J J

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re very untrusting?” She raises a brow playfully. 

Your eyes narrowed, already preparing another comeback when the heavy grated iron door groaned open from the other side of the room. Years of training settled over you before you even realized it had happened, your gaze snapping toward the entrance before flicking immediately to Yelena.

“Were you expecting company?”

She made an exaggerated show of thinking about it, lips pursed and finger tapping thoughtfully against her chin before her expression broke into an impossibly smug grin.

“Oh. Right.”

A figure in bright red stepped hesitantly through the haze, stopping just inside the doorway as though he wasn’t entirely convinced he’d walked into the correct room. Spider-Man looked between the two of you, then back toward the hallway as if debating on running. As if seeing two naked widows was the biggest threat he’d seen all day. 

Yelena didn’t give him the chance. “Take off your clothes.”

“W-what?” 

“You don't wear clothes in the banya, ditch the leotard.” She ordered. 

“This is not a leotard.” He shuffled awkwardly, his arms moving around his sides aimlessly. “Uh, your tech told me this was your office?” 

Yelena’s arms went up, “This is my office. Get in.” 

His entire body tenses, “I’m fine thanks-“ 

“Waa, waa.” Yelena laughs, “My office, my rules.” 

He’s not biting, which makes you stifle a laugh. The silence stretched just long enough that you had to bite the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing.

Yelena leaned forward conspiratorially, as though she were making him the deal of a lifetime.“You get to enjoy a very nice, relaxing soak..“

You finally took pity on him, and picked up where she intentionally left off. “And we get confirmation you aren’t carrying any weapons. Everybody wins.” 

His masked head turned toward you, the eyes on his suit getting animatedly larger. 

“…Seriously?”

You smiled sweetly. “Seriously. I’ve learned to stop fighting her on it, it’s very nice in here.” 

His shoulders sagged in the unmistakable posture of someone realizing resistance was entirely pointless. With a defeated sigh, he shuffled toward one of the wooden stalls. The stall door clicked shut behind him, and almost immediately the muffled rustle of fabric echoed through the room. At the same time, Yelena lazily stirred the water with one hand, looking altogether too pleased with herself.

“He said it was some small potato problem,” she murmured, effortlessly slipping into Russian. “Figured two Avengers could help him with intel.” 

You hum, “Why didn’t you tell me he was coming by?” 

“I forgot.” 

“I don’t believe you.” You rolled your eyes, earning another satisfied grin from her just as the wooden stall creaked open. Spider-Man stepped out clutching a white towel around his waist with both hands like it was a lifeline. His shoulders were tense enough to rival a man walking into an execution, his face hidden behind the mask he’d somehow insisted on keeping despite surrendering the rest of the suit.

You had expected him to be lean, scrawny almost. 

Instead, you found yourself staring for half a second longer than intended.

The suit had done him absolutely no favors. Beneath it were years of relentless training, packed onto a frame that looked carved from stone, broad shoulders tapering into a narrow waist, every muscle defined by years of keeping the city safe. His arms alone looked capable of lifting a car without much effort, his biceps so absurdly large you were fairly certain one of them rivaled the size of his own head.

You caught Yelena watching your expression from the corner of your eye. The smug little smile spreading across her face told you she had noticed your momentary lapse immediately. 

Yelena burst into laughter, which stopped abruptly when she realized he was in fact not actually going to take the mask off. 

“Wait, you’re serious? You’re not going to take it off?” 

He slips into the water, “It would defeat the whole anonymous thing.” 

“Even for your girlfriend, or boyfriend, or whatever.” She trails off, “You know there’s fanart-“ 

You tuned her out almost immediately, letting the words fade into meaningless background noise while she enthusiastically listed the bizarre piece of online fan art she’d stumbled across. You had long ago accepted that Yelena somehow found herself on the strangest corners of the internet imaginable, usually against her own will and yet somehow always with enough curiosity to constantly send links to the group chat. Bucky had blocked her long ago. 

The first night she downloaded Twitter, she had run into the common room, her tablet clutched in her hand her eyes searching for Bucky as he very innocently was eating his popcorn. “Barnes, have you ever heard of Sambucky? Or a website called AO3?” 

You’re pulled out of the memory when Spider-Man speaks up again. 

“- Look, I don’t have anyone. I kinda keep to myself.” 

“All by yourself? All the time?” Her voice falls. “No wonder you’re so sad.” 

“I’m not so sad.” He lies, his voice rising a pitch. 

“A little bit.” She mumbles, then her shoulders straighten as if she just got the idea of a lifetime. “You know, my sister here is very lonely too. She says she is not, but yet every weekend she is with me or eating ice cream pretending we cannot hear her watching those horrible American movies through the walls.”

You turn your head to her, expression blank. “Yelena.”

“Can we talk about what I came here to talk about? The attack on Damage Control. ” Spider-Man buts in, making you nod in agreement. 

“Yes, can we?” 

“Right,” The shit-eating grin is still wide on her face, “So that is more your area. Like small potato, whereas the New Avengers are focusing on big potato stuff.” 

“Right, there’s more to it than that.” He adds. Going on about what he had learned the past day and giving details of the incident that had not been made public yet. 

The warmth of the water settled around you as you absentmindedly dragged your fingers across its surface, watching small ripples spread between the three of you while you pieced together everything he was saying. After a long moment, you glanced toward Yelena.

“So you think it’s something like what they used on us?” you asked quietly. “The conditioning. Whatever they did to the other widows.”

“That was my first thought,” Spider-Man admitted, looking toward Yelena.

“It’s not,” She replied without a second’s hesitation.

Spider-Man frowned beneath the mask. “You’re sure?”

”It is more like possession."

You hum, your hands still moving the water around in front of you as they talk, letting Yelena fill the two of you in on what she knew. Unfortunately, every road ended exactly where it had begun. The New Avengers had no additional intelligence, no active investigation, and no plans to divert resources toward Damage Control while larger threats occupied their attention.

Spider-Man didn’t argue, but disappointment settled visibly across his shoulders all the same. The hopeful energy he’d arrived with slowly disappeared beneath the weight of another dead end, and after sitting quietly for a moment, he let out a long sigh before pushing himself up from the water.

“Fine,” he muttered, reaching for the towel he’d left folded on the bench. “I’ll just go ask Damage Control myself.”

You very intentionally kept your eyes fixed somewhere above his shoulder, refusing to acknowledge the beads of water slowly tracing paths over abs that the suit had done an excellent job of concealing. Or the way the veins in his muscles flexed when he pulled himself up. Or the way his boxers clung to his thick thighs. 

“You know,” Yelena said with far too much innocence to be trusted, “you’re not completely anonymous anymore.”

Spider-Man paused in the middle of grabbing his clothes. “What?”

“I’ve seen your belly button.”

All you could do was sigh, letting your body sink further into the water until your chin was covered. 

“…Uh,” Spider-Man finally managed after several painfully long silent seconds, “okay.”

“Goodbye, Yelena,” he said, already halfway through the doorway before remembering to glance toward you. “And… goodbye, Y/N.”

The heavy iron door barely had time to swing shut behind him before he was gone, leaving a trail of wet footprints stretching down the hallway outside. You waited until the echo of his footsteps disappeared before leaning over and bumping your shoulder against Yelena’s.

”You’ve scared him off.” 

“Hmm, something is telling me you’ll see him again.” She smirks.

Before you had the chance to ask what exactly that was supposed to mean, Yelena slipped beneath the surface without another word, disappearing completely beneath the rippling water while you were left staring after her, equal parts amused and unconvinced.

News of the attacks seemed impossible to escape days later. Every television hanging in an airport terminal, every radio crackling through military transports, every phone notification carried another version of the same story, each one somehow more unbelievable than the last. 

 The majority of your updates came from Yelena, whose texts arrived at all hours of the day with the urgency of someone who had remembered a detail halfway through another conversation. It was a lot of, “Just talked to Spider-Man;)))))) u wish this was u huh?????” 

You and Bucky had spent the better part of the week chasing leads that dissolved into nothing before you could ever get close enough to investigate. Reconnaissance, surveillance, more reconnaissance, another anonymous tip that turned into an abandoned warehouse with little more than stale coffee cups and dust to show for it. By the time your transport finally touched back down stateside, you felt like you’d spent more time staring through binoculars than actually accomplishing anything. 

“Remind me why people still choose to live in New York,” you muttered as you dropped a thick stack of mission reports onto Val’s desk with enough force to make the folders slide apart. “

“I’ve stopped wondering.” Bucky admitted, “It was nicer in the 40s.”

You sighed, rubbing absentmindedly at the side of your neck where the edge of your Kevlar vest had spent the last several days digging relentlessly into your skin. The movement earned an immediate wince as the irritated patch protested beneath your fingertips.

“You should put ice on that,” Bucky said, noticing before you’d even finished reaching for it. He shrugged off his own tactical vest with considerably more irritation than necessary before tossing it onto the chair beside him. “Couple more days in these things and it’s going to rub you raw. These vests are garbage.”

“They’re definitely not sized correctly.”

“They’re not sized correctly because procurement buys whatever’s cheapest.”

A tired laugh escaped you. “I think Val just hates us.”

“I’ll have her order us different sizes,” he continued, already looking toward her office despite knowing she was deliberately never here. “These are shit.”

You smiled despite yourself, unfastening the last strap before setting your own vest aside. “Thanks, Bucky.”

“So what’s next?”

“I think…” You stretched your shoulders until your back gave a satisfying pop. “I might stop by Yelena’s office.”

He raised an eyebrow knowingly. “Checking on your sister?”

“And Spider-Man.” You said casually, “Heard he got shot, she’d know how he’s doing” 

“Oh? That’s it huh?” 

“I just want to know how his Damage Control adventure went.” You defended yourself, despite there being no reason to. 

Bucky laughed quietly through his nose. “Good luck with that.”

“Yelena?” you called as you nudged the heavy iron door open with your shoulder, expecting to be greeted by either an insult or something thrown in your general direction.

Instead, silence answered you.

The bath sat empty, steam lazily drifting through the room while the familiar scent of cedar, herbs, and eucalyptus lingered in the warm air. The water rippled softly beneath the lantern light, untouched except for the occasional drip falling from the ceiling into the pool below. You still wondered how this building managed to keep up with the humidity. 

You frowned, pulling your phone from your pocket.

I’m at your office. Where are you?

The typing bubble appeared almost instantly.

running 2 get food

Another notification popped up before you could even lock your screen.

do u want blini

wait no dumplings

there's an ice cream cart do u want 

of course u want why do i ask

Then another.

I'll get them all brb

there's new vodka stashed under the third bench, landlady got a new bottle from home country 

You couldn’t help smiling. 

thanks. I’ll warm the bath for you. bring me a tea 

Her reply came so quickly you wondered if she’d been holding the phone the entire time.

yayyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy girly time 

Chuckling to yourself, you slipped your phone onto one of the dry benches before slipping your clothes off in an untidy pile until all that remained was the comforting humidity wrapping around your skin.

You eased yourself carefully down the stone steps until the water climbed past your ankles, your knees, your waist, every aching muscle loosening a little more with each inch. The heat seeped deep into your bones, unraveling tension you hadn’t even realized you’d been carrying since boarding the quinjet days earlier.

By the time the water reached your shoulders, the exhaustion finally caught up with you.

A quiet, involuntary moan escaped your lips as you leaned your head back against the smooth stone edge of the bath, your eyes slipping closed while the warmth wrapped around every sore joint and bruised muscle. For the first time in what felt like days, your breathing slowed, your shoulders finally relaxed.

So completely, in fact, that you never heard the heavy iron door slowly creak open behind you.

”Uh, Ms. Y/n?” A timid voice spoke, making the tension rise back in your shoulders as you jumped. The bright red suit made your heart race out of shock and a weird sense of nervousness at being here alone with him.

“G-God, I’m so sorry,” he blurted, spinning around so quickly he nearly lost his footing on the damp stone. His back was to you before you’d even managed to respond, his hands raised awkwardly as if surrendering. “I didn’t mean to walk in on you. Yelena said she’d be here today and I just… I thought…” He groaned quietly to himself. 

You couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you.

“It’s okay,” you said, your voice softer now as the adrenaline finally ebbed away. “Really. She’s just getting food. She should be back any minute.”

“I’ll just wait here.” 

“Spidey,” You pout playfully, splashing the water to beckon him in, “Join me.” 

“Are you sure?”

”Yes.”

“I was actually…” He hesitated, sounding almost embarrassed to admit it. “I was kind of looking forward to the soak.”

That pulled a genuine laugh from you. “Right?”

He glanced over his shoulder just enough that you caught the sheepish grin tugging beneath the edge of the mask. 

“I wasn’t sure if it was weird that I was, I’ll just change.”

