chest.

"Behave, boy." You narrow your eyes, letting him place your ankles on his shoulders. Caleb doesn't like to waste time, not when you're ready for him. He nods, his bangs swaying softly.

"Can I, baby? Promise I'll make you feel so good, okay?" His eyes wane, melting into a look of needy tenderness. You can't say no, you don't want to. You roll your eyes at him, pressing your hips forward. As his hips presses into you, Caleb groans. Your wet heat envelops his length as he grinds on his molars. But soon, noises slip out of his mouth and his brows knit.

"Thank you, baby." Caleb sighs, relief spreading through his body. The deeper you sink onto his cock, the louder he gets. He repeats this mantra of thanks over and over into your neck, lapping and nipping the skin. His hips have a mind of their own, raising yours to thrust into you as deeply as possible. Eventually, he rises to see your face. The flushed, dazed expression makes his cock throb.

"My baby. You're so pretty." He mumbles into your lips, placing wet kisses all over your face. "I couldn't help myself. You were so beautiful and I just—Ah!— Wanted to make sure nobody hurt you, honey." In between thrusts he speaks, trying his best to keep his composure. But Caleb falters feeling your walls clench around him. His pelvis knocks into your swollen clit, only amplifying the pleasure.

"My pretty baby." He coos, kissing the insides of your knees, down to your ankle. Caleb pulls your sock off with his teeth, letting your foot rest in his palm before pressing a kiss to the underside. He strays down your heel to the sides before one final one at the base of your foot.

"Promise I'll be a good boy, okay? No more cameras, baby. Yeah?" Caleb lets your foot rest on his chest as his head smooths the hair out of your face. Sweat lines your naked body the closer you get. Your whines grow louder as your hips try to back away from his obsessive pleasure, but Caleb has never let you stray far.

"Shh, shh. Don't run, baby." Caleb whispers, pressing his body weight onto you. The pressure only makes you dizzier, unable to run from the onslaught. It's too much, yet not enough all at once. Caleb knows, he knows everything about your body. So his fingers find your chest, pinching your nipples between his thumb and pointer, gently tugging at it. "Shh, don't be fussy, I know. I know, baby. I have you."

He suffocates you with his love, locking his lips against yours. Caleb suckles on your tongue, letting you pull at his hair. Your nails rake angry marks all along his back, his necklace making its way between your lips. Your run your tongue along the beaded apple, letting the thick silver slip onto his.

"Cum for me, baby. Wanna make you feel so good, yeah? Let me do that much." Caleb's arms encompass your body, rutting into your heat before your nails dig into his biceps. It's too much, your body can't handle it. You spasm under him, eyes rolling back before the knot in your stomach bursts.

"There you go, baby. I have you." Caleb babbles, lost in the heat and tightness of your cunt. His hips keep rutting into you as he digs his face into your neck. With what little strength you have left, you tighten your hold on Caleb's necklace. You tug it towards you, drawing him into a kiss. Your teeth dig into his bottom lip, iron coating your taste buds.

That's the final push he needed.

Before you know it, Caleb cums inside of you. A warmth fills your lower regions as your ankles lock against his spine. He can't move, forced to withstand the overstimulating waves of his orgasm. He whimpers and jerks in your hold, but you guide him through it.

"Will you forgive me, baby?" His voice is so shaky, eyes brimmed with tears. You can't tease him now, not when he's trembling and desperate for your forgiveness. You sigh, your face hot with his breath. "I've been a good boy, tell me what else I can do, my love. All I want is for you to forgive me." You smooth his hair out of his eyes, pressing a kiss to his sweat lined forehead.

"I'll let it go just this once.." You grumble, reluctant. Caleb's eyes glow with joy, encompassing your body into a hug. He peppers kisses all along your exposed skin as he gently pulls out of you. You tag back on his necklace, whispering against his lips.

"Do me one favor though, Caleb." You say, watching his brows raise. If he had a tail, you'd imagine it would be swaying quickly.

"Yes, yes! Anything, baby." You push yourself a bit higher on the bed, your elbows shakily supporting your weight. You guide Caleb's face back between your leaking folds, watching his ears twinge red.

"Clean me up?" Caleb smiles in return, pressing a kiss to the top of your foot.

"Anything for you, baby."

Xavier: Found something. Thought it might look good on your bed.

