You grit your teeth.

("So proud for such a disgraced girl," Suguru tsks, your chin in his hand, forcing you to look up into the darkness of his eyes. You look up your nose at him defiantly. His thumb moves to your bottom lip, swipes there boldly, in a way that makes heat race over your face. It flusters you terribly. It makes you furious. It makes you shake.

You jerk your head from his grasp and he allows his hand to fall away, flutter down by his side.

"And so stubborn."

You sneer at him, gripping your skirts to hide your tremble, "what were you expecting? For me to simper and posture for you?"

His eyes dance bemusedly over you, the corner of his lips quirking up in the most horrible way. You have half a mind to strike him with nails and palm and bitterness, swipe the look right off his face.

"I'd hoped for someone a little sweeter, I suppose." He tells you and for some reason, this stings worse than it should, makes your anger grow teeth and claws inside of you.

"A good wife." You spit.

"Yes," he admits, "something that is finally mine. Only mine."

Later, he will tell you he always wanted something Satoru Gojo couldn't have but wanted. He wanted something everyone wanted. Instead, he got you. Instead, you got him.

"I will never be yours." You hiss through your teeth like a little asp. A warning sound, the way a dog growls before it bites.

"You'll be married to me whether you like it or not. Whether I like it or not." He says coolly, gazing down at you in a way that you can't place, in a way that makes you shiver.

"I may marry you, but I will never be yours–"

And when you catch the gleam in his eyes now, plum dark and glimmering, you know he took it less as a warning, and more of a challenge.)

You steel your courage. You breathe through your nose.

You untie your robe and let it slip from your shoulders.

It pools on the floor in a decadent swath of fabric. It looks like a swan, like a dead dove at your feet.

When you turn to look at Suguru over your shoulder, you are at least pleased to see that he is mildly surprised, brows arched upwards slightly, mouth parted.

He recovers quickly, "my, isn't this a surprise–"

"Don't." You snap. Your bottom lip trembles and you sink your teeth down into it to stop it. When you don't fear what your voice will sound like, you say defiantly;

"Do what you want. I'm not scared of you."

And you jerk your chin up again, too proud, too stubborn. Even when you are bare, even when your defenses have been stripped from you, even when his eyes are lightless, bottomless like the sea, infinite like the night sky as he gazes at you.

He approaches slowly, almost lazily, a predator that lopes closer to his prey. The breeze from the window makes you shiver.

"Look whose being brave," he coos, reaching out with his knuckles to touch your cheek, a brush of his skin. It's the first touch he gives you of the night.

He savors it. You try to hold still.

"Are you sure?" He asks and there is something unreadable in his face now, something monstrous at the edges, the flicker of it, of that hunger–a maw, opening wide in front of you to swallow you down like his curses, "I was going to let you have tonight."

"How merciful," you say, all heat and viciousness, all teeth. You jut your chin up, glare up into his face and say, "it doesn't matter. Like I told you; I will never be yours in any meaningful way."

The touch at your cheek becomes bigger, a palm that slides to the nape of your neck, fingers slipping into your hair. He holds you in a way that makes you feel the control, so you can feel the strength of his broad hand. The power in it. Horribly, it makes you feel small, too, to be cupped in his hands like that, to be guided.

His smile is lazy, almost aloof, like the sickle curved moon, but the burning of his eyes tells you differently. All violet heat, like the night sky swathed around that moon.

Tenderly, he promises, "I will strip you of your pride tonight. It will be the first thing you have to put down if you want anything good from me."

"I'll make you bleed," you promise back.

He laughs, low and soft and heated, before he says, "I'll tame you someday."

And he sways forward, lets his nose brush along yours, tilts your head up at the neck so your lips are offered to him like sacrifice, like a lamb.

"I'll kill you someday." You vow, just a whisper that brushes against his lips.

You can feel his smile when he kisses you, deep and slow and horribly burning. Leisurely, he forces you open, rolls his tongue into your mouth, forces you still, forces you to like it.

You feel your hands come up to tighten in his clothes, ruining them. You feel yourself go slack in his hold. You feel yourself warm to his touch, to his mouth, to his tongue.

For a fleeting moment, you wonder if he's trying to devour you, too, if he also thinks of you as his curse.

He bands an arm around your waist, forces you to press your bare body to his clothed one, fits his big hand along the curved cage of your ribs. And you feel–

You twist in his arms when you feel how hard he is, when it makes your stomach flip and then frightens you, when it makes heat swim up your chest and neck.