“It took me a while too,” you admitted, as he disappeared into the stall, “The first time Yelena dragged me down here I thought she’d finally lost her mind. Now I’m her after almost every mission.”

”Man,” He says through muffled fabric, equipment dropping on the wood bench, “I’d love to come and soak after a long day.” 

“I’m sure Yelena would allow it, as long as you don’t throw a party in here or tell anyone or make a mess.” You drag on, smiling as he came into view. This time with no towel wrapped around him, just his boxers clinging expertly to him as he stepped inside the water.

He leaned back against the stone edge with a contented sigh, finally allowing his shoulders to drop. For the first time since you’d met him, he looked… peaceful.

It was then your eyes caught the scar.

Angry red tissue stretched across his side just beneath his ribs, the wound still fresh despite already being sealed shut. The edges remained inflamed, the skin surrounding it slightly pink from rapid healing that no ordinary body should have been capable of.

He followed your gaze and instinctively looked down at himself. “Oh, that.”

One hand brushed lightly across the mark before he flexed experimentally, watching the skin pull without discomfort.

”I was going to ask, how you were doing. Yelena was giving me updates.” 

“Doctor’s said it will leave a nasty scar, but I heal faster than most.” His voice is quieter now, reflective as you stare at him. “I can barely feel it.” 

“This was a gunshot that almost killed you, just days ago?” 

He nodded, sensing your hesitation. “You can touch it.” 

He wasn’t entirely sure why he’d offered. Maybe because it didn’t hurt anymore, or maybe because the concern written so plainly across your pretty face made something warm settle in his chest. There was something strangely comforting about it, enough that he found himself hoping you would say yes before he’d even realized he’d been hoping at all.

You held his gaze through the mask for a brief moment, silently asking if he was certain, and when he gave another small nod you pushed gently through the water until barely a foot separated the two of you. The movement sent soft ripples across the surface, brushing against his shoulders as you lifted your hand. Instead of pressing your palm directly against the wound, the backs of your knuckles grazed lightly across the newly healed skin, careful enough that it almost wasn’t a touch at all.

“I heal faster due to a diluted version of the serum they give us widows, but nothing like this.” Your fingertips traced lightly around the edge of the injury without putting pressure on it, fascinated by how smooth the tissue already felt. “But nothing like this. This shouldn’t even be closed yet.”

“Y-Yeah…”

The word caught somewhere in his throat.

A visible shiver rolled across his shoulders, one that had absolutely nothing to do with the temperature of the water. It was the realization that you were standing impossibly close now, naked underneath the murky water, and close enough that he could count the droplets of water clinging to your shoulders, close enough that every sensible thought he’d had moments earlier evaporated into steam.

His eyes betrayed him.

For only the briefest second, they dipped downward before he caught himself, snapping immediately back to your face with an expression that could only be described as horrified with himself.

“I’ve…” He cleared his throat a little too forcefully. “I’ve been having some issues with my DNA and the spider thing.” 

“The spider thing.” You echo, urging him to continue.

He rubbed the back of his neck, grateful for the excuse to look anywhere but directly at you.

“It sounds ridiculous when I say it out loud, but my arachnoid DNA started climbing way higher than it’s supposed to. I was acting… not exactly like myself for a while.” He gestured vaguely with one hand, struggling to summarize weeks of bizarre mutations. “I’ve started shooting webs out of my actual wrists instead of using web shooters, and apparently that’s only one of the side effects. Everything is stabilizing now, though. I’m… mostly normal again.”

Your expression shifted from amusement to fascination almost instantly. “Out of your wrists?”

Before he could answer, your hand had already slipped from his side to his forearm. Your fingers wrapped gently around his wrist, turning it over in the warm water until the small opening nestled against his skin came into view. 

“I used to make web fluid, but now it’s all homegrown.” He jokes, but goes silent when you don’t laugh instead you’re too fascinated. 

“Do you shoot webs from other places?” 

“Oh, no. Absolutely not. No, no.” He shook his head so quickly a few damp curls escaped the edge of the mask. “Just… just the wrists. I’m very normal everywhere else.”

A small hum escaped you, thoughtful more than anything else.“That’s a shame.”

“…I’m sorry.”

“I said that’s a shame.”

“No, I heard you. You sound… disappointed.”

“I’m not disappointed,” you corrected with a sheepish smile, finally releasing his wrist. “I just think it would’ve been kind of interesting.”

For a long second he simply stared at you.

“What? I like spiders too, you know?”

Then a laugh escaped him, bright and completely unrestrained, echoing warmly off the cedar walls. He shook his head, still smiling to himself as he looked down at the water between you.

“You widows,” he shook his head, “You guys are something else.” 

“Hmm, and what about you, Spidey? What are you?” 

He pauses for a moment, his mind going back to the first night he officially met you in this bath, the towel clutched around him while Yelena spoke enough for the both of you. 

“I am lonely,” he admitted at last, the confession coming softer than he’d intended. There wasn’t any self-pity in his voice, only a quiet sort of acceptance. “It’s… gotten better lately. A lot better, actually. But your sister was right.” He laughed weakly to himself, shaking his head. “I hate giving her that satisfaction.”

Your smile widened despite yourself. “So do I, but alas she keeps being right.” 

He shifts a little closer, either consciously or subconsciously you don’t know. Close enough that you could make out the constellation of freckles scattered across his shoulders. Close enough to hear the steady rhythm of his breathing over the gentle splash of water against the stone. Close enough that every time either of you shifted even slightly, your knees threatened to brush.

For reasons neither of you could explain, the room suddenly felt much warmer than it had a moment before.

“I’m not very good at… this,” Peter admitted with a nervous smile, gesturing vaguely between the two of you. “Talking to people, getting close to people. I mean I think you’re the first person to touch me in years. Is that depressing?” 

“A little.” You admit with a playful smile. “But I understand. Our lives, it’s impossible to have normal relationships.” 

“You don’t know the half of it.” He breathes out, and neither of you move. You both just sit there, relaxing against the concrete wall. The tension between the two of you is electric, it’s like every drop of water is drawing you closer to him.

The silence is only broken when he decides to speak up, “She sure is taking a while.” 

“She sure is…” You turn to him, “You really never take the mask off for anyone?” 

He shakes his head, “I try not to.” 

You watch the fabric strain against his lips, and you yearn to see how plump they are. What shade of pink, how they’d feel against your own. You wanna see his nose, feel it pressed against your skin, to watch his eyes as you touch him.

“Not even a little?” You ask, your palms moving up to cup his cheek. 

“It’s easier this way.” He says and he’s not sure if he’s telling you, or trying to convince himself. His body ignites with each rub of your fingers against the fabric. 

You sit up, your hands falling to his shoulders.

“Is this okay?” 

“More than okay.” He whispers, in awe as you practically tangle yourself in his lap. He holds you gracefully, and respectfully as you straddle him. You can feel his boxers against your inner thigh as his hands hover respectfully on the outside of your ribcage to keep you balanced. 

Your fingertips trace the outline of his face, trying to memorize the feel of his cheekbones. 

“I’ve spent so long wondering what you look like under there,” you admitted, your voice barely louder than your own breathing. 

“Just like anyone else.” He managed to get out, his mouth going dry as he all but melted underneath your touch. 

“I find that,” You lean forward, pressing a kiss to his fabric-covered forehead, “Very hard to believe.” 

He shivers, fingers digging into your skin as you press long kisses down his cheeks right to where the mask ends and his skin begins. 

“Would you,” The warmth of your breath makes the hair on his neck stand up, “Be willing to move the mask up about, an inch or two?” 

“I-“ 

“You don’t have to.” You remind him, leaning back to catch his eyes again. “I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable-“ 

One hand leaves your skin, pulling the mask up just enough to expose his plump and waiting lips. There’s barely enough time to stare at the new part of him before he's pulling your lips into his. It’s a little clumsy at first, awkward with the bunched-up mask rubbing against your nose, but you make it work. His lips were warm against yours, opening his mouth at the first swipe of your tongue against it. 

He pulls away with a gasp, “Can I touch you?” 

You’re nodding before he can get it out, letting his head drop down so his mouth could suck and bite at your chest. Your nipples are pebbled by being exposed to the cool air, only warming once he pulls one into his warm and waiting mouth. 

One of his hands is already guiding your legs apart, his fingers slipping in between your folds. 

“You’re so wet.” He whispered against your tits. 

“We’re in water.” Your eyes were closed, relishing the feeling of the gentle circles he was rubbing into your aching clit. 

“And I’ve been able to smell you since I walked in, you can’t hide from me.” 

Your heart rate picks up, and he no doubt feels that too as he slips a finger inside of you. You’re all but grinding against his fingers, your clit brushing against the raised spot on his wrist. 

“F-fuck,” You cry out, “Can feel your wrist throbbing against me.” 

“It wants to shoot webs at you, wants to wrap you in them. Keep you all for myself,” He whispers, “You’d like that wouldn’t you? You want me to fuck my webs into you.”

There’s no shame to be had at the fire that licks in your lower belly at his words as you nod frantically. 

In a split second you’re being pulled up from the water, and laid down on a towel. Your head propped up by his discarded suit bunched up as he hovers above you. 

He leans down and licks a strip of water droplets from your tits, before his hand travels back down to your cunt. 

There’s a soft hiss as his webs disperse onto you, they’re warm and sticky and practically dissolve into your wetness as he slides two fingers inside of you. With each brush of your clit against his wrist, he dribbles out fluid that only makes him fuck into you faster. His fingers curl expertly, and the sounds bouncing off the walls of the bath are lewd. 

“You’re so dirty,” He growls against your skin, feeling every nerve on his body stand up. The inhibitor did little to quell just how feral he felt pressed against you. His cock was hard in his boxers, rutting against the soft skin of your leg to dull the ache. “You know, this is how spiders mate. They roll their sperm into webs and fuck them into the female.” 

Your moan is broken off into confusion as you watch him, a small smile on his lips. “Yeah?” 

“Sorry,” He whispered, his fingers still prying the nastiest sounds from your heat. “This is really hot.” 

“You know, widows kill their mate after sex.” You manage to stutter out. 

“Are you gonna kill me?” He asks, pressing harshly against your clit with another messy ooze of his webs. 

“G-god no, I’m gonna cum.” You’re all but gasping as he pries an orgasm out of you 

Your legs are shaking, chest heaving by the time you come to. He’s still sitting between your legs, boxers still on as he presses gentle kisses to your thigh. 

You try to take him off guard by flipping him over onto his back, as gently as you could. He lands with a huff, and you pretend he didn’t see that coming. The view of you on top of him has him reeling, your tits bouncing as you tug briskly down at his boxers, pressing your lips to his.

“I can’t,” He pulls away from your lips reluctantly, “I can’t take the mask off.” 

“I don’t care.” You sigh pressing your lips harshly against his again. 

When he pulls away this time, a thread of spit connects your mouths. “I'm sorry, I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable if you can’t see me-“

”I don’t care,” You echo, “I just wanna feel you.” 

“The mask stays on.” He asks, once more to confirm. 

“The mask stays on.” You agree, digging your nails into his shoulder blades as you reach down to guide his aching cock to your entrance. You slide down on him with a satisfying hiss, gasping at the stretch of him. His cock is so thick, you have to pace yourself before your hips meet his.

“God.” He seethes through his clenched jaw, his eyes rolling back into his head. You wished so badly to see the pathetic, fucked out look on his face. “You feel so good.” 

“You’re huge.” You sigh contentedly, rocking your hips lazily against his as his tip presses gently into your sweet spot each time. 

You ride him slowly, relishing the moans leaving his glossy lips. Or the way his abs tense every few seconds as you bounce and grind against him. It’s frantic, but intimate as you fall apart above him. 

“You’re so beautiful.” He pants, watching your thighs shake as the thick curve of his cock pressed against the deepest parts of you. 

“Spidey.” You moaned, your palms heavy on his chest as you tried to keep up your rhythm, failing when the pleasure overtook you.

“Right there, baby. Fuck.” The term of endearment leaves his mouth recklessly as he leans up, the soles of his feet hitting the ground as he fucks up into you. His hands are on your tired hips, picking you up and fucking yourself on his cock as if you weigh nothing. He hit every single spot inside of you, the bulge of him pressing deep against your stomach as you cried out for him. 

“I’m gonna- I’m gonna-“ 

“I got you,” He cooed, “Cum for me, let me feel you.” 

He felt every second of it, as you spasmed and came around him. It wasn’t too long before he followed behind you, letting your cunt milk him for every drop of his cum. It was warm, and thick. You’ve never felt this full before, it felt like he was coating your insides, claiming you as his. 