You tap the link eagerly, expecting a picture of some ridiculously soft, oversized penguin or maybe a weirdly cute dragon. You’re already mentally carving out a space for it on your bed.

The link loads. You blink.

Then you blink again.

Your thumb freezes mid scroll. It is not a penguin. It is definitely not a dragon. It is an explicitVIDEO that makes your entire face turn red in approximately 0.5 seconds.

Just as the girl in the video lets out a soft moan, your phone vibrates again. This time, it’s a frantic succession of messages.

Xavier: Wait, did that go through?

Xavier: The link?

Xavier: Please tell me you didn't click that yet.

You look at the video one last time before quickly locking your phone and pressing the cool glass against your burning cheek.

🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟 🌟

He doesn't say a word. He doesn't have to. The look in his deep blue eyes is heavy, dark, and entirely unapologetic.

The transition from his accidental text to both of you completely naked in your bed happens in less than 10 minutes. Because you’ve only been intimate for a few weeks, there’s still this electric, terrifying novelty to it, the way your heart hammers against your ribs when his hands touch your skin.

He’s behind you, his body acting as a warm, solid anchor. His skin is hot against yours, a seamless fit that feels like it was designed by the universe itself. But it’s what he’s doing, the agonizing patience of it that is pushing you toward the edge of madness.

He isn't fucking you. Not yet.

He's doing exactly what you saw on that video. He’s sliding his cock between your thighs, the slick, heavy length of him dragging slowly against you. Every single time he thrusts, the tip of him catches the little hood of your clit before dragging the lenght of his cock across your most vulnerable spot with a precision that feels soooo good.

"Xavie..." you moan, your voice breaking, a plea you can't quite finish.

"Shh," his breath is hot, uneven, smelling faintly of mint. His lips brush the sensitive curve of your neck. "Just breathe, bunny. Let it build."

He pulls back, nearly losing contact entirely, only to slide forward again, with enough pressure to make your eyes roll back.

"I've been thinking about this," he whispers, his lips brushing your earlobe, sending a violent shiver down your spine. "For months"

You let out a choked sob, head falling back against his shoulder. "You're so beautiful when you're desperate, you’re close, aren't you?"

His voice vibrates against your skin and the smile you can feel against your pulse point is nothing short of predatory. He knows. He’s always known exactly where you are, even when you’re too lost in the haze of pleasure to find the words.

You try to answer, but your voice is trapped somewhere in the back of your throat, drowned out by the thrum of your heartbeat. You don't speak, and he thrives on that silence. To him, your quiet isn't an absence, it’s an admission. It’s the honest, raw truth of a body that has been pushed past its limit and is now screaming for a release it can't quite grasp.

His hand slides down from your ribs to settle firmly on your waist. His grip is certain, unyielding and controlled anchoring you to the mattress so you can’t squirm away.

He presses a kiss to your neck. Once. Slow. Then again, lower, his lips grazing the curve where your shoulder meets collarbone. The heat of it enough to make you arch backward, your spine curving into him, while the dirty intent of his touch makes you clench around the empty air.

"Ask me, bunny," you try to find your voice, but all that comes out is a breathless hitch in your lungs. Seeing your struggle, he doesn't let you off the hook. He reaches up, his fingers tangling in your hair to gently but firmly tilt your head back toward him. He never breaks the rhythm, he angles his hips with precision, pressing the length of his cock harder against your clit, forcing a loud moan from your lips directly into his mouth.

"Use your words," he insists, his eyes dark and hooded, watching the way your expression fractures.

The words tumble out of you, wrecked and desperate, "I want to cum, Xavie... please..."

His lips crash against yours, but the sweetness is gone. He kisses you like his patience has finally grown teeth, hungry and sharp. His hand moves to your thigh, pressing down firmly to maximizing the friction, ensuring every single nerve ending is on fire, making sure you feel every bit of what you asked for.

The world simply ceases to exist. You both break at the exact same moment. You’re gasping, your hands instinctively flying to your own breasts, squeezing them as you chase the peak, your fingers digging into your skin for any extra stimulation you can find.

"There you are..." he whispers against your lips as he spills over your thighs, your cunt, and the damp sheets beneath you. He holds you there, pinning you to the moment, letting the aftershocks roll through you until your muscles begin to tremble into stillness.

When the world begins to drift back into focus, a languid warmth settling over your limbs, a realization begins to dawn on you. He didn't just give you an orgasm. He found a hidden part of you, the part that craves to be unraveled, the part that wants to be ruined slowly and meticulously and he taught it to answer to him, and him alone.