He can feel your shyness, moves his arm down to the dip of your waist to force your squirming still. He makes you feel him.

You part from his kiss, panting a little, pushing against him fitfully. He tightens like a snake around you, until you go still for him again.

"Undress me," he murmurs.

You swallow hard.

But with shaking fingers, you move to begin stripping him of his layers. Tanned, bare skin is revealed to you; silvery scars race and arc over his chest, along his shoulders and biceps. His stomach is toned, dark hair running down, further into–

You look away stubbornly when you get to his lower half. Your hands work blindly, until he says, "ah, ah, ah–" and he grabs your chin, makes you look at his face, makes you look down at your little hands near his stomach, near his hips– "Don't look away."

You swallow hard. You glare at your hands, heat rising swift and harsh to your chest, up your neck, to your cheeks. His clothes come away beneath your hands, leaving him bare, too.

You fight the urge to look away again.

"Touch me," he murmurs, watching your face, and you don't–you don't know why you listen. But as if possessed, you obey him.

He's hot to the touch, heavy in your hand, and you realize you can hardly breathe.

His intake of breath is sharp, coupled with your forced little exhale. You glare up into his face, jaw set tight with ire, face on fire. Embarrassed. Angry.

"Oh, if looks could kill." He hums, pressing his hips up into your hand. Uncertain but trying, you stroke slowly, carefully, get used to the feeling in your hand. "Such contempt on your face right now, wife."

"Enjoy it while it lasts," you try to snap, but your voice has gone thinner. You've lost some of your bite.

He laughs when he kisses you, meaner this time, teeth in your tender lip, his brutality like a slow ambling leopard. It's still leisurely, intimate in a way that is frightening, in a way that makes you feel like he's got you between his jaws.

He starts walking you back to the bed, crowding you, guiding you. And not for the first time, but certainly the most concerning time, do you realize how big and broad he is. Blindly, you let him urge you back. You let him lay down first, you let him take your hand, you let him–

"You want me–" on top? Your voice has a tremble in it.

"Scared?" He asks, tugging your hand, tugging you onto the bed. Over him. Holding your hand in his, laced fingers, palm to open palm.

"No, I just thought you'd want to–" You don't finish the sentence as you ease into straddling his waist, keeping up on your knees, away from him.

"Want to what? Say it."

You can feel your embarrassment come back up to strangle you.

"In what ways did you think I'd want you? Underneath me? Belly up and vulnerable? On your stomach with your back arched? On your side?" He asks and his voice is low, soft to your ears, but dark. One large hand of his grips your waist, fits itself around the curve, and forces you forward. You stumble a little, catch yourself on his chest.

"How did you think of this night? What way did you hope for?"

"None of them." You snap. "I don't want you."

"Liar." He says back, and he moves so his palm is on your lower abdomen, thumb moving dangerously close to the apex of your thighs, "if I touch you here, what will I find?"

You jerk away from his touch as if burned.

He readjusts his hold on your waist to force you still again as if dealing with an unruly child. This time, when his thumb swipes between your legs, it is through silken folds, slippery and gentle.

You strangle the moan that dares to bubble up, stifle it with an even smaller noise. He is so embarrassingly slow and careful with you, almost loving with the way he strokes, that you want to hide. You want to cling to him. You want to kill him.

"Ah, see? That's what I thought–" Suguru's thumb dips barley inside, and even that, just one finger, is bigger than what you're used to. His whole hand spans wide across your body. "–so wet for me."

You look away, attempting to bare it, teeth firmly stuck in your bottom lip. He never breaches you. Just strokes, slow and soft, painfully good and sweet, enough to make your hips cant a little. He doesn't say a word now, just listens to you breathe, to the small, slick sound between your legs.

It's so–

"I won't prep you more than that." He finally says and you feel your heart rabbit hard in the pit of your chest, like it might take off and run away from you. You look at his face. He must see your fear. "Unless you'd beg for my fingers inside you. Unless you'll beg me to be kind."

As if to emphasize, his thumb pauses, just outside, barely inside.

You can't bring yourself to ask for it. You won't beg. Even if you're shaking in his hold, even if you want to drop your hips a little, squirm until his thumb slips inside.

"Do what you want." You say again, stubborn and furious.