“Spidey,” You mumbled, “That was…” 

“I know…” He sighed dreamily, rubbing gentle circles into your hips from where he still lazily held you.

You pull off of him with a lewd pop, his release dribbling down your inner thighs. 

“It’s so thick.” You stare in amazement, a finger gliding through the thickened cum.

He sits up quickly, head tilting in confusion. “That’s- it’s not webbing.” 

“Definitely not normal.” You giggle like a schoolgirl,. “Don't worry. I’m into it. Majorly.” 

He shakes his head in disbelief, watching each sway of your hips as you slide into one of the shower stalls. He just lays there, chest still heaving in disbelief that the past twenty minutes have even happened. 

“You not gonna clean me up, Spidey?” You speak through the haze of the shower spray and a smirk falls on your face when you hear his feet frantically slapping against the wet concrete.

That’s how Yelena finds the two of you, your back pressed against the metal of the stall door. The water long gone cold as Spider-Man had your eyes shut in pleasure while he fucks up into you harshly, blubbering out pathetic moans of your name. 

You’re still sensitive and so full from his last release by the time he slides into you again. He leaves no stone unturned as he urges you to come apart around him again, and again. 

“Yes, yes,” He grunted, “Is this okay?” 

“Yes.” You cried out, your legs locking around his ass to prevent him from stopping, as if he’d ever dream of it, “Please don’t stop. I’m right there, right fucking there.” 

The metal stall was shaking with the ferocity of it, the sound of his hips slapping against yours drowned out by your cries. 

“Are you gonna cum?” He panted, his fingers already rubbing at your swollen clit, “I need you to cum for me.” 

“I’m gonna cum,” You nod, “Just keep going. Yeah, like that fuck. Fuck, Spidey I’m cumming.” 

“M’behind you.” His hips stuttered as your cunt suckled him in and drank in every drop of thick cum he released deep inside of you. 

“Fuck.” You laughed lazily, pressing your sweaty temple against his shoulder. He shuddered when he tried to pull out, his cum plopping out of you and clinging to his cock like glue. “Guess you gotta stay inside of me.” 

“There’s worse places to be.” He laughed, pressing a gentle kiss to your head. 

The blissful afterglow was interrupted by a loud throat clearing, Yelena’s voice carrying through the steam.

You'd been driving for what felt like hours.

The sun had disappeared not too long ago, leaving the country roads illuminated by little more than your headlights and the occasional glow of the moon overhead. The journey had started pleasantly enough. There was something oddly calming about being alone with your thoughts, watching the scenery change from busy highways to endless fields and quiet back roads. You hadn't minded the drive at all. In fact, for most of it, you'd been singing along to the radio without a care in the world, drumming your fingers against the steering wheel whenever a favourite song came on and laughing to yourself whenever you forgot half the lyrics. There was nobody around to hear you, after all, and that somehow made it even more enjoyable.

Eventually, though, the music faded into bursts of static as you drove further into the countryside. You twisted the dial a few times in search of another station, but every attempt was met with the same crackling interference. With a small sigh, you admitted defeat and switched the radio off altogether.

"Well... that's just rude," you muttered to yourself with a small smile.

The silence settled around you almost immediately.

It wasn't unpleasant, but it did give your mind far too much room to wander. You found yourself thinking about how much longer you had left to drive, whether the little town marked on your map was actually as close as it claimed to be, and if it would still have somewhere open by the time you arrived. You were beginning to regret not stopping at the last gas station you'd passed nearly an hour ago—not because you needed fuel, but because at least there had been people there. Out here, there was nothing but open land stretching endlessly in either direction.

You glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was later than you'd realized. 'If I'd known this road was gonna take forever...' you sighed, shaking your head. Almost as though the car had taken your complaint personally, it gave a small shudder beneath you. Your eyebrows drew together.

"...Huh."

You loosened your grip on the steering wheel for a second before tightening it again, listening carefully. The engine continued to hum as it always had, and after another few seconds you convinced yourself it had probably just been a bump in the road.

Then it happened again. This time there was no mistaking it.

A strange sputter echoed from somewhere beneath the bonnet, followed by a brief hesitation that caused the car to jerk ever so slightly before carrying on.

"Oh, no..."

You instinctively looked down at the dashboard, your eyes darting between the gauges as though one of them might explain what was happening. Everything seemed... normal enough. Nothing immediately jumped out at you.

"C'mon," you murmured a little desperately, giving the steering wheel an encouraging little pat. "Don't start acting up now..."

You pressed your foot a little more firmly against the accelerator. The car responded. For all of thirty seconds. Then the engine coughed again, louder this time.

Your stomach sank.

"No, no, no..."

Your gaze immediately searched the road ahead. Nothing. You checked your rear-view mirror. Still nothing.

Not a single pair of headlights. Not another car. Not even a farmhouse with a porch light glowing in the distance. The realization settled over you far quicker than you'd have liked.

If something happened to the car out here, you were completely on your own.

"...Okay," you whispered to yourself, taking a slow breath. "Think."

You reached across to the passenger seat and rummaged through your bag, eventually pulling out the folded road map you'd been relying on all afternoon. You unfolded it across the steering wheel, smoothing out the stubborn creases with your palm as your eyes searched for where you thought you might be. You thought.

There was one problem.

Every winding road on the page suddenly looked identical beneath the dim glow of the dashboard lights. With a quiet huff, you folded it back up again, and tossed it onto the passenger seat. Maybe you could flag somebody down.

The thought barely had time to settle before you looked through the windshield again. There wasn't anybody to flag down. Not a single passing car.

You chewed thoughtfully on the inside of your cheek before reaching for the door handle.

The night air greeted you immediately, warm but noticeably cooler than it had been during the day. It carried the scent of grass and fresh earth, accompanied by the constant chorus of crickets hidden somewhere amongst the fields. Closing the car door behind you, you wrapped your arms loosely around yourself and looked up and down the road once more, almost hoping that standing outside would somehow make another driver magically appear.

No such luck.

With a defeated sigh, you walked around to the front of the car and released the bonnet latch from inside. A moment later, you lifted it open, propping it up as you stared into the engine. You had absolutely no idea what you were looking at.

There were... engine things. Hoses. Metal. More hoses.

You blinked.

"...Yep."

You couldn't help but laugh quietly to yourself. It was either laugh or cry, and crying wasn't likely to get the engine running again.

Resting your hands on the edge of the bonnet, you let out a long breath and looked across the dark fields surrounding you. They seemed endless beneath the moonlight, interrupted only by the occasional line of fencing disappearing over the hills.

Beautiful.

Just not somewhere you'd particularly wanted to spend your evening. You wondered briefly how long it'd be before somebody happened to drive this way.

Ten minutes? An hour? Morning?

The last possibility made you straighten slightly.

Morning.

You looked back towards the car, then down the empty road stretching out in front of you. No. Surely not.

You weren't going to spend the entire night sitting on the side of some unfamiliar country road waiting for daylight. There had to be another option. There was always another option. At least, that was what you told yourself.

You lowered the bonnet again and walked back around to the driver's side, opening the door and reaching inside for your bag. Your first thought was your phone, even though you already knew what you were going to find. You picked it up anyway, pressing the button and waiting for the screen to light up.

No signal.

You stared at it for a moment longer than necessary, as though the little bars in the corner might suddenly appear out of pity. They didn't.

You let out a quiet sigh of defeat and lowered the phone into your lap.

It was strange how quickly a situation could change. Less than an hour ago, you had been enjoying the drive, singing along to the radio and thinking about how peaceful the countryside was. Now you were sitting in a car that refused to start, in the middle of nowhere, trying to figure out what your next move was.

You weren't someone who scared easily. Usually, when something went wrong, you were the person who tried to stay calm and find a solution. Panicking never helped anything, and you knew that. But there was something unsettling about not knowing what came next.

You didn't know how far away the nearest person was. You didn't know if anyone would even pass by. You didn't know if your car was dealing with a small problem that could be fixed in the morning or something much worse. The uncertainty was what bothered you the most.

You rested your head back against the seat, closing your eyes for a moment.

"Okay," you whispered again, mostly to yourself. "Don't panic."

Taking a deep breath, you opened your eyes and looked around the car. There was a small blanket folded in the backseat, a half-empty bottle of water, and a few snacks you'd bought earlier without thinking much about them. Not exactly enough supplies to spend a night stranded, but enough to make you feel slightly less helpless.

You reached for the blanket, placing it beside you, before looking back out through the windshield. You glanced at the road once more, wondering if you should try walking.

Maybe there was a house nearby that you hadn't noticed. Maybe someone would answer the door and let you use their phone.

But the thought of leaving your car behind made you hesitate.

What if someone came by and moved it? What if you walked in the wrong direction? What if the nearest house was much further away than it looked?

You hated admitting it, but you didn't actually know what to do.

For a few minutes, you simply stood there beside the open car door, listening to the sounds around you. The quiet hum of the night. The wind moving through the grass. The distant sound of something you couldn't identify somewhere far out in the fields.

Then, just as you were beginning to accept that you might have to wait it out...

You heard something. At first, you thought it was your imagination. A faint sound in the distance. You held still, listening carefully.

There it was again.

An engine.

Your eyes immediately lifted towards the road.

For a second, you weren't sure if you should feel relieved or cautious.

A pair of headlights appeared in the distance, slowly making their way towards you. The sight of them made your shoulders relax before you even realised how tense you had been.

Someone was coming.

You stepped away from the car slightly, watching as the vehicle approached. The headlights grew brighter, illuminating the empty road in front of it as the sound of the engine became louder.

It was an old pickup truck.

And although you were grateful that someone had finally come along, you couldn't ignore the small voice in the back of your mind reminding you that whoever was driving was still a stranger.

So you stayed where you were, waiting.

The truck slowed as it reached you, eventually pulling over a short distance ahead of your car.

The engine remained running for a moment.

Then the driver's door opened slowly, and for a moment all you could see was the silhouette of the person stepping out against the glow of the headlights behind him.

He wasn't what you had expected.

You weren't entirely sure what you had expected, truthfully. Maybe some tired-looking mechanic who had happened to come across you on his way home, or perhaps someone who would immediately ask what was wrong with the car before anything else.

A cowboy hat rested on his head, casting a shadow over his features, and he wore a simple button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled up slightly, paired with worn jeans and boots that looked like they had seen plenty of long days outside. There was nothing particularly intimidating about him. If anything, the way he approached you was careful and considerate.

A flashlight hung loosely in one hand, though he kept it pointed towards the ground rather than directly at you. He stopped a few feet away from you, leaving enough distance between you that you didn't feel cornered.

"Evenin'," he greeted. His voice was softer than you expected.

You gave him a small nod.

"Hello."

His eyes briefly moved towards your car, taking in the open bonnet before looking back at you.

"Everythin' alright?"

There was genuine curiosity in the question. You let out a small breath, almost embarrassed by the situation. "Uh, no, not really—my car. It decided to just stop working..."

He glanced back at it again.

"Out here?"

You nodded.

"Apparently."

A small smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Well..." he murmured, adjusting the brim of his hat. "'s probably about the worst place she could've picked." Despite yourself, you smiled slightly.

"Yeah. I was thinking the same thing."

The man seemed to relax a little when he saw you smile. He looked back towards the truck, then towards the road behind you.

"Been waitin' long?"

"Nah, not too long," you answered. He gave you a look that suggested he didn't quite believe you. A quiet chuckle left him.

"Right."

He took a step closer to the car, but stopped before reaching you.

"Name's Michael, by the way."

He removed his hat as he spoke, holding it against his side. It was such a simple gesture, but it immediately stood out to you. Like he had been raised to treat every introduction with a certain amount of respect. "'m sorry. I should've said that first."

You shook your head, "'s okay."

He smiled softly.

"Well, I'm Michael."

He paused, waiting for you to introduce yourself. When you did, he repeated your name quietly, committing it to memory.

"'s a pretty name for a pretty girl."

The words came out naturally. Almost as if he hadn't realized he'd said it aloud until after he had. You just blinked at him, taken aback by the bluntness. A faint blush appeared on his face, and he cleared his throat before looking back towards the car.

"Mind 'f I take a look at it, suga'?"

The nickname caught you slightly off guard as well. But this time not because it felt inappropriate. Quite the opposite. The way he said it was so gentle, so naturally warm, that it felt less like flirting and more like a habit. Something he'd probably been saying his whole life.

You nodded. "uh, yeah sure. Go ahead."

"Alright."

He moved towards the front of the car, rolling his sleeves up a little further as he looked beneath the bonnet. You watched him for a moment.

There was a sense of relief that came with seeing someone who actually seemed to know what they were doing. You had tried your best, but staring at an engine and hoping it would explain itself had only gotten you so far. At least now there was someone who could take a proper look.