Bzzzz. Bzzzz

Caleb [14:22]: Found a recipe for a honey glazed salmon. Reminded me of that place we went to last week.

You’re supposed to be working on a pile of halfway finished reports on your desk but he’s been rambling about dinner for the past hour.

Caleb [14:23]: Let's try it tonight. Let me know if it looks okay to you.❤️

A link follows.

You tap it, expecting a colorful food blog or maybe one of those YouTube tutorials with a soft acoustic soundtrack. Your brain practically short circuits.

A VIDEO loads instantly. It’s not salmon. It's a girl, sprawled out on a bed, and there’s a man, looming over her as he... well, he's fucking her face. The girl is looking straight up at him, eyes glazed and heavy lidded, completely lost in it. The sound of the video starts to play before you can find the volume button.

"Oh my god," you whisper, frantically trying to close the tab.

Was this a joke? Or maybe a very, very subtle hint? Did the great Colonel Caleb actually just fumble the most embarrassing mistake of his entire life?

Bzzzz

Caleb [14:26]: Pips. The link was wrong. Ignore that. It was supposed to be a cooking blog. Please delete it.

You could pretend you didn't see a single thing and let him stew in his own embarrassment all day. You could let him suffer.

But then again... he did say he wanted to try something new tonight.

You type out a quick reply, heart racing just a little bit.

“The recipe looks good. Do you think we have all the ingredients?😉"

🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎 🍎

The dim light of the bedroom catches the violet of his eyes, making them look entirely too satisfied. He’s hovering over you, his broad shoulders blocking out the rest of the world, leaving you in a private universe where the only thing that exists is his weight and the heat of his cock.

His hands frame your face. "Look at me, baby,"

He guides himself to your lips and begins to slide in. He moves slowly, testing your limits, watching your eyes widen as you try to adjust.

"God, you look so good like this," he breathes, his thumb brushing over your cheekbone. "With your mouth so full of me..."

The praise makes your head swim and your throat tighten.

"I should have done this sooner... I should have stopped playing the gentleman and just taken what's mine."

His slow pace breaks, and he thrusts deeper, a sudden surge that hits the back of your throat. Your eyes water instantly, an involuntary gag catching in your chest when your body tries to protest the sudden fullness.

"Silly girl," he coos, not pulling back. He stays right there, buried deep "Don't fight it. Just breathe through your nose"

He waits until he sees your nostrils flare, until you take a shaky, shallow breath through your nose, eyes locking onto his.

The moment you manage it, the tension in his shoulders melt "Theeeere we go," he whispers, giving you one more deep, slow slide, making sure you feel every inch of him. "Such a fast learner. My perfect... fuck... perfect girl."

The need to see just how far you can push him takes over and instead of just taking him, you begin to draw him in, sucking your cheeks in slowly, creating tight pressure around him.

A groan rips from his throat and his hands, which were previously just guiding your head, suddenly dig into your hair, fingers knotting into the strands with a force that almost hurts.

"Fuck, Pips..." his head falls back for a split second before he snaps his gaze back to yours "I didnt teach you that..."

He loses the battle with his own restraint and his hips begin to move with punishing speed. Every time the tip of his cock hits the very back of your throat you can feel the involuntary reflex of your throat tightening and saliva begins to pool at the corners of your lips. It’s messy but it’s exactly what he wants.

"Look at you," he pants, reaching down to catch a stray drop of saliva and smearing it across your chin "So messy for me. You're dripping all over yourself because you can't get enough. You want it all, don't you?."

Your lungs are screaming, your chest heaving in search for oxygen, but you don’t care. The burning in your throat is nothing compared to the sight of him right now, his eyes blown wide, his jaw locked, his face twisted with a kind of agony and ecstasy that he’d never show anyone else.

He’s on the edge. You can feel it in the way his thighs are trembling and he starts to pull away.

Your fingers dig into the hard, tensed muscles of his ass and with a sharp tug, you yank him back inside, slamming him against your face.

The sudden change in pressure snaps the last of his restraint. He doesn't fight you, he doesn't even try. He just collapses into the sensation, his entire body shuddering as he finally lets go.

You feel the first hot, thick burst of him erupt in the back of your throat, a sudden flood that makes you choke and gag, eyes watering.