Suguru sighs lightly the way adults do with children. Have it your way, he seems to say, before he takes his hand away entirely. You watch as he fists himself, as he strokes himself easily. And then he's there, at the crux of your legs, and you panic a little because he's big and you remember the weight in your hand and–

"Wait–"

He forces you down onto him with one large hand gripping your waist. Your nails sink into his shoulders, body bowing forward as pain spasms through you, in you. You hiccup a breath, strangled, tears pricking your eyes sharply.

His mouth falls open, brows drawing together in mock sympathy for you. "Oh, you should've swallowed your pride, wife."

You whimper. He hisses.

"Maybe there is something you're useful for," he breathes, fingers flexing in your waist, moving to your back and then lower to grab and ease you up, ease you back down. You can feel him now, through the pain, deep and heavy inside of you. It's so raw, so strange and vulnerable, that you can't help the sudden swell of emotions.

Searing anger. Shameful arousal. Lingering fear. They all blend and blur.

He curses softly against your temple, "–knew, if nothing else, that you'd be good for this–"

Bastard.

You strike him with an open palm.

It cracks against his cheek, whips his face to the side. His cheek blossoms all hot and pink with it instantly. Satisfaction sinks into you. You feel him twitch inside you, feel your stomach flip with the look on his face.

He laughs, seizes you in a kiss, forces you down deeper onto him, "–knew you'd be perfect. Knew for how wretched you were that you'd be perfect for me." He says against your open mouth.

He lifts you, drops you onto him even slower, not to mitigate the pain by suspend it. You can tell he's being cruel, grinding you down onto him, trying to etch the feeling of him like this inside you forever.

You can't even speak and you force any noise that might come out of you down, down into the depths of you. You can feel your walls cling to him, latched tight, fluttering desperately. You can feel the way he burrows himself so deep inside you that you might be sick with him. You try so hard to breathe, to bear it, to take it. But it's too much–it's too much–

A small sob finally bursts out of you, shameful and tender.

"Wrap your arms around me." He commands, soft, almost a coo.

You don't know what to do but obey, wrap your arms tight around his neck, chest to chest, press yourself as close and desperately to him as you can. You tuck your heated, angry face into the crook of his neck, tears finally rushing hot and quick down your cheeks.

"I hate you," you cry into his skin, mouthing there, teething there. He controls you as you go limp in his arms, lifting and dropping your hips onto him like you weigh nothing. "I hate you."

"I know," he hushes, consoling you, one hand soothing over your back, "I know."

He tries to pull away fractionally, just to look at you, but you whine and cling harder, nails digging into the skin of his back.

"Look at me, darling," he says again and tentatively, you peak at him through your angry tears, brows furrowed, glare firmly marring your sweet face. He looks at you through half-lidded eyes, burning into you, and says;

"I will be the only person to hurt you like this. I will be the only person to soothe you like this."

It's a command. It's a vow.

You let your hand slip into his long, dark hair, tangle in it until it's a small fist. You pull to tilt his head back up to you, move your hips on your own finally, rock them tentatively, a small, aborted motion. And then you say, through your tears, through your anger and shame;

"And I'll be the only one you ever want like this. The only one you can't have fully."

"I have you now." He rasps, a little enamored, a little slack jawed.

You shake your head fractionally, lip curled, maybe in pain, in anger, "I don't love you. I won't ever love you."

You can tell this does something to him, hurts him in a way that he isn't prepared for. You aren't prepared for it, either, the look on his face. The way he kisses you after that, like he's trying to win you over, like he's trying to soothe you, just like he said he would.

"I don't need your love," he murmurs, spit-slick against your lips. Your hips stutter a little.

"Liar," you echo him and it's your turn to smile a little against his lips, the curve of it mean, your eyes still glossy with tears as the next roll of your hips becomes more sure.

You finally let out a little moan and he hums, "there, that's it, starting to feel better?"

And then, "maybe. Maybe this is all you're good for–"

A moan punches out of him.

He thrusts up into you this time, hard, a little spiteful. You yelp, tears stinging, and he kisses you as if to half-heartedly apologize.

You curl around him again, though, and he doesn't even need to guide your hips anymore. It still aches, in the core of you, throbs in pain, but it's beginning to feel syrupy and warm, the feeling of fullness becoming familiar. Almost welcome. A burning type of pleasure that you start to ease into.

You bite into his throat. You tell him how terrible he is, you dig your nails into his back, you warn him not to get used to this.