Michael leaned over the front of the car, his flashlight moving carefully over the different parts beneath the bonnet. Every now and then he hummed quietly to himself, not in frustration, but more like he was thinking through what he was seeing. You rested against the side of the car, watching him.

"Do you know much about cars?" you asked after a moment. He glanced up briefly.

"A little," he admitted. "Spent 'nough time fixin' up old trucks 'nd farm equipment that y' kinda pick things up whether y' want to or not."

There was a small smile on his face as he looked back down. "Can't say I ever planned on spendin' my evenings under a bonnet, though."

You smiled slightly too. "Sounds like you've had a lot of practice."

"More than I'd like," he chuckled softly. "Somethin' always needs fixin' when y' live out here." He moved something beneath the bonnet, checking a few different parts before stepping back slightly.

"How long has she been actin' up?"

You thought back. "Honestly? Not long. My car was fine most of the drive. The radio started cutting out first, and then itstarted making that weird sound." Michael nodded slowly.

"Mm."

That little sound made you look at him. "Is that a good 'mm' or a bad 'mm'?"

A quiet laugh escaped him.

"I'd say it's somewhere 'n the middle."

"That's not exactly reassuring."

"Nah, I know," he said, smiling. "Sorry, suga'."

There it was again. The nickname. You still hadn't quite gotten used to it. And if you were honest, it does make you blush a little.

Michael leaned back down, examining something near the engine.

"She ain't overheatin', is she?"

"No. The temperature looked normal."

"Strange smells?"

"No."

"Any noises before this?"

You thought for a second. "Just the sputtering."

He nodded again.

"Alright."

There was a brief silence as he continued checking over the car. You noticed that he wasn't rushing. He wasn't randomly pulling things apart or pretending to know exactly what was wrong. He was actually taking his time, trying to figure it out.

"Y' from 'round here?" he asked after a moment.

You shook your head.

"No. Just passing through."

"Thought so." You raised an eyebrow.

"What gave it away?"

He looked up, a small smile appearing.

"Well, folks 'round here know better than to take this road after dark unless they gotta."

You laughed quietly. "Good to know."

"Didn't mean it like that," he quickly added, almost as if he worried he had offended you. "Just... this road's pretty empty. Easy to get stranded."

"I figured that out."

That earned a small laugh from him.

"Yeah, I reckon you did."

He returned his attention to the engine, and for a while the only sounds were the night around you and the quiet movements of him working. It was odd.

A few minutes ago, you had been completely alone, wondering how long you would have to wait before anyone came by. Now you were standing beside a stranger's truck on the side of the road, and somehow the situation felt much less overwhelming.

After another few minutes of looking over everything, Michael finally straightened up, wiping his hands together as he stepped back from the engine.

You watched his expression carefully, trying to figure out whether he had good news or bad news before he even spoke. Unfortunately, his face didn't give much away.

"Well..." he started.

You waited hopefully. He looked back at the car, then at you.

"Don't think she's gonna be drivin' anywhere tonight."

You let out a quiet breath, though you weren't entirely surprised. Somewhere in the back of your mind, you'd already accepted that possibility.

"That bad?"

"No, I wouldn't say bad," he assured you quickly. "Just... ain't somethin' I can fix out here with what I got."

He reached down, closing the bonnet carefully.

"Looks like it's probably somethin' with the engine. Could be a few things, but I don't wanna start guessin' 'nd make it worse."

You nodded, appreciating that he didn't pretend to know more than he did. "So what does that mean?"

Michael glanced down the road, then back at you.

"Means y' probably need a mechanic."

You gave him a small, humorless laugh, "that would be easier 'f I only knew where one was."

"Closest one?"

You nodded.

"Yeah."

He was quiet for a moment.

"About thirty-five, forty miles."

Your eyebrows lifted. "You're kidding..."

"Wish I was."

You looked back at your car, then at the empty road ahead. That was definitely not the answer you were hoping for. Michael noticed the expression on your face and immediately softened.

"Hey."

You looked back at him.

"Don't worry. We'll figure somethin' out."

The way he said it was simple. Not like a promise that he could fix everything, but like a reminder that you weren't stuck dealing with it by yourself anymore. You nodded slowly.

"Thank you for stopping, by the way." He looked almost surprised by the gratitude.

"'Course."

"No, I mean it. You didn't have to..."

Michael shook his head slightly, putting his hat back on.

"Yeah, I did."

The answer came so naturally that you almost didn't know how to respond. He seemed to realize how certain he sounded and gave a small shrug.

"I mean... anybody would've stopped."

You both knew that probably wasn't entirely true. But you didn't point it out. Instead, you smiled a little.

"So what now?"

Michael looked back towards his truck.

"Well..."

He hesitated. And for the first time since he'd arrived, you noticed a little uncertainty in him.

"I got a place not too far from here," he explained. "Jus' a few minutes down the road."

You listened quietly.

"My mama raised me better than to leave somebody stranded out here overnight." A small smile appeared on his face.

"Especially not a lady."

The words made you smile slightly.

"Your mom sounds like a good woman."

"She is."

There was a warmth in his voice when he said it that made it clear there was no hesitation behind the statement.Michael looked back towards the road.

"You got somewhere y' supposed t' be tonight?"

You shook your head.

"Not really. I was just trying to get to the next town."

He nodded.

"Alright."

Another pause. Then he looked at you.

"Now, I know we're strangers, and I don't wanna make you uncomfortable, but..." He adjusted the brim of his hat, almost nervously.

"My place is right nearby. Got a spare room. You could use the phone, get yourself somethin' warm to eat, 'nd figure out what you wanna do in the mornin'."

He quickly continued before you could answer.

"Only if you're comfortable with that, of course. Don't want you thinkin' I'm just some fella offerin' up his house to a woman he just met."

A small laugh escaped you. "I wasn't thinking that."

"Good," he said, smiling faintly. "Just wanted t' make sure."

You looked down the empty road again.

Normally, you wouldn't consider accepting an invitation from a stranger. You knew better than that. But there was something about the way Michael carried himself, the way he had gone out of his way to make sure you felt comfortable, that made the idea seem less frightening. And besides...

You weren't exactly overflowing with better options. You looked back at him.

"How far is it?"

Michael smiled slightly.

"Not far. Five minutes."

You considered it for another moment before nodding.

"Okay."

His expression softened with relief.

"Alright."

He stepped back towards his truck.

"Go ahead 'nd grab whatever you need from your car. I'll give you a hand."

You opened the driver's door, reaching inside for your bag and the few things you'd need for the night. As you did, you couldn't help but glance back at him. Michael was standing beside his pickup, waiting patiently.

The drive to Michael's place was quiet at first. Not uncomfortable, just quiet.

You sat in the passenger seat of his truck, your bag resting beside your feet as you looked out the window at the fields passing by. It was strangely peaceful.

Michael kept both hands on the steering wheel, his attention mostly focused on the road ahead. Every now and then, though, he would glance over briefly, just to make sure you were alright. He tried not to make it obvious. He really did.

But now that you were sitting closer to him, it was a little harder to ignore.

When he had first stepped out of his truck, the darkness and distance had made it difficult to see much about him. Now, under the soft glow of the dashboard lights, he could see you properly. And he thought you were beautiful. Such a pretty girl.

Not just in the way people usually meant when they said something like that. It wasn't only your appearance, though he couldn't deny that you were very pretty. There was something about the way you carried yourself. The way you had tried to stay calm despite being stranded. The way you had thanked him more than once, even though he hadn't done anything extraordinary in his mind. You seemed kind.

And Michael liked kind.

He quickly looked back at the road when he realized he had been staring for a second too long.

"Everything alright?" you asked. His eyes flickered back towards you.

"Yeah," he said quickly. "Yeah, 'm alright."

You smiled slightly, though you weren't entirely convinced.

"You sure?"

He gave a small nod.

"Just thinkin'."

You looked back out the window.

"About my car?"

"That too."

There was a brief pause. Then, with a small smile, he added, "Mostly thinkin' about what I'm gonna do with it tomorrow."

You laughed softly, "I appreciate you taking this seriously."

"'Course."

The answer came easily. You looked at him for a moment. The same thing happened to you then. Up until now, you had mostly been focused on the fact that he was helping you. You had noticed his kindness, his manners, the way he spoke so gently. But sitting beside him like this, you had the chance to actually look at him. And you had to admit...

Michael was very handsome.

Not in an obvious, overly confident way. There was something softer about him. His features were gentle, his eyes kind, and there was an almost boyish quality to his smile that made him seem younger than you initially expected. You found yourself looking away when he glanced in your direction, suddenly aware that you had been staring.

"You always help strangers on the side of the road?" you asked, mostly to distract yourself. Michael just smiled.

"Not always."

You raised an eyebrow.

"No?"

"Nah."

You looked at him.

"Then why me?"

He thought about it for a moment before answering.

"'cause y' looked like y' needed help."

It was such a simple answer. You smiled softly.

"That's a pretty good reason."

Michael shrugged lightly.

"Seems like the right thing to do."

The truck continued down the road, the silence returning for a moment. Michael glanced over again when he thought you weren't looking. And this time, you noticed. You didn't say anything. You just smiled quietly to yourself and turned your attention back towards the window.

Usually, sitting in a stranger's car would have felt strange. You probably would've found yourself searching for something to say, filling every quiet moment just to avoid the unfamiliarity of it all. But with Michael, the silence seemed easy. Every now and then, he would ask you something small. Where you were headed. How far you'd been driving. Nothing too personal. And every time you answered, he listened.

"So," he said after a moment, one hand resting comfortably on the steering wheel, "what made you take this road anyway?"

You looked over at him.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, like I said before, most folks 'round here know better than t' take this way at night unless they live nearby."

You smiled slightly.

"That your way of saying I made a bad decision?"

He let out a quiet laugh.

"No, no. Ain't sayin' that." His eyes briefly flickered towards you before returning to the road.

"Just curious."

You looked back out the window. "I was trying to get somewhere faster."

Michael nodded.

"That usually ends up bein' how it goes."

"What does?"

"People tryin' to save time and endin' up takin' the longer way."

You laughed softly, "are you speaking from experience?"

He smiled.

"Maybe."

"You've done that before?"

"Maybe."

You smiled at that.

"Do you live alone?" you asked. The question came out naturally, though you immediately wondered if it was too personal. Michael didn't seem to mind it though.

"Nah," he answered. "My family lives close by."

"Oh."

He nodded.

"I've got my own place, but we're all still pretty close." There was a warmth in his voice when he spoke about them. You smiled.

"That sounds nice."

"It is."

The warmth inside the truck slowly became more noticeable as the drive continued.

At first, you hadn't minded it. After standing outside in the cool night air for so long, the heat had actually been comforting. But sitting beneath the soft glow of the dashboard lights with the windows rolled up, you started to feel a little too warm. You shifted in your seat, pulling lightly at the sleeves of your thin jacket.

Michael noticed the movement out of the corner of his eye.

"You alright?"

You looked over.

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just getting a little warm." He nodded, immediately turning his attention back to the road.

"Can turn the air up if ya need."

You smiled slightly.

"I think I'll survive."

"Alright. Just makin' sure suga''."

You shook your head amused. After another moment, you slipped the jacket off your shoulders, relieved to finally get rid of the extra layer of warmth. You folded it loosely and tossed it onto the passenger seat beside your bag, revealing the simple black tank top you had been wearing underneath.

The fabric is soft and clings to your curves, hugging your chest and stomach in a way that feels liberating despite the unfamiliar company.

The sudden movement draws Michael's attention. As you settle back into the seat, adjusting your position to find some relief from the heat, the low neckline of the tank top dips lower. Your breasts, full and soft, press against the dark fabric, creating a deep, inviting cleavage that catches the dim glow of the dashboard lights.

Michael's grip tightens fractionally on the steering wheel. His eyes betray him for a split second, flickering downward toward the swell of your chest before he forces them back to the road ahead. He swallows hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in the shadows. "Yeah..." he manages to rasp out, his voice sounding slightly rougher than it did moments before. "Could be gettin' warmer."

You notice the slight shift in his demeanor, the way his breathing seems to catch for a heartbeat, but you attribute it to the heat as well. "Mhm, it sure is."

You stretch your arms above your head, feeling the fabric of the tank top pull across your torso, emphasizing the soft swell of your hips and the generous curve of your waist.

Michael keeps his gaze fixed forward, but his jaw is set tight. He's hyper aware of your presence beside him now. He was fighting every inch of himself to not look over again. He did not want to come across as a creep and scare you off.

He just wasn't used to this.

Not the feeling itself, exactly. Michael had always appreciated beauty. He noticed it in people, in nature, in music. But there was something different about having someone sitting right beside him, someone whose presence he was becoming increasingly aware of.