"Fuck, I can't.. I... " he's shaking all over, his fingers bruising your scalp as he rides out the waves of release.

When he finally pulls away, he doesn't move far. He lingers, his thumb tracing the line of your jaw, his eyes searching yours.

 "You really won't let me have anything for myself, will you? he whispers, his voice rough and ruined. "You just have to take it all."

Your workday has been a total slog. Between the endless briefings at the Association and the exhaustion of keeping up with Wanderers, your brain feels like it’s been through a blender. All you can think about is getting home, kicking off your boots, and maybe if you’re lucky getting a moment of peace.

Until your phone buzzes in your pocket.

You pull it out, expecting a tactical update or maybe a nagging message from your supervisor, but it’s a text from Rafayel.

Rafayel: "My darling, my muse, my precious bodyguard, don't you dare go home and sleep yet”  the text reads, followed by a string of dramatic, pouting emojis. “Remember I have an exhibition today! It’s a secret location, very exclusive, very avant garde. You simply MUST come by after your shift. It’s going to be breathtaking, just like you. Don't be late, or I might actually die of loneliness. Here is the location!" 👇

LINK

You smile, a little warmth spreading through your chest despite the fatigue. He’s so much, truly, but he has a way of making the mundane parts of your life feel colorful. You tap the link, expecting a Google Maps pin or a sleek digital invite to a high end gallery in Linkon City.

Instead, your screen loads a video.

You aren't looking at a gallery. You are looking at a naked woman perched on a chair, looking entirely too comfortable, while a man, in front of her, puts on a very intense performance. The camera zooms in just as he reaches the grand finale, a messy orgasm that ends up all over the woman's legs, stomach and breasts.

You stare at the screen. You stare at the ceiling. You stare at the wall.

Did he... did he just send you a porn link?

Your phone vibrates again. A second text. Then a third. A fourth.

Rafayel: “Did you see it? The lighting is so evocative, don't you think?”

Rafayel: “The composition of the colors is quite striking.”

Rafayel: “Wait. Why aren't you responding? Are you mesmerized by the art? It's okay, take your time, it's quite a lot to take in"

Then, a final text arrives, and the tone shifts instantly from "pretentious artist" to "absolute disaster."

Rafayel:"Don't look at it! Close it! Close the tab! Throw the phone into the ocean! Forget everything you saw! It was a glitch! A spacetime anomaly! A Wanderer attack on my phone! "

You can’t help it. A snort escapes you, followed by a full blown fit of giggles that makes your coworkers glance over in confusion. You quickly type back a single, teasing reply.

You: “The lighting was lovely, Rafayel. Very... evocative.”

The "typing..." bubble appears immediately. It stays there for an agonizingly long time.

Rafayel: “I am literally dying. Bury me in the sand. Don't you dare come to the exhibition. Actually, come. But don't look at me. I'm never leaving my studio again.”

🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧 🫧

The exhibition was a triumph, of course. Rafayel was the star, basking in the praise of the elite, playing the part of the brilliant artist to perfection.

But now, the doors are locked, the lights are dimmed to a soft, amber glow and you aren't looking at his paintings anymore. You’re the centerpiece of a much more private gallery.

You’re perched on the edge of chair, your wrists pulled taut behind your back. He’d used a length of fine, crimson silk to bind them, tight enough to force your shoulders back and arch your spine, thrusting your chest forward, the cool air of the studio grazing your skin, making your nipples harden.

His hand is wrapped around himself, moving with a slow rhythm "You're staring, cutie," a smirk tugs at the corner of his mouth "Is the view to your liking?"

You nod, looking up at him, licking your lips.

He lets out a shaky breath, his knuckles white as he grips himself. "I’ve spent my whole life trying to capture beauty on a flat surface. Trying to trap light and shadow and emotion in pigment and oil. But it's never enough. It’s always... static. It doesn't breathe. It doesn't react."

He moves closer, the heat from his body finally making contact with your open thighs. His gaze drops to your breasts, tracing the curve he’s forced you to present to him.

"But you..." He swallows hard, a low groan escaping his lips as he watches the way your chest heaves with every breath. "You are the only masterpiece that matters. I want to treat your skin like my finest silk and use your naked body as my own living canvas..."

He looks almost pained by need, his eyes wide and dark with a hunger that goes far beyond simple lust. He’s not just looking at a lover, he’s looking at his salvation.

"Every blush on your cheeks, every shiver that runs down your spine... that's the only art worth making."