He kisses you hard and slow. He tries to own you. He let's you ride him, take from him, give to him. He draws his tongue over his teeth marks in your skin.

He builds you up, finally touches your breasts, your body, his hands feverish and scorching over you. He finally gives in to what he wants, gives in to your pleasure, lets you roll your hips in a way that has you crying out–in pain, in pleasure, in some horrible combination of both.

You can feel it all build in you, feel it all balloon beneath your skin, hot and too big for your own body. Too much. You need more, need just a little more–

You get just shy of begging, but don't, bite your tongue until it bleeds, let him lick into your mouth and taste it.

"So stubborn," he grunts against your throat, "I know you like this. I know what you want from me." And then, "is it everything you thought of? Or should I fuck you on your back? Press you down into the bed and–"

"You're vile," you moan brokenly, half cry, "you wish."

And when he forces you down into his lap, digs his face into the crook of your neck, into your hair, and comes deep inside you, you think it might be over. He groans into your skin, grips you so tight you're certain you'll bruise.

Whatever pleasure that had been growing inside of you comes to a frustrating halt. Your hips twitch, unsatisfied, seeking.

You can't decide if you're disappointed or relieved. You hold him against your chest, hands in his hair, body shivering. He holds you back, let's you squirm a little, let's you get used to the feeling of him filling you like this.

You try to move first but he tightens his hold on you and once more you are reminded of a snake constricting it's prey into stillness. You go limp again and that seems to appease him. He lays you back, into the bed. Into your wedding bed.

He pulls out of you slowly, gently this time, and it still makes you whine in pain. It still makes you wince. You're going to be so sore tomorrow–

At this point, you expect him to roll over and go to sleep.

But he kisses you tenderly, open-mouthed, tongue soft and pressing into yours. Seeking. Heat rekindles. He teases, drowns you in his lazy sort of affection; like he has forever to please you, like it is all he was meant for.

And then his lips cascade downwards, with his tongue trailing over your chest, and right over the bud of your breast to catch it in his mouth. So warm and soft, enough to make you arch a little, enough to make your hands come back up into his hair. You bite your lip but your hips twitch.

Dissatisfaction builds in you, squirms under your skin. It makes you become fitful in his arms, beneath the attentive warmth of his mouth. He moans a little around your breast when you pull on his hair. He rolls his eyes up to you lazily, half-lidded, almost asleep.

He is strangely content now, for all his unnerving, crackling energy. That restlessness that seems to live deep inside of him is soothed for the moment, with you beneath him, in his mouth.

His lips travel lower, over your stomach. You know it's a mess, can't imagine why he would ever–

"Suguru," you say and the fear in your voice is palpable. He pays you no mind, "Suguru–"

When his mouth opens against your core, warm and soft and wet, you aren't expecting it. You jolt a little but he's got his arms around your thighs, forces you open.

"Hold still for me, darling." And the lull of his voice does something to you, coaxes you to relax in his hold again. He hums lightly, "that's my girl. Going to let me enjoy you now? Suddenly quiet, aren't we?" he muses.

You glare down at him but it's lost a lot of the heat of your anger. Still, you say stubbornly, "just do what you want."

His lips quirk up and you feel it, feel it against your core when he drops a brief open-mouthed kiss there. A noise works out of you, small and desperate and unable to be kept down.

He tongues at you slowly, through soft ribbons of flesh, gentle and sweet. Adoring. He looks up at you with plum dark eyes, lashes fanning over his cheek.

He does what he should've done first.

You realize dully, faintly, through the haze of your mind, that he's done it purposefully. He wanted it to hurt. He wanted to soothe you after.

And you are sore, aching horribly, but his mouth is so warm and soft, so eager and strange as it moves against you.

“I’ll make you feel better now,” he murmurs, “I’ll chase away the pain.”

He licks long and flat stripes up and down, making a mess, making you burn. Making you love it. Making you hate it.

You twist a little in his hold, start to get desperate for it. You fist your hands in his long hair, twine them around your fingers to pull, to feel the rumbling purr of his moan against you.

You try to resist maybe, at first, the peak he's bringing you to. The pleasure he's giving you. But then it sneaks up on you and suddenly your breathing hitches all tight.

And he stops.

You look down at him. His mouth is on your inner thigh. His eyes flick up to you. He watches you keenly, like a cat, and waits.