And he didn't want to make you uncomfortable.

"So..." you said after a moment, breaking the quiet. Michael glanced over.

"Hm?"

"You said you live on a farm?"

He smiled.

"Yeah."

"Do you actually do all the farm stuff yourself?"

He chuckled, "Some of it. Ain't exactly easy work, but I like it."

"You don't get tired of it?"

He thought about it.

"Sometimes."

You laughed. "At least you're honest."

"Well, 'm not gonna lie 'nd say I wake up every mornin' excited to fix fences."

That made you laugh.

"But most days?"

"Most days, yeah."

You looked out at the passing fields again.

"I think I'd like that."

"Farm life?"

"Maybe. It seems peaceful."

Michaels face softened.

"It can be."

He paused.

"But it can also be a lot of work."

"I believe that."

Another quiet moment passed. Then Michael spoke again, his voice a little softer.

"You'll get to see it soon."

You looked back at him.

"The farm?"

He nodded.

"Yeah."

A small smile appeared on his face.

few minutes later, the glow of the headlights caught the outline of a house in the distance. You looked out the window as Michael turned the truck onto a gravel driveway, the tires crunching softly beneath you. The house wasn't anything extravagant, and honestly, you hadn't expected it to be. It was a simple farmhouse with a porch light glowing warmly near the front door, surrounded by open land that stretched out into the darkness. It looked comfortable. Lived in. Like a place where someone had spent years building a quiet life.

"This is it," Michael said, slowing the truck as he pulled closer to the house. You looked around, taking it in for a moment.

"It's nice."

Michael glanced over briefly, a boyish smile appearing on his face.

"Yeah. 's my home."

He parked the truck and turned off the engine, leaving the two of you sitting in the sudden quiet for a moment. Without the sound of the road beneath you, the night seemed even calmer. You could hear the faint sounds of the countryside around you—the wind moving through the fields, the occasional noise of an animal somewhere in the distance.

Michael reached for his keys before stepping out of the truck. You followed a moment later, grabbing your bag from the seat, though before you could properly lift it, Michael was already reaching for it.

"I got it." You looked at him.

"You really don't have to carry my things."

He looked almost confused by the statement.

"I know."

The simple answer made you smile a little. He wasn't doing it because he thought you couldn't handle it. He wasn't trying to make a point. It was just something he did without thinking. As you walked towards the house, Michael glanced over at you.

"Hope y' don't mind stayin' here tonight."

You shook your head. "Are you kidding? I'm just happy I don't have to figure out how to sleep in my car."

That earned a quiet laugh from him.

"Yeah, figured that probably wasn't the best option."

"No," you agreed. "Definitely not ideal."

Michael smiled slightly as he unlocked the front door.

"I got a spare room y' can use," he explained as he opened it. "'s nothin' fancy, but it's clean. There's fresh towels in there, 'nd y' can use whatever y' need. Bathroom's just down the hall."

You stepped inside, looking around as he switched on the lights.

The house felt exactly like you imagined it would. Not in a stereotypical way, but in a comfortable one. There were little signs of everyday life everywhere. A few things placed where they were actually used, furniture that looked like it had been there for years.

"Michael, this is already more than enough," you said. He looked back at you.

"Don't worry about it."

The way he said it was gentle, like he didn't want you feeling like an inconvenience. You followed him down the hallway as he showed you the room.

"I know this is probably a little strange," he admitted. "Comin' all the way out here 'nd endin' up at a stranger's place."

You tilted your head slightly.

"A little."

He nodded, almost expecting that answer.

"But I promise I ain't gonna make you regret it."

The words came out before he seemed to realize how serious they sounded. His cheeks warmed slightly, and he quickly looked away, adjusting the brim of his hat.

"I mean..." he added, a little awkwardly, "you know what I mean."

You couldn't help but giggle. "I do."

He seemed relieved. When he reached the spare room, he opened the door and stepped aside so you could see inside. It was simple, but comfortable. A neatly made bed, a small dresser, and enough space for your things. Nothing luxurious, but after spending the last hour wondering if you'd be sleeping in your car, it felt more than enough.

"Y' can put your bag there," Michael said, pointing towards the dresser. "'nd if you need anything, just call out."

You nodded.

"Thank you, Michael. Really."

He flashed you a smile.

"You're welcome."

There was a brief pause before he added, softer, "Make yourself at home, suga'."

After making sure you had everything you needed, Michael lingered for only a moment longer.

"Alright," he said softly. "I'll let you get some rest."

You nodded, suddenly realizing just how tired you actually were. The adrenaline from your car breaking down had kept you awake, but now that you were somewhere safe, the exhaustion was finally catching up with you. "Thank you again, Michael."

He smiled, shaking his head slightly. "You've thanked me enough times already."

"Still."

"Well... you're welcome." He stepped back towards the doorway, pulling his hat down slightly as he prepared to leave.

"'f y' need anythin', 'm right down the hall." You nodded. "I will."

"Alright, suga'. Goodnight."

"Goodnight, Michael." He gave you one last small smile before quietly closing the door behind him. The moment you were alone, you let out a long breath and looked around the room.

A few hours ago, you had been driving alone, singing along to the radio and thinking about nothing more than getting to your destination. Then your car broke down, a stranger found you, and now you were standing in a spare bedroom on a farm you hadn't even known existed.

You weren't sure how you felt about it all yet. But you were tired. Very tired. You pulled your phone from your bag and checked it again, though you already knew there still wasn't any signal. At least you had downloaded a few songs before the trip, so you wouldn't have to spend the night in complete silence.

You grabbed your earbuds, putting on a familiar playlist. The soft music filled the quiet room, giving you something familiar in a place that was still completely new.

The music through your earbuds helps block out the silence of the house as you move around the small room. You feel a little sticky from the drive and the humidity, so you decide to get out of your clothes before getting into bed.

You reached for the hem of your black tank top, pulling it over your head and setting it aside. You kick your by now uncomfortable pants off, leaving them in a heap on the floor.

You figured you were just going to sleep in your undergarments today, as the jeans and the tank top where a little too uncomfortable right now. For a moment you just stood there in the room, only wearing your matching black lace bra and panties, feeling the cool air from the room finally hit your skin.

Down the hall, Michael walked past the spare room with your thin jacket folded neatly over one arm.

He had noticed it sitting on the passenger seat of his truck when he went back outside to grab the rest of your things. At first, he had thought about simply leaving it on the chair in the hallway or outside your door, but then he figured it might get forgotten there. Besides, it was your jacket, and he knew the nights out here could get colder than people expected.

So, after a moment of hesitation, he decided he would just give it back to you.

He stopped outside the door, adjusting his grip on the jacket before raising his hand and knocking softly against the wood.

"Hey, suga'?"

No answer.

Michael waited a few seconds, glancing down the hallway. Maybe you hadn't heard him. He knocked again, a little louder this time.

"Sorry, 's just your jacket. Y' left it in the truck."

Still nothing.

He frowned slightly out of uncertainty. He didn't want to interrupt you if you were already asleep, but he also didn't want to leave without making sure you had it.

The faint sound of music coming from inside explained it. You must have your earbuds in. Michael hesitated for another moment before carefully opening the door just a little.

"Hey, I just wanted to—"

The words died in his throat immediatly.

You were standing in the middle of the room, facing away from him, and you weren't wearing your clothes. Well, you were barely wearing any clothes.

His brain took a full second to catch up. The black tank top was gone. The jeans were gone. In their place was a thin strip of black lace across your hips and a matching bra that pushed your tits up so high and so full he thought his heart might stop. The lamp on the bedside table threw warm light across your skin, catching the curve of your waist, the soft swell of your ass barely covered by the lace, the long line of your back.

Michael's hand went white-knuckled around the jacket.

He should move. He should turn around, close the door, walk away, pretend he never saw a thing. Every voice in his head was screaming at him to do exactly that. His feet wouldn't listen. His feet were bolted to the floor, and his eyes were locked on you, and his breath had gone somewhere he couldn't find it.

Then it hit him. Not the shame, not the guilt — that came later. First came the heat, low and sudden and brutal, surging up from his gut and slamming straight into his cock. It went hard so fast it almost hurt, a thick, heavy ache pressing against the inside of his jeans, and he felt himself twitch against the denim like his body had a mind of its own.

God. God, he shouldn't be looking. He shouldn't be standing here at all.

You shifted, reaching for something on the dresser, and the movement made your ass sway under the lace. Michael's mouth went dry. His cock throbbed, straining so hard against his jeans that he could feel every heartbeat in it, and the shame hit him then — hot and ugly and tangled up with the want until he couldn't tell them apart.

He couldn't do this. He couldn't stand here watching you like some animal.

Michael pulled the door shut as quietly as he could manage, the latch clicking soft behind him, and he was moving before he even knew he'd decided to. Down the hall, past the bathroom, into his own room. He closed the door and leaned his back against it, chest heaving, and his hand went to the front of his jeans before he could think better of it.

He was already so hard it hurt. The denim was tight and unforgiving around him, and when he pressed his palm flat against himself he let out a shaky breath through his teeth. He fumbled with the button, the zipper, shoved his jeans and his boxers down his hips, and his cock sprang free — heavy, thick, aching, flushed dark and leaking at the tip.

He wrapped his hand around it and his eyes fell shut.

He shouldn't be doing this. You were a guest in his house, a stranger he'd brought in off the road, a woman who'd trusted him enough to sleep under his roof. And here he was, jerking off to the memory of you in that black lace. Shame burned low in his belly, but it did nothing to cool the heat. If anything, it made it worse.

He worked his hand slow, up and down, and his mind went where it wanted to go.

He pictured you on your back in his bed, that black lace pushed up around your waist, your tits spilling out of the bra as he settled between your thighs. Pictured your legs wrapped around him, your heels digging into his back, the way you'd sound as you gasped his name when he pushed into you. He imagined the weight of you, the soft give of your hips under his hands, the way you'd feel clenching around him —

Michael's jaw clenched. A low sound rumbled up out of his chest and he stroked himself faster, thumb dragging over the head, smearing the slick that kept beading there.

Then he pictured you on top of him. Cowgirl. You straddling his hips, that black lace gone, your tits bouncing as you rode him, your head tipped back, your mouth open, taking him deep and slow and then fast, riding him until he couldn't think straight. He could almost feel your weight on his thighs, the heat of you, the way your cunt would grip him —

He was ashamed of himself. He was. But his hand kept moving, and his cock kept throbbing, and the image of you wouldn't leave him alone.

He pictured you bent over the edge of the bed, your ass in the air, that lace pulled to the side. Pictured himself behind you, hands on your hips, pushing into you from behind, watching the way you'd take him. He'd grab a fistful of your hair, gentle but firm, and pull your head back, and you'd moan his name —

Michael's breathing went ragged. He leaned his head back against the door and stroked himself harder, faster, chasing it, and the shame and the want tangled up until he couldn't separate them anymore. All he knew was the heat building low in his gut, the image of you burned behind his eyes, the sound of his own rough breathing filling the dark room.

He was so close. He could feel it building, coiling hot and tight, and he stroked himself with a desperate rhythm, his mind full of you — every position, every angle, every way he wanted to take you. The shame was still there, gnawing at the edges, but it only made the heat burn brighter.

His whole body tensed. He came with a shuddering gasp, his hips jerking into his fist, spilling hot and thick over his knuckles and his stomach, and for a long moment he just stood there, breathing hard, his forehead pressed to the door.

Michael looked down at his hand, at the mess he'd made, at the shame curling in his chest. He should feel worse. He knew he should. But all he could feel was the ghost of you — the curve of your waist, the swell of your pretty ass, the way the lamplight had caught your skin — and the knowledge that he was going to have a hell of a time looking you in the eye coming morning.

He cleaned himself up with a cloth from the bathroom and washed his hands. He didn't sleep much that night.

Morning came slow and pale through the curtains, the light thin and gray, and for a long moment you weren't sure where you were.

Then the smell of old wood and hay and something warm drifted in, and it all came back—

The broken-down car, the empty road, the cowboy who'd pulled over like he'd been sent for you.

You lay there a minute, letting the room come into focus. The bed was softer than you'd expected, the blanket heavy and warm. Outside, a rooster crowed somewhere distant, and you could hear the low sound of a truck engine idling, then cutting off. The farm was also waking up.

You stretched, the sheet slipping down your shoulders. The night air had cooled everything, and you reached for your clothes on the floor — your black tank top and the jeans and pulled them back on.

The hallway smelled like coffee. That was the first thing. Warm and dark and bitter, drifting up from somewhere downstairs, and your stomach turned over at the thought of it. You followed the smell down the stairs, past a coat rack and a stack of old boots, and the house opened into a kitchen at the back.

And there he was.