His free hand moves to one of your breasts, thumb sweeping over your nipple with a pressure that is both worshipful and demanding. He watches the way your eyes flutter shut, memorizing the exact shade of your arousal.

"God, you're so beautiful it hurts," he whispers "Tell me you want it," the hand around his cock moves faster "Tell me you'll let me finish my work."

You don't make him wait. You lean forward as much as the silk allows, your voice a breathless rasp. "Fiinish it, Raf. Show me what you can do."

You can’t look away. You wouldn't even if you could.

A bead of translucent precum swells at the very tip of his cock, glistening like a misplaced jewel under the lights. The skin there is flushed a deep, angry rose, pulsing with the force of his arousal. His head is thrown back, his throat exposed and taut as he bites his lower lip to stifle the needy whimpers that threaten to spill from his lips.

He looks beautiful.

He’s close, so painfully close to the edge that you decide to push him. 

Even with your arms bound, you find a way to arch your back further, thrusting your chest toward him in an unspoken invitation. You offer yourself to him, presenting your bare skin as a landing site for his release. "Give it to me. All of it."

The sound of your voice, the invitation in your tone, is the final blow to his crumbling resolve. His body jolts with the force of his release and you watch as the heavy, hot ropes of him arc through the air, splattering across the expanse of your breasts. The heat of it is startling, a wet warmth that makes your skin tingle.

The moment the tension snaps, the strength drains right out of his legs. There is no grace in it just the heavy, unceremonious thud of his knees hitting the floorboards right between your thighs.

He stays there, head bowed, hair falling over his eyes in a dark, damp mess. But then, slowly, so slowly, he lifts his gaze.

His eyes, blown wide and shimmering with liquid heat, find yours at the exact same moment your tongue sweeps out to lick a drop of cum from the corner of your mouth.

When your eyes finally lock, you see the exact second his breath hitches again.

His pupils are so dilated they almost swallow the color of his irises, and a fresh wave of heat, a visible crimson surges up his neck and into his cheeks. He stares at your mouth, watching the way your tongue retreats, his gaze tracing the wet glisten you left behind.

"God..." he groans, the word a broken fragment of a thought "You're going to ruin me completely."

The vibration of your phone against the marble countertop is enough to make you jump. You’ve been nursing a lukewarm cup of coffee for the last twenty minutes, trying to shake off the lingering chill of the Linkon City winter, when the screen lights up with his name.

Sylus

[Sylus]: There’s a private auction tonight. High stakes. It starts in an hour. I’ve been tracking that specific protocore for weeks.

[Sylus] : I’ll send you the catalog link. Take a look. Tell me if the energy readings look as tempting to you as they do to me.

You tap the blue hyperlink, ready to nerd out a little and give him the professional opinion he wants from you.

The video player loads, and you nearly drop your phone.

It isn't a protocore.

It's a VIDEO of a man sprawled across rumpled sheets, his chest heaving as a woman jerks him off. She isn't looking at a camera, she’s looking at him.

The sounds hits you next, the wet friction of her hand, the groans the man lets out, overstimulated.

You bite your lip, a nervous, hysterical little laugh bubbling up in your throat. You can almost see his expression if he knew, that slight, elegant tilt of his head, the way he’d probably pinch the bridge of his nose in a rare moment of genuine embarrassment.

With trembling fingers, you start to type a reply.

You: Sylus... unless this protocore is incredibly well endowed and prone to making loud noises, I think you sent the wrong link.

The silence that follows is agonizing. You stare at the "read" receipt, your thumb hovering over the screen, half expecting the phone to burst into flames from the tension. You’ve spent months navigating his moods, his riddles, and his terrifyingly intense presence, but you’ve never quite known how to handle a moment where the power dynamic shifts so abruptly.

The little bubbles appear. He’s typing.

Is he going to ignore it? Is he going to double down with some devastatingly smooth line that will make you want to crawl under the rug?

A moment later, the notification pings.

Sylus:It seems my finger slipped. Or perhaps my subconscious is simply being more honest than my conscious mind intended.

A few seconds later, another message follows, one that feels much more like the man who watches you sleep with predatory tenderness.

Sylus: I'll be at your door in twenty minutes. Let's not bother with the protocore I think we've found something much more interesting to bid on.