He bites into the flesh of your thigh, sucks a love bite into it. Leaves the marks of his teeth in your skin. And when your breathing has slowed enough, he moves his mouth back to your center.

His tongue lolls out again, sliver of pink muscle darting out to taste you again. You whimper. You throw your head back. You give in to this one easily. He works harder, gets a little rougher, tongue moving quicker.

But then he's gone again, when you're about to fall over that edge. This time, you sit up onto your elbows to look at him. He quirks a brow at you, mouth all over your thigh again.

"Something wrong?" He asks, dropping a messy kiss to your core.

"Suguru, stop it–"

"Stop what? You said do as I please and I am."

He opens his mouth against your center again, scorching hot, dirty in a way that makes you keen sharp and high. You tilt your hips up into his mouth this time, offer yourself willingly, open yourself to him. His tongue delves inside, squirms and pushes and slides through you. It's almost gross– too vulnerable, too close, and makes your eyes slam shut.

He muffles a soft laugh, you can feel it against you, can feel the flush of your embarrassment and annoyance.

He pulls away. This time your glare is pointed. Sharper.

"Say what you want." Suguru says. "And I'll give it to you."

You stare hard at him, chest heaving, face overcome with heat. Your pleasure ebbs away, held back.

He does it again. Mouth on you. Thumb holding you open, dipping inside barely again. He pulls away when you move at all, when you allow yourself to give in.

You come down again. You get built up again. Until he finally presses his thumb inside, makes his tongue roll slow and tender against you.

His name comes out, desperate, almost pleading–

He stops.

And this time, frustrated tears rush back to your eyes.

"Stop it," you try to snap, but its wet and soft sounding, a little cry.

"Poor thing," he coos, "but you know what you have to do."

"I hate you."

He smiles like the cat that has got the canary between his sharp, sharp teeth.

"C'mon, it's not so bad–"

You grit your teeth. You try to breathe. He tongues at you again, slow and soft and teasing.

"Just let it go, let go of your pride and ask me. I'll indulge you. I'll give it to you." He opens his mouth against you again, adds pressure, adds suction, adds a finger inside you again. You twist, desperate, so close it hurts.

He draws off you again.

"Let go of your pride and I'll give you everything." He murmurs.

And again he builds you up and again you refuse to give in. Again and again until you're outright crying, until you're heaving with it, until you're just a live-wire, an aching, open wound.

And again he does it, adjusts so he sits up with you, so you're near bent in half, so he can look down at you now. It's so horrible, it's so embarrassing–

One more. He knows it, can feel it, hear it in your little hitching sobs.

And then finally, finally;

"Suguru, please–please, I'm sorry, I-I'm sorry–"

It hits you so hard that all you can manage is a strangled gasp. Your peak is a head rush, a full body surge, a wave that goes still for a moment before crashing hard and fast. You cry openly, twist in his hold, let him lay you back down, let him guide you through it. You pulse and burst on his tongue, throbbing, aching in a way you've never felt before.

"Good girl," he rumbles, and it's so–it's so proud. It's so condescending. You want to be mad. You want to push him away and scratch and kick and bite, but when he holds you, you just cry. And cry. And he kisses you hard on the mouth again so you can taste yourself. He says it again while you're still mindless, "good girl. That's it–that's my girl. My good little wife."

"You're the worst," you get out, even as you let him bundle you into his arms.

"I know–I know." He hushes. "And I'll be worse still."

When you feel his fingers prod gently at your entrance, you start fighting him a little, "no–no, I'm done–I can't–"

"Yes, you can." He hums, "because I said so. Because I want you to."

His fingers slip in gently, so big, bigger than your own. Two feel like such a stretch and all he does is move them slow and crooked. You whimper, tears leaking out, cascading down your cheeks.

And he makes you come like that, too. And again on his mouth. The next all he does is fit his thigh between your legs, while he kisses you slow. Humiliates you. Strips you of all your dignity. For the last time, he lines himself back up, let's his length slip through your folds a few times. He watches himself against you, admires how deep he must reach in you, how wet you are for him.

You're so swollen. So sore and tired. You barely realize it at first. And then you feel the head of him catch and you stir, "wait–no, no–please, I can't–!" You hiccup.

He fills you in one smooth thrust. Makes you claw down into his back until you're sure you've drawn blood. You wail a little, embarrassingly, into his throat. You claw and fuss and fight him this time, renewed a little, feeling him root down inside of you.