Michael stood at the counter with his back to you, one hand wrapped around a mug, the other holding a phone to his ear. He'd changed — fresh jeans, a clean flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the same worn boots. But the hat was still there, sitting easy on his head like it was part of him, and the sight of it made you smile.

"Nah, I told you," he was saying into the phone. "She just died on me. Right there 'n the side of the road, 'bout half a mile past the old Whitfield place. Engine sputtered out 'nd wouldn't start again."

A pause. He took a sip of coffee.

"I don't know what's wrong with it, 's the thing. 'm no mechanic, but I looked her over best I could. Somethin' with the engine, I reckon. Y' think y' could take a look at her?"

Another pause, longer this time. He nodded to himself.

"Mm-hm. Yeah. I got her here at the house. She's stayin' with me 'til we figure it out."

He glanced toward the window, and the morning light caught his profile — the line of his jaw, the way his brow furrowed a little as he listened. He was handsome in a way that snuck up on you, easy and unassuming, and you caught yourself staring.

"Alright," he said into the phone. "I'll bring her by tomorrow if that works. Appreciate it, Marlon. Yeah. You too."

He pulled the phone away from his ear, tapped the screen, and set it down on the counter with a small sigh. And then he turned, reaching for his coffee and stopped. His eyes landed on you standing in the doorway, and something flickered across his face. Surprise, maybe. Or something warmer. He blinked, and a smile pulled at the corner of his mouth, slow and easy.

"Mornin', suga'."

"Good morning," you said, and his smile widened a little.

"Sleep alright?"

"Better than I expected, honestly. That bed's real comfortable."

"Glad to hear it," he said, and he meant it. He gestured with his mug toward a chair at the kitchen table. "Coffee's fresh. Made it 'bout twenty minutes ago. There's eggs 'nd bacon if y' want somethin' to eat."

"You didn't have to do all that."

"No trouble," he said, already moving to the stove. "Was gonna make breakfast anyway. Just makin' a little more."

You sat down at the table, and he worked at the stove with his back to you, cracking eggs into a pan, the bacon already sizzling. The kitchen was warm and smelled like home, and for a minute you just watched him move — easy, unhurried, like he'd been doing this his whole life.

"Soooo, that was your brother on the phone?" you asked.

"Yeah," he said over his shoulder. "Marlon. He's the one in the family who actually knows his way 'round an engine. Runs a little repair shop over in the next town."

"Think he can fix my car?"

"If anybody can, it's him," Michael said. "Said he'll take a look at her tomorrow. I'll drive y' over there myself, if y' want."

"You'd do that?"

He turned, and there was something soft in his expression.

"Course I would."

He said it like it was the simplest thing in the world, and your chest did something quiet at the sound of it. He turned back to the stove, and the sizzle of the bacon filled the silence.

"You're really kind, Michael."

He ducked his head a little, and you could've sworn his ears went pink.

"Just doin' what's right."

He slid the eggs onto a plate, added the bacon, and brought it over to set in front of you. He was close enough that you caught his scent again. Dust, hay and soap, fresh from a morning shower, and something underneath that was just him.

"Eat up," he said, settling into the chair across from you with his own coffee. "Gonna be a long day."

You picked up your fork, and he watched you take the first bite. Then he reached for his mug, and his eyes drifted, just for a second, just a glance. Down over your shoulders, along the line of your neck, where the tank top sat loose against your collarbones.

And then he remembered.

It hit him all at once, the way it did every time he closed his eyes last night. You in that black lace, the lamp catching the curve of your waist— The heat came back low and sudden, and his hand tightened on the mug.

He looked away fast, down at his coffee, and his jaw worked. His ears went red, creeping up his neck, and he cleared his throat.

"Good eggs," he managed, not quite meeting your eyes.

You tilted your head.

"You alright, Michael?"

"Yeah," he said, a little too quick. "Yeah, 'm fine. Just — hot coffee. Burns the mouth."

You smiled, not quite convinced, but you let it go.

"Alright."

He took a long sip, staring down at the table, doing everything he could not to think about the way you'd looked yesterday.

You set your fork down, chewing the last bite of bacon, and looked across the table at him. He was still staring at his coffee like it held the secrets of the universe, his ears a little pink at the tips.

"So your brother's gonna take a look tomorrow?" you asked.

Michael blinked, coming back to himself. "Yeah. He's real good with engines. If it's fixable, he'll find it."

"That's good." You paused, turning the thought over. "So I guess I should probably start looking into a hotel or something. I don't want to be a bother."

His head came up fast at that, his brow furrowing. "A hotel?"

"Well, yeah. I can't just stay here for free. You've already done more than enough."

"Suga'." He set his mug down, and there was something almost offended in his voice. "Y' not a bother. Not even close. You're welcome t' stay here as long as it takes. I got the room, I got the food, and I got nobody else fillin' either one. 's no trouble at all."

You looked at him, at the earnest set of his jaw, the way he'd gone from flustered to firm in the space of a breath. "You're sure?"

"Positive." He said it like it was the easiest answer he'd ever given. "You stay right here 'til your car's fixed. I won't hear any argument about it."

A warmth spread through your chest, quiet and unexpected. "Alright. Thank you, Michael."

He nodded, a small smile tugging at his mouth, and reached for his coffee again. The silence settled easy between you, comfortable, and you found yourself looking around the kitchen — the worn wooden table, the row of hooks by the door, the window over the sink looking out onto green fields.

"So," you said, "you got a farm. What kind of animals do you have?"

Michael's face lit up. It was subtle — just a crinkle at the corners of his eyes, a loosening of his shoulders — but it was there. He leaned back in his chair, cradling his mug.

"Well, let's see. I got a couple'a horses — a mare named Daisy 'nd a gelding called Buck. Buck's got a mean streak, but he's all talk. Daisy's the sweet one. She'll follow you 'round the paddock like a dog."

You smiled. "That's cute."

"They're good company," he said, and there was a fondness in his voice that made you believe it. "Then there's the chickens. 'Bout a dozen of 'em, plus a rooster who thinks he runs the whole place. His name's Jasper. He's got an attitude problem, but he lays... well, the hens lay. He just struts around makin' noise."

You laughed. "He sounds like a character."

"He's a menace," Michael corrected, grinning. "But a lovable one. Then I got two goats — Bill 'nd Nanny. Billy's a little escape artist. Got out three times last month, 'nd I found him eatin' my neighbor's roses every single time."

"Oh no."

"Oh yes. Neighbor ain't spoken to me since." He shook his head, but he was smiling. "And then there's the cows. I got a small herd — 'bout fifteen or so. They're mostly just... cows. They stand around, chew grass, look at you like you owe 'em money."

You laughed again, and the sound of it seemed to settle something in him. He watched you with a soft expression, like he was enjoying the sight of you smiling in his kitchen.

You looked out the window, at the green fields stretching toward the barn in the distance. The morning light was warm on the grass, and somewhere out there a horse nickered, soft and distant.

"Could we go see them?" you asked, turning back to him. "The horses, I mean. I've always liked horses."

Michael's face did something quiet and pleased, like you'd asked him something he'd been hoping to hear. "Yeah," he said, setting his mug down and pushing back from the table. "Yeah, I'd like that. Let me just grab my boots."

He was already moving, and you smiled at his back, at the easy way he'd said yes. You stood too, and followed him toward the door, the morning stretching out warm and unhurried ahead of you both.

The screen door creaked as Michael held it open for you.

A cool breeze met you the second you stepped outside, carrying the smell of damp earth and fresh-cut grass. The sun had climbed higher while you'd been eating, burning away the last of the morning haze. Everything looked washed clean in the light.

The farm stretched farther than you'd realized from the kitchen window.

Rolling pasture disappeared into the distance, fenced in with weathered wood. A faded red barn stood a little ways off, its doors thrown open, and beyond that sat a wide paddock where two horses grazed lazily with their heads low.

"C'mon," Michael said, slipping his hands into his pockets. "They're out this way."

You fell into step beside him. The gravel crunched beneath your boots as you walked. Every now and then he kicked a loose stone off the path without thinking, his stride long but unhurried, always slowing just enough so you didn't have to keep up.

"You've lived here your whole life?" you asked.

"Mhm."

He nodded toward the fields.

"Parents bought the place when I was just a little thing. Not much changed since then."

"You never wanted to leave?"

He thought about it.

"I did."

You looked over at him.

"When I was younger." He shrugged. "Thought there had t' be somethin' bigger out there."

"And?"

He smiled to himself.

"Turns out... bigger ain't always better."

There wasn't any sadness in the way he said it. Just certainty.

"I like knowin' everybody in town. Like wakin' up before the sun. Like hearin' the birds instead'a traffic." He glanced toward you. "Guess I'm a simple man."

"I don't think simple's the right word."

"No?"

"I think... content."

That earned a quiet laugh.

"I'll take that."

They walked another few yards before the horses noticed them. The chestnut mare lifted her head first. Her ears perked immediately.

"Daisy," Michael called.

The mare whinnied softly before breaking into an eager trot toward the fence. You laughed.

"Oh my God, she really does come when you call."

"Told ya."

He climbed onto the lowest fence rail with practiced ease, leaning over to scratch behind Daisy's ears. She practically melted into him, nudging insistently against his shoulder until he laughed again.

"Easy now."

Watching him with the horse was... different.

He became even gentler somehow.

His voice dropped into a soft murmur, fingers brushing through her mane with absent affection, and Daisy responded to every touch like she trusted him completely.

"You've got her wrapped around your finger."

"Nah." He rubbed her forehead. "I'm the one wrapped around hers."

You smiled. "I can tell."

He looked over his shoulder at you.

"You wanna pet her?"

"I don't know if she'll like me."

Michael looked almost offended by the suggestion.

"Daisy likes everybody."

He stepped aside, leaving space beside him.

"Come here."

You approached slowly, reaching out with a cautious hand.

The mare sniffed your fingers, her breath warm against your skin, before nudging your palm with her nose.

"Oh."

Your face lit up.

"Hi."

Michael watched the entire exchange with an expression so soft it almost hurt.

"See?"

You scratched gently between Daisy's eyes.

"She's beautiful."

"Ain't she?"

You turned to him with a grin that was brighter than the morning sun.

"I think she likes me."

"I think she's already decided you're stayin'."

The words slipped out before he realized he'd said them. His eyes widened.

"I—I mean—"

His ears immediately turned pink.

"I just meant..." He rubbed the back of his neck. "Long enough t' get your car fixed."

You couldn't help smiling.

"I know what you meant."

"...Right."

He looked very interested in Daisy's mane all of a sudden.

You bit back a laugh.

The barn had a different kind of quiet than the rest of the farm.

Outside, there was always something moving — the rustle of grass in the wind, the distant call of birds, the occasional sound of an animal making itself known. But inside the barn, everything felt slower. The air was warmer, heavy with the scent of hay and old wood, with sunlight slipping through the cracks between the boards and painting golden lines across the floor.

You'd been following Michael around for most of the morning, watching him move from one task to another. He had shown you the horses, introduced you to the chickens like they were actual members of the family, and warned you very seriously not to trust Bill the goat, who apparently had a personal vendetta against anything that looked expensive.

You were beginning to understand why he liked it here. There was something peaceful about it.

And there was something about Michael himself that fit into it perfectly.

He stood near Daisy's stall, one hand resting on the wooden gate while he checked the latch. His sleeves were still rolled up, his flannel slightly worn at the elbows, and that hat sat on his head like it had been there forever.

Eventually, you couldn't help yourself.

"So…" you said, leaning against the half-door of Daisy's stall. "Do cowboys ever take those hats off?"

Michael looked up from fastening the latch.

"Hm?"

You pointed at him.

"The hat."

He blinked.

"I've been wondering all morning."

His hand instinctively touched the brim. A small smile tugged at his mouth.

"Yeah, I take it off."

"Hmm."

He narrowed his eyes slightly.

"What?"

"I don't know. I'm starting to think it's attached."

He laughed, shaking his head. "It ain't attached."

"You sure?"

"Pretty sure."

You looked at him, pretending to study the hat. "I've never actually seen you without it."

Michael opened his mouth to respond, then paused. You caught it. Your eyebrows lifted.

"What?"

"You hesitated."

"I did not."

"You did."

He gave a quiet laugh, looking down at the ground.

"You're somethin' else."

"That's not a denial."

Michael's jaw worked, but nothing came out. He just stood there in the barn door's shadow, arms folded, that worn straw hat low over his eyes, and you watched him try to find words. Before he could answer, you stepped closer. There was a little bit of hay caught near the brim, and you reached up without thinking.

Michael went still.

Not because you were doing anything strange, but because you were suddenly close. Close enough to smell him — hay and sweat and something warm underneath, like sun-baked leather. Your fingers brushed the edge of the hat, and before he could say anything, you lifted it from his head.