🐦‍⬛ 🐦‍⬛ 🐦‍⬛ 🐦‍⬛ 🐦‍⬛ 🐦‍⬛ 🐦‍⬛ 🐦‍⬛ 🐦‍⬛ 🐦‍⬛ 🐦‍⬛ 🐦‍⬛ 🐦‍⬛ 🐦‍⬛ 🐦‍⬛ 🐦‍⬛

You’ve been at this for thirty minutes and your already obsessed.

There is something intoxicating about the power you hold right now. You never realized that teasing a man like Sylus could be this much of a rush. His entire frame shudders, his muscles coiling like a spring about to snap. He’s right on the edge, his breath hitching and just when you think he’s about to break, you pull away.

Your leg is hooked firmly over one of his heavy thighs, a grounding weight that keeps his legs spread wide for you, exposing him completely to your whims. He’s using his Evol to wrap around his own wrists, binding his hands so he can’t reach out and grab you. He’s forcing himself to endure the torture you’re inflicting, all because he wants this. He wants to feel every second of the ache.

He also looks wrecked. It’s a sight you don't get to see often. Fine beads of sweat are beginning to glisten along his hairline and his eye is glowing a dangerous crimson, tracking your every move.

You lean forward, your hair brushing against his stomach, and as your mouth latches onto one of his nipples he throws his head back against the pillows, his entire body vibrating with the force of his loud groan.

You lift your hand, slowly, dragging your tongue across your entire palm in a long lick just to make him watch, just to make him feel the anticipation. Then, you slide your hand down, finally wrapping your fingers around his cock again.

His eyes roll back into his head when you return your mouth to his nipple, sucking with punishing pressure.

“Please... fuck... Please, kitten. Put me out of my misery.

You feel him tense again, his muscles turning to granite beneath your touch. You stop again.

The sudden absence of your warmth makes him let out a frustrated sound, but you aren't done playing yet. Instead of a full stroke, you just use your five fingers to tease the very tip of him, dragging your fingertips over the sensitive head, over and over again.

“You’ve been so good, Sy,” you coo, your voice a honeyed purr against his skin. “Do you think you deserve to cum?”

“Please, sweetie,” he chokes out. You can see his knuckles turning white as his fingernails dig deep into the palms of his hands “I’ve been... so good...”

He’s lost. The great Sylus, the man who sees everyone's deepest desires, is currently a slave to his own. He probably doesn't even realize he's begging.

"Should I keep you like this all night?" you ask, watching his eyes widen, pupils blown so large they swallow the iris. "It's what you wanted, after all, wasn't it?"

He opens his mouth, the words of a fresh plea already forming on his lips, but you don't give him the chance to speak. Your hand suddenly drops, gripping the thick base of his cock with a firm hold, and you begin to stroke him fast, hard, and relentless.

“I won’t, though,” you whisper, leaning in close so your breath fans over his ear, your voice dripping with a playful, dominant heat. “Because you've been such a good boy.”

The moment the praise leaves your lips, something in him snaps, his entire body arching off the bed in a violent, beautiful spasm.

Even when his muscles quiver with the aftershocks, you keep your hand moving, stroking him to overstimulation, pushing him right past the edge of pleasure.

The energy bindings that were holding his wrists apart simply vanish, dissolving into thin air when his willpower finally snaps.

The air is knocked from your lungs as your back hits the mattress with a soft thud, and suddenly, the man who was just begging is the man who is commanding.

He’s over you, his large hands pinning your wrists to the pillows on either side of your head.

"You think you're so clever, don't you?" his nose brushes against yours, his breath smelling faintly of the cherry wine he loves so much. "Playing with me like a toy. Testing how much a man can take before he loses his mind."

His heavy, still sensitive cock slides between your thighs, a blunt reminder of exactly how much you just put him through. He looks absolutely lethal.

"You've had your fun, kitten," he murmurs, his grip on your wrists tightening just enough to let you know he's in total control now. "Now its my turn to see just how much you can take."

Zayne had been obsessing over that new bakery just a few blocks from your place, the kind of place that smells like heaven and costs way too much. He was mid text, rambling about the sourdough starter and the specific crumb structure of their croissants (of course he was), but he mentioned he’d send over the full menu link so you could decide on a weekend treat.

"Wait, let me send the link. They have a seasonal pastry list you'll love"

LINK

You tapped the blue link eagerly, expecting pictures of glazed danishes or maybe a list of gluten free muffins.

It was not a muffin.