He kisses at your tears, tastes them, "Look at you–" he husks, "crying like this for me. Look at the mess I've made out of you. Not so proud now, are we?"

He kisses your palm that tries to push his face away.

He bites your tender lip. He takes your hands in his own and laces his finger between yours to force them down onto the bed. He quells your fight. He ruts into you deep and hard.

He does that until you come again, so brutally around him that all you can do is tremble in his arms, that you feel as if you've fractured apart into little pieces. Your walls get so tight that he can't help himself, starts to babble a little, thrusts growing reckless;

"I'm never letting you go–you'll be mine if it's the last thing I do. I'm going to covet you. I'm going to ruin you, I'm going to fucking ruin you–"

You bite his shoulder so viciously that you start to taste blood.

He grabs your jaw, he squeezes until it hurts. He squeezes until you release.

"I'm the only thing you have now." He growls, thrusts turning mean, ruthless. Desperate. "I'll be the only thing you'll ever have now."

You glare through your tears, and get out his name, and then you croak, "I've already ruined you–look at you. Look at you."

A few more artless thrusts and he comes with a broken groan, raw, against your jumping pulse. You feel him fill you again, deep, and warm. Strangely soothing after everything, after all of it. You go slack for a moment as you heave, as you feel him breathe against your chest.

And this time he is done. This time, he holds you, even when you try to weakly push him away.

"Stop fussing," he scolds softly, stroking slow over your sides, petting you, soothing you. You feel so boneless that you listen, settle down into the bed, into his touch, into his weight still atop you.

He's weakened you to him, stripped you down so you're limp and exhausted, and in need of care. His care.

He bathes you. And before that, he makes you wrap your arms around him to carry you to the bathroom. He doesn't carry you like a bride but with your arms around his neck, with your legs around his waist, wants you to nose into his throat, to be pressed fully to him. He doesn't allow you something so dignified as being carried like a bride.

And he doesn't allow you privacy, either, not to use the bathroom or to clean yourself. He does it for you. You think about asking him to leave you. You think about begging him. You swallow it down and can't decide if it's pride now that holds your tongue or something else. If it's worse to beg now or if it's worse to be cared for like this. You can't decide if it's more embarrassing to ask him to leave or to let him stay and see it all.

He sits in the tub with you and wipes your tears. He runs the warm water over your shoulders, along your arms. He cleans inside you, even when you make a noise of protest.

He shushes you gently as his fingers delve into you again, "just settle. Relax." And when you go limp against him, head on his shoulder, he praises you in low, soft tones, "that's it–there. That's all, darling."

He is surprisingly gentle. Surprisingly subdued and at peace while he cares for you.

He dries you. He carries you back to bed. You're sore and tender, can feel all his marks and bites and the ache between your legs now very acutely.

He lays atop you, head on your chest, limbs thrown around you. You allow your hands to delve into his hair and you realize much of what he said is true;

He is all you have now. And the sorcery world is to blame, the ones who outcasted you and your family. Him.

Shyly, you draw a finger over the line of his brow, the slope of his nose. He is all you have. He is who you're stuck with, for better or for worse. You let it settle in you, deep and unmoving.

He is all you have.

You hold him tighter, know that maybe he could ruin you or that you could ruin him. You hold him tighter and know that he'll be yours. Or maybe you'll be his.

But more importantly, you know that he could ruin for you. He could ruin all of them.

As if possessed, you whisper it.

You whisper what you want him to become in his ear, as you trace over the scratches and the bites and the wounds. As you hold him to you. As you willingly wrap you arms around him. You tell him you want him to become a monster. You want him to avenge you, avenge himself, to tear it all down. You give him all your ire and contempt. You give him everything ugly while he sleeps and dreams and sighs into your neck.

You poison him. You curse him.

You will ruin them all. You will be something powerful. Something horrible. You will change everything. You will ruin everything.

All I have to do is ask, you think. All I have to do is ask.

As tough as it is to get through the impossibly high and extremely fortified walls one (1) Fushiguro Megumi has set around himself, you think you’ve found your way in, slipping yourself into the space between his passenger door and sitting right beside him on the extremely well-kept leather of his carseat. 

(He’s particular when it comes to cleaning). 