"There," you said, placing it on your own. The band was still warm from his skin. "See? Not attached." You tipped the brim slightly, grinning. "How do I look?"

Michael stared. Like his brain had forgotten what it was supposed to do. His eyes moved from the hat, to you, and then immediately away again — but not before they caught on your mouth.

And you saw it, the way his gaze snagged there for half a second too long. The tips of his ears turned pink first, then the color slowly crept down his neck, into the collar of his shirt. You lowered your smile.

"Michael?"

He cleared his throat, and his voice came out rough.

"Yeah. Uh..." His hand rubbed the back of his neck. "Y' might wanna..." He gestured vaguely toward the hat. "...take that off."

You blinked.

"What?"

"The hat."

You laughed softly. "Why? You said it wasn't attached."

"I know, I know." He shook his head quickly. "'s just..."

He looked genuinely embarrassed now, which only made you more confused. His eyes kept flicking to the hat on your head and then away, like he couldn't stand to look at it and couldn't stand not to.

"What?"

Michael glanced toward the barn door, then back at you, like he was hoping someone else might magically appear and save him from the conversation.

Finally, he sighed.

"My brothers... They used t' give me a hard time 'bout it."

"About the hat?"

"About what it means when somebody takes it."

You frowned slightly.

"What it means?"

He nodded, then immediately looked like he regretted saying anything. He shifted his weight, and the movement made his shirt pull across his shoulders, and you noticed it in a way you hadn't before.

"There's... kinda an old cowboy thing." You waited. Michael swallowed, his throat working.

"People joke that if... if a woman takes a cowboy's hat, it means she— uh... that she wants to... ride the cowboy, 'f y' know what I mean..." He mumbled the last words, almost too embarrassed to say it out loud.

The silence they left behind felt different than before— heavier, warmer, like the air had gotten thick.

You stared at him.

A beat passed.

Then another.

"Oh..."

His face somehow got even redder.

"Yeah."

"Oh."

"I know."

"No, I mean—"

You reached up quickly, taking the hat off your head. "I didn't know that—"

"I know you didn't."

"I was literally just messing with you."

"I know."

He smiled a little, trying to reassure you, but he still looked mortified. The smile didn't reach his eyes — his eyes were doing something else entirely, tracking you, watching the way your fingers moved over the brim.

"I figured."

The silence that followed was awkward, but not uncomfortable. Because now you were both suddenly aware of something that hadn't been there a few minutes ago. The closeness.

The way his eyes kept flicking back to you before he caught himself. The way you were suddenly very aware that his hat had been sitting on your head, warm from his skin, smelling like him.

You looked at it, then held it out to him.

"Here."

Michael reached for it, and your fingers brushed. Both of you paused. It was barely a second. But it was enough.

His hand was calloused and rough against yours, and he didn't pull away right away — he let the contact sit there, skin to skin, and you felt the heat of his palm before he finally closed his fingers around the hat and took it back. He settled it onto his head, pulling the brim down slightly lower than before, like he was hiding behind it.

You watched his throat move when he swallowed.

"You know," he said quietly, "for what it's worth..."

You looked at him. A small smile appeared on his face, and this time it reached his eyes.

"Y' did look good 'n it."

Your cheeks warmed.

"Thanks."

He nodded, looking away — but not before you caught the way his gaze dropped to your lips again, lingered, and then dragged itself up to meet yours.

"Y' welcome."

Neither of you moved. The barn creaked around you, and somewhere a horse shifted in its stall, and you both stood there in the warm, hay-scented quiet, the hat between you like a line neither of you was quite ready to cross.

Michael looked away first.

And you could see the effort it took. The way his jaw tightened slightly, the way he adjusted the brim of his hat even though it didn't need adjusting. Like he was trying to put something back into place.

"Well," he murmured, clearing his throat. "I should probably finish up out here before lunch." You nodded, even though neither of you moved right away.

"Right." Another pause.

Then Michael gave you that small, shy smile of his.

"Come on. I'll show you the rest of the place."

You followed him out of the barn, but the moment didn't disappear behind you. It followed you. It lingered in the space between you as you walked across the farm, in the quiet glances that lasted a second too long, in the way Michael seemed just a little more careful with himself than he had been before. Not distant. Just... aware.

Like he had become suddenly conscious of every little thing he did around you.

Michael showed you the rest of the property like he had promised. He took you past the old fence line that bordered the far pasture, pointed out the creek that ran along the back of the land, and told you about the time he had found Bill the goat halfway up a stack of hay bales with absolutely no explanation for how he'd gotten there.

You laughed so hard at the story that Michael had to stop walking just to look at you.

"What?" you asked, noticing. He shook his head. "Nothin'."

"You were staring."

"I was not."

"You were."

A small smile tugged at his mouth. "Just ain't heard someone laugh like that in a while."

Michael seemed to realize he'd said something too honest because he looked away, clearing his throat and turning his attention back toward the pasture.

"You wanna see the creek?" You smiled.

"Yeah."

And you followed him. By the time you made your way back toward the house, the afternoon sun had started to soften. The golden light stretched across the fields, catching on the tall grass and making everything look like it belonged in a painting. You found yourself slowing down. Not because you were tired. Because you didn't want the walk to end. That thought surprised you. You barely knew this man.

Before yesterday, you hadn't even known he existed. And yet somehow, walking beside him felt easy. Natural.

Michael noticed you had fallen behind and slowed his pace.

"Y' alright?"

You looked up. "Yeah, 'm good."

He studied you for a moment.

"Well..."

He looked toward the house, then back at you.

"I should probably start on dinner soon."

The thought of him cooking made you smile.

"You cook every day?"

"Most days."

"By yourself?"

"Mhm."

"That's actually kind of impressive."

He laughed softly.

"'s nothin'."

"You always say that."

"What?"

"That everything you do isn't a big deal."

Michael looked at you. Because you both knew what you really meant. Stopping on the road. Giving you a place to sleep. Making you breakfast.

His expression softened.

"Y' would've done the same."

The certainty in his voice caught you off guard. You weren't sure you would have. Michael didn't seem to think kindness was something special. He just thought it was something people were supposed to give.

Dinner was quiet. Not uncomfortable or awkward. You both were just quieter than before.

There was a new kind of awareness sitting between you both, something neither of you had acknowledged out loud but both of you seemed to feel. The easy conversation from earlier was still there, the small smiles and little jokes, but now there was something underneath it.

You found yourself noticing things you hadn't before— the way Michael's slender fingers curled around his fork, or the way his eyes would drift toward you before quickly finding somewhere else to look. And he wasn't the only one. Every time he adjusted the brim of his hat, every time his fingers brushed over it, you remembered the way it had felt in your hands. Warm from him. Carrying the faint scent of soap, leather, and the outdoors.

It was ridiculous how something so small had changed the atmosphere between you. But it had. Michael seemed to feel it too.

After dinner, the two of you moved into the living room, the sound of rain beginning softly against the windows. It had started while you'd been clearing the dishes, a gentle tapping that slowly grew heavier until it filled the entire house. Michael stood by the window for a while, looking out at the fields.

"You like storms?"

You sat on the couch, watching him.

"Sometimes."

He glanced over.

"Sometimes?"

You smiled.

"Depends where I am."

He nodded like he understood.

"Yeah. I guess it does."

The lights flickered once. Then again. Michael looked up.

"Well."

A second later, the whole house went dark. You both laughed quietly.

"That figures," you said.

Michael disappeared into the kitchen, returning with a few candles. The soft glow filled the room, making the farmhouse feel even older somehow. Warmer. You watched him set one down on the table.

It was strange.

A man you'd met yesterday.

A house you'd never seen before. And yet sitting there in the candlelight, listening to the rain, it felt familiar. Michael sat across from you, resting his forearms on his knees. For a while, neither of you spoke. It was the kind of silence that happened when two people were thinking the same thing but neither wanted to be the first to say it.

Your car would be fixed tomorrow. You would leave. And somehow, after only a day and a half, the thought felt heavier than it should have. You looked down at your hands.

"You know..."

Michael looked up.

"I thought I'd be counting down the hours until that car was fixed."

His expression shifted slightly. He glanced over.

"And now?"

The question was quiet and hung in the air You looked toward the rain-covered window. The fields beyond it were barely visible through the storm.

"Now I'm not so sure."

The silence that followed felt different. Just full.

Michael looked down at his hands, his thumb brushing slowly over one of the calluses along his palm. You noticed the small movement, the way he seemed to retreat into himself whenever something mattered too much. For a moment, he didn't say anything. Then his voice came quieter than before.

"Don't say things like that 'f y' don't mean 'em, suga'."

Your eyes moved back to him.

"Why?"

Michael swallowed. His gaze stayed fixed on his hands. Because he had been trying. God, he had been trying.

Trying not to read too much into the way you smiled at him. Trying not to remember the feeling of your fingers brushing his when you'd handed his hat back. Trying to forget how incredibly beautiful you looked yesterday, in your pretty black lace set.

"'cause..."

He stopped. The rain filled the silence for him. Then he looked up.

"'cause I've been trying real hard not to hope you might."

Your breath caught slightly. Michael immediately looked away, almost like he regretted letting the words escape.

"I know 's probably ridiculous."

"It's not."

His eyes returned to yours.

"You don't even know me." A small, smile touched his mouth. "And I don't know you. Not really...But I think I know enough."

He looked down again.

"Know 'nough t' know I like havin' y here."

Your throat went dry.

"I don't expect anything from you." He said it quickly, like he needed you to understand. "I mean that."

You nodded.

"I know."

"Your car gets fixed tomorrow, 'nd you go wherever y' headed."

You stood slowly. Michael looked up as you moved closer. Neither of you spoke again. The storm raged outside, but inside the farmhouse everything felt impossibly still.

"You know," you said softly, "for someone who says he's not hoping..." A tiny smile touched your lips. "You don't hide it very well."

Michael let out a quiet laugh, but it was nervous.

"No?"

"No."

You were close now. And still, he didn't move. He just looked at you. Waiting.

The candlelight flickered across his face, catching the slight tremor in his jaw. His hands stayed at his sides, fingers curling and uncurling like he was physically holding himself back. Waiting. Always waiting for you to decide.

You reached up.

Slowly.

Giving him every chance to move away.

His breath caught when your fingers brushed the brim of his hat. You didn't take it off. You just let your hand rest there, feeling the warmth of him beneath the shadow of it.

"Can I?" you whispered.

Michael's eyes searched yours.

He didn't ask what you meant.

He already knew.

"Yeah," he breathed, barely audible over the rain. "Suga', you can do whatever you want with me."

The words hit you low in the chest. You pushed the hat back off his head. It fell to the floor between you, forgotten. And then his hands were on you. Not gentle. Not careful.

His fingers curled into the fabric of your shirt at your waist and pulled, and you came against him with a soft gasp, your palms flat on his chest. He was warm. Solid. Real in a way the last two days hadn't quite felt.

"Michael—"

"I been wantin' to do this since you walked up my drive," he said, voice rough, eyes dark. "Since you stood in my kitchen smilin' at me like that. Y' such a pretty girl."

He ducked his head and kissed you. It was hungry.

His mouth slanted over yours, one hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck, tilting your head back. The other stayed at your waist, thumb pressing hard against your hip through the fabric. He kissed like a man who had spent too long holding back, like he'd been rationing this moment and had finally decided to spend it all at once.

You let out a soft sigh against his mouth. He swallowed it.

His tongue swept along your lower lip and you opened for him, and the groan that rumbled from his chest vibrated straight through you. He tasted like coffee and rain and something warm. His hand tightened in your hair, not pulling, just holding, like he was afraid you'd slip away if he loosened his grip.

The storm pressed against the windows. Neither of you heard it.

You broke apart only when you needed air, foreheads pressed together, both of you breathing hard. His thumb traced the line of your jaw, feather-light, and when he spoke his voice was wrecked.

"Told myself I wasn't gonna do that."

You laughed, breathless.

"Glad you lied."

He let out a shaky sound that might have been a laugh, might have been something else. His hand came up to cup your face, and he looked at you like you were the only warm thing in the storm. You pulled him back down.

The second kiss was slower. Deeper. His hands found the hem of your shirt and tugged it up, and you lifted your arms and let him peel it over your head, the fabric whispering past your skin, dragging over the curve of your breasts before it slid away.

He broke the kiss just long enough to look at you— and the way his eyes went dark, the way they dropped to your chest and lingered, made your stomach tighten into a hot, wanting knot.

"Jesus," he breathed, and it came out wrecked, like he'd forgotten how to make a sound.