It was a very loud, very explicit video of a man wrecking a woman with backshots, pulling out only for her to rip the condom off his cock so he could fuck her raw.

You: Zayne, there are no pastries in that link! There is only... a man. And a girl. And a very missing condom!

Zayne: ...

Zayne: Oh.

You: “Oh”? That’s all? You just sent me a full blown porn video in the middle of the afternoon!

Zayne: Stop. Please. I am currently in the middle of a ward round. A nurse just tried to look at my phone.

You: [Sends a laughing emoji]

Zayne: I'm coming over later. We are going to that bakery. And we are not talking about that "menu" until we have had at least two espressos. To settle my nerves.

You: Are you bringing the condom? Just kidding! Don't kill me!

Zayne: 🙄

🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺🩺

The bakery was a lost cause. The sourdough was forgotten, the espresso was unbrewed, and the only thing "rising" in your apartment was Zayne's cock the moment he walked in and saw the way you were looking at him, flushed, eyes hazy, and, quite frankly, a mess.

Now, you were bent over the edge of your bed, your fingers digging into the mattress as he held you from behind.

"Zaynie, please!" you whimpered, your voice cracking. You were desperate, begging him to just stop being so careful, to just let go and give you what that video had promised. "Just... Take it off, Please!"

His hands gripped your hips with a strength that promised bruises. "Just because you’re on the pill doesn't mean the statistical probability of a mishap is zero. It’s... fuck... it's about risk management."

"Even in a committed relationship," he continued, his words punctuated by the rhythmic, wet slap of skin on skin, "one must account for... ah, god... hormonal fluctuations and the ... the unpredictability of the human reproductive system. It's not just about pregnancy, it's about...shit...it's about hygiene, and the prevention of... of unnecessary... fuck, you feel so good."

He was losing it. The doctor was losing the battle against the man. He was supposed to be lecturing you on biological safeguards, but the way he was cursing under his breath low, dirty words that he’d never say in the hospital halls told a different story.

"You're being... so difficult," he groaned, his fingers moving to your waist, pulling you back harder against him. "Trying to... to bypass all the... damn it... the precautions. Do you have any idea what you're doing to my concentration?."

He leaned forward, his teeth grazing the nape of your neck, his voice dropping to a commanding whisper. "Stay still. Let me... let me take care of this properly. Fuck, if you keep making those sounds, the condom is going to be the least of our worries."

"Who cares about the... the statistics, Zayne!" you gasped, your forehead pressed against the cool sheets. "Just... fuck, just give it to me! It’s just us, isn't it?

You were rambling, throwing out half baked excuses about how you will feel "more connected" or how the latex was a "distracting from the sensory input" basically using his own medical vocabulary against him just to get what you wanted. You were cursing, too, your language losing all its usual politeness as the friction and the heat drove you toward a breaking point.

Then, suddenly, the fullness vanished.

"Why did you stop?" you demanded, your voice small and wounded, eyes searching his. "Zayne, why did you... "

He was hovering over you, his chest heaving, his hair mussed in a way that was entirely uncharacteristic of the composed man you knew. He looked down at you with an expression that was almost exasperated, that specific, "are you actually serious right now?" look he gave you when you forgot your keys or ignored his health advice.

He didn't need to say the words. You lunged for it, your fingers trembling as you gripped him, ripping the condom off.

The moment he slid back into you, skin on skin, the sensation was nothing short of transcendental.

" Fuck!" you breathed out.

"God, finally," he growled back.

The sight of your cunt clinging to his cock was enough to shatter even the most disciplined mind. Zayne, the man who could maintain a steady hand while repairing a human heart, lost his grip on reality. The friction, the warmth, and the intimacy of being inside you without any barrier sent him over the edge far faster than he ever thought possible.

He stiffened and with a few deep thrusts that felt like they were reaching your throat he broke. A sound between a moan and a curse escaped him as he collapsed against you, his breath coming in ragged gasps against your neck.

When he pulled out Zayne wasn't looking at your face. He was staring, almost hypnotically, downward. His gaze was fixed on the junction of your thighs, watching with a quiet, intense fascination as the evidence of his release, thick and pearly, slowly leaked from your plump pussy, tracing a slow path down your skin. He looked mesmerized.

"You know," you said, voice dripping with playful sarcasm, "for a man so obsessed with 'risk management' and 'preventative measures'..." You paused looking at his flushed face. "Your breeding kink is really showing, Doctor."