It was awkward at first. Of course, it was. When two introverts are alone in a car for a 30-minute drive back from a college party, they aren’t bound to become immediate best friends. But you try to talk a little, ask a harmless question or two, comment on the music he plays—the safe things to say.

And you get closer that way. 

Megumi doesn’t clear his throat anymore when it gets too quiet, already used to the comfortable silence between you. You give each other small updates on what you both did earlier that day, and what you plan to do the next, for the weekend, and the following week, even. And you try hard not to think about it too much, but when he throws a little laugh your way when you talk about the haircut you did yourself in seventh grade, you think you feel an extra thump against your ribcage. 

Another thing you learn is that Megumi loves music; there’s always some obscure, low-beat song that he’s tapping to when you get in. You discover more of his taste through the playlists he plays, and you like it—

(—maybe him a little bit more than the music, though). 

.

The traffic is unmoving today, endless red dots flashing along every lane for the past 40-minutes you’ve been on this road—there’s a steady patter of rain on the windshield, wipers automatically going back and forth as he gives you full control of the music. 

You’d just dropped off Yuuji when you took a detour to avoid some flooded area, and now you’re stuck in a terrible traffic jam this late at night, with cars barely moving inch-by-inch a few minutes at a time. Megumi doesn’t give any indication that he’s bothered except for the slight sigh he makes when he leans back on his seat after pulling up the handbrake.

And you think, with your music playing over the comfortable silence you’ve built, being in his passenger seat one too many times—this feels nice. 

Any other day and you’d hate traffic as much as the next person, but not right now. 

There’s movement far ahead and Megumi prepares to shift gears, accelerating the car only to stop again after a few minutes of getting far. You look over to find him tapping on the steering wheel, one hand on his thigh, relaxed as red glows on his face from the stoplight. 

You feel calm, content even, if you’re really thinking. Now you know why some people have a thing for night drives in the rain. 

Megumi’s eyelashes are long, pretty, stretching on for miles—and you wonder if this drive with him can extend to the length of them, if you can stay in this traffic jam a little longer just to be in this moment with him. 

“Sorry, are you cold?” Megumi asks, interrupting your stare.

He probably thinks that’s the reason you’re staring, if his fingers hovering over the aircondition controls says anything. Heat rises to your cheeks. 

You shake your head, “No, it’s okay. Just spaced out, sorry.” 

“I have a sweater at the back, if you need.” he motions, arm already out reaching for it. 

It’s summer right now, that’s why you insisted on keeping the AC on full blast; you don’t want him to suffer from the heat just because you’re cold. So you’re a bit curious, because really, Megumi has no reason to keep a sweater in his car for this weather, heck, he didn’t even wear one to the party tonight.

You don’t want to assume anything but—

“Brought it for when you get cold,” 

He says it plainly, so casually as if he doesn’t know that it echoes in the pitter-patter of your heartbeat. If you’re being completely rational, it probably doesn’t mean anything, but he hands you the gray sweater over the console so simply as if to say: of course, this is for you, who else would I bring it for? 

As if you shouldn’t even wonder anymore. 

The gesture endears you so much you can’t help but take it. 

“Thanks,” you smile sheepishly, and he nods, the corners of his lips curling slightly as he looks back to the road. 

You unbuckle your seatbelt to put the sweater on, and think, this is a very bad idea because all you smell now is his detergent, that fresh, clean scent that he walks around with condensed into oversized cotton—oversized cotton that is now engulfing you completely. 

You sigh, buckling your seatbelt again as the car moves forward. 

The traffic is clearing up now, Megumi making fewer stops as he drives along the main road. You give it maybe 8? 7? minutes until you arrive home. You’re proud of yourself tonight, flutter-feelings aside, because you think you picked the perfect music for the drive. 

Megumi can never hide his distate for anything—songs included; when he doesn’t like something, he squints his right eye just a little bit, an involuntary reaction you think. You’ve caught it a few times before (usually when it’s Yuuji’s music playing), but his face has been relaxed this entire night, fingers tapping to whatever tune you put on. 

When you arrive in front of your apartment building, your playlist shuffles to your favorite song. Megumi knows because you never shut up about it, asking for it to be played every single time on the drive back home. And when he turns to you, you look almost sad, fixing your things as you prepare to get off. There’s that cute, small pout that he notices you always try to hide when you want to say something but don’t. 

So as you’re about to unbuckle your seatbelt, Megumi shifts the gear to drive and says—

“Maybe after this song.”