His thumb traced the curve of your breast through the lace of your bra, feather-light, almost reverent, like he was memorizing the weight of you in his hand. He cupped you, tested the give of you, and a low sound rumbled in his chest. Then he dipped his head and pressed his mouth to the hollow of your throat, tongue dragging over your pulse, and the sound you made wasn't one you planned. A soft, broken whimper.

"Michael─"

"Shh," he murmured against your skin, his hands sliding around your back to unhook your bra, his fingers working the clasp like he'd been dreaming of it. "Lemme take care of y', baby."

The clasp gave with a soft click. The straps slid down your shoulders, and he pulled the lace away and let it fall, and then his mouth was on you. Hot and open-mouthed, his tongue dragging flat across your nipple before he sucked it between his lips. Your fingers dug into his shoulders, your back arching into him, offering more, and he took it. He laved and sucked and bit down just enough to make you gasp, his hand cupping your other breast, thumb working the nipple into a tight, aching peak.

"That's it," he said against your skin, his voice low and rough and thick with wanting. "'s my good girl. God, y' have so pretty tits, honey baby. So soft."

He worked his way down your body, kissing a slow, deliberate trail down your sternum, your ribs, the soft swell of your belly. His mouth lingered on the curve of your hip, his teeth grazing the skin there, and his hands gripped you, fingers sinking into the skin of your hips, thumbs pressing into the jut of bone. He held you like you were something to be savored, not rushed. And when he sank to his knees on the floor in front of the couch, between your spread thighs, you knew exactly what was coming.

He looked up at you from between your legs, the candlelight catching the hunger in his eyes, and he was already breathing hard.

"Wanna taste y', suga'."

You didn't have words. You just nodded.

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your jeans and pulled them down your legs, panties with them, slow and deliberate, dragging the denim over the curve of your ass and down your thighs. And the way he looked at you when you were bare, the way his gaze traveled the length of you, lingering on the soft roll of your hips, the plush of your thighs— made your breath catch.

He pressed a kiss to the inside of your thigh. Then the other. Each one higher than the last, his mouth working closer and closer, until his breath ghosted hot and wet against your slick, so close you could feel the heat of him.

"Already this wet fo' me," he murmured, almost to himself, his voice filled with desire. "Look at ya', baby. Soaked. 'nd I ain't even touched y' yet."

And then his tongue dragged up the length of you, flat and slow, from your entrance all the way to your clit, and your hips bucked off the couch. "C'mon, angel, lemme get a taste o' this sweet lil' pussy..."

"Oh fuck!—"

He repeated the action.

He licked your cunt like he was starving, like he'd been thinking about this since the moment you walked up his drive, like he'd been starving for the taste of you for years. His tongue circled your clit, flicked, pressed flat and broad, and every time you gasped he'd groan against you like the sound drove him crazy. His hands gripped your thighs, almost with a bruising grip, spreading you wider, holding you open for him, and he buried his face in you like he wanted to drown in your juices.

"Taste like honey," he said against you, the words vibrating straight through your clit, making your whole body clench. "Sweetest thing I ever had, hunny. Could eat this pussy all goddamn night."

He sucked your clit into his mouth and you cried out, your hand flying down to tangle in his hair, gripping him there. He let you hold him, let you grind against his mouth, and he took it— took all of it— groaning like he wanted to live between your thighs. Two fingers pushed into your slickness then, curling, crooking against that spot that made your vision blur, and he pumped them slow while his tongue worked you in relentless circles.

"Please," you managed, your voice breaking. "Michael, please—"

"Please what, beautiful?"

"Want you. Want—" You couldn't finish. You couldn't think. How could someones mouth feel this fucking good?

He pulled back just enough to look at you, his mouth slick and shining with you, chin wet, eyes nearly black in the candlelight. He was wrecked. You'd wrecked him.

"Want what, suga'? Tell me. Talk t' me"

"Want you inside me."

A slow, teasing smile spread across his face, and his fingers curled deeper inside you, making you moan.

"You'll get it. But I want y' t' come on my tongue first." He lowered his head again, his breath hot against your soaked pussy. "Want t' feel it, sweet girl. Want y' t' soak my face. Drown me in it."

He went back to work, and this time he didn't let up. His fingers fucked you in a steady, curling rhythm while his mouth worked your clit, and the pressure built and built until you were shaking, your thighs trembling around his head, your whole body drawn tight as a wire. And he felt it. He felt every shudder, every clench; and he groaned against you like it was killing him.

"Thaaat's it," he said, his voice muffled against you, his fingers never stopping. "Come fo' me, pretty baby. Come on my tongue. Soak me."

And you did. It hit you like the storm outside, white-hot and blinding, your whole body bowing off the couch as you cried out his name. He lapped you through it, slow and greedy, drinking every drop, not stopping until you were twitching and oversensitive and gasping for air, until you had to push weakly at his head.

He kissed his way back up your body, slow and deliberate, dragging his slick mouth over your belly, your breasts, your throat. And when he kissed you, you could taste yourself on his tongue, salty and sweet. He was hard against your hip, straining through his jeans, thick and insistent, and you reached for him.

"My turn."

He caught your wrist.

"Not yet, sweet baby." His voice was wrecked, barely holding together, shaking at the edges. "Want y' t' come on my dick. Want t' feel that pretty little pussy squeeze me while y' fall apart."

The words went straight through you, hot and liquid, pooling low in your belly.

He stood, shucked off his shirt, and worked open his belt, the leather sliding through the loops. His jeans came down, and when he stepped out of them you got your first look at him — thick and hard and leaking, the head flushed and slick, his hand wrapped around the base. He was beautiful. He was everything.

"See what y' do t' me, suga'?" He stroked himself slowly, his jaw tight, his knuckles dragging up the length of him. "Been hard since y' stood in my kitchen. Been thinkin' about this sweet ass of yours all goddamn day." His vulgar words and confident tone shocked you. Was this really the shy boy from the barn you thought you knew? But you didn't mind. Not at all.

He climbed onto the couch, settling back against the armrest, and reached for you, his hands finding your hips and pulling you toward him.

"Come here, honey baby."

You straddled him. His hands found your hips, thumbs stroking the soft skin and he looked up at you with something raw and unguarded in his eyes, something that made your chest ache.

"You sure?"

"Michael." You reached down and wrapped your hand around him, and his breath hissed through his teeth, his eyes fluttering shut. "I've never been more sure of anything."

He guided you up, the head of his cock pressing against your slick, wet heat, and then he looked at you, one last question in his eyes. You answered by sinking down.

The two of you groaned together as he filled you, inch by inch, the stretch of him making your eyes roll back. He was so thick, so warm, and you felt impossibly, perfectly full. His cock splitting you open, seating deep inside you until you were flush against him, his hips against yours, his balls pressed to your ass.

"God," he breathed, his head falling back against the couch, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks. "Feel that, sweet girl? Feel how good y' take me? Ohhh, look at ya. All that soft ass, all that curve, sittin' on my cock like y' were made for it."

His words made you whimper. You rolled your hips, experimental, grinding down on him, and his hands clenched on your waist, a low groan tearing out of him.

"'s it. Ride me, baby. Fuck yourself on my cock."

You found your rhythm slowly, then faster, your hands braced on his chest, your tits bouncing in his face with every stroke. He watched you with dark, hungry eyes, his gaze dropping to your breasts, to the way they moved, and he reached up and cupped them, thumbing your nipples, groaning.

"Lord, y' so beautiful," he said, his voice rough and reverent. "Look at these perfect tits. Takin' all o' me. Squeezin' me so damn good."

You leaned forward and kissed him, sloppy and open-mouthed, and he groaned into it, his tongue tangling with yours. "Mmmm, Mikey... Y' feel soo good." You mumbled messily against his mouth. "Yeah? 'm fucki' you good, baby?" A little 'mhm!' sound left your lips.

His hands slid down to grip your ass, squeezing hard, kneading the soft flesh, guiding your pace as you rode him.

"My perfect, beautiful girl..."

You rode him harder, the sound of skin against skin filling the room, wet and obscene, and he let you take what you needed. But then his hands tightened on your hips, and he stilled you.

"Turn around, sweetheart."

You blinked, breathless.

"want to watch that ass bounce on my cock. Want to watch it swallow me up."

He helped you lift off him, the sudden loss of him making you whimper, and then he guided you to turn around, your back to his chest. He pulled you down onto him again, and you both groaned as he filled you from behind, his cock sliding back into you to the hilt.

"Jesus," he breathed against your ear, his hands already gripping your hips. "Feel even better this way, beautiful. Look at that pretty ass..."

You rode him reverse, his hands gripping your hips, his mouth on your shoulder, your neck, kissing down your spine while you moved. The angle made his cock drag against a spot that made your thighs shake, made you gasp and grind down harder. "Shit─ y' so deep in me, Mikey─"

And then his hands moved— one sliding up your back, the other reaching down to grip your ass, and then he spread you. He spread you open with his thumbs, pulling the cheeks apart, and you felt the cool air on your slick, wet flesh, felt him watching you — watching himself slide in and out of you. He groaned, a sound so raw it vibrated through your whole body.

"Ohh," he breathed, his voice wrecked with wonder. "Look at that. Look at my cock goin' in 'nd out o' ya. 'nd look—" His thumb traced the base of him where he was buried inside you, and you felt the creamy ring that had formed there, the mess of you and him slicking his skin. "Look at that, sweet girl. Look at all that cream. 's aaaall you, baby. That's how wet this pussy 's fo' me. How bad you want it."

You whimpered, grinding down on him, and he let you feel him watching, his eyes burning into the place where you were joined.

"Right there," you gasped. "Don't stop."

"Not stoppin', sweet girl. Not 'till y' come on my dick."

His hand slid around to your front, fingers finding your clit, slick and swollen, and you cried out. He worked you in tight circles while you rode him, his other arm banded across your chest, holding you against him, his cock buried deep inside you.

"'s it, sweetheart. Feel that? Feel how deep I am? Feel how good I fill ya up?"

"Yes—"

"Y' gonna come fo' me? Gonna soak my dick like a good girl? Gonna cream aaall over me?"

"Yes, Michael, yes!—"

"Come on, pretty baby. Let go. Come all over me. Make a mess."

You shattered.

Your body clenched around him, wave after wave, your pussy milking him, and he groaned through it, his hips bucking up into you, driving deeper.

"Thaaaat's it. Fuck, feel you squeezin' me."

He didn't let you stop. He shifted beneath you, and before you could catch your breath he was lifting you off him, pressing you down onto the couch on your hands and knees, your ass up, your spine arching.

"Flat, baby," he said, his voice soft but commanding. "Arch that pretty back fo' me. Push that pretty ass up."

You obeyed. His hands spread your thighs wider, and you felt the head of his cock press against you, slick with you and him, the mess of your cream coating his skin.

"Messy girl," he breathed, his hands gripping the soft flesh of your cheeks, squeezing, spreading. "So messy, sweet girl. So perfect. Love this perfect body o' yours."

He pushed in. Slow. Inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt, and then he stilled, both of you breathing hard, his balls pressed against your wet flesh.

"You feel that, hunny? Feel how deep I am?"

"Yes," you whimpered.

He pulled out almost all the way, so slowly you felt every inch of him dragging against your walls, and then he slammed back in, and you cried out, your fingers clawing at the cushion.

"That's it," he growled. "Take it, baby. Take all of me."

He set a brutal pace, deep and hard, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and the sound of it filled the room— the wet slap of his hips against your ass, the slick sound of him driving into your soaked cunt, the heavy, obscene slap of his balls against your flesh with every thrust. The couch creaked beneath you, the rain hammered the windows, and your moans mixed with his grunts, a filthy, perfect rhythm.

"You feel so good," he said, his voice wrecked, barely holding together. "So wet, baby. Squeezin' me like y' never wanna let go." Then he slapped your ass, a sharp, wet crack that made you gasp. "Love watchin' it bounce. Love the way it takes me."

He leaned over you, his chest pressed to your back, his mouth at your ear, his breath hot and ragged.

"That feel good, beautiful?"

"Yes—"

"Say it, sweet girl. Tell me how good it feels."

"So good," you gasped. "Mikey, y' feel so good—"

"Mhm," he groaned. "Feels so good."

He drove into you harder, faster, his hand sliding around to grip your throat — not squeezing, just holding, tilting your head back against his shoulder. His other hand found your clit again, working you in tight, relentless circles, and you were already so close, the pressure coiling tight and hot in your belly.

"Y' mine tonight, angel. All mine. Gonna come again, sweet girl? Gonna come on my cock again?"

"Mhm!—"

"Come on, then. Come on me. Let me feel it. Soak me, baby."

You came with a cry, your body clenching around him so hard he groaned and drove into you through it, his hips stuttering, chasing his own release.

"Just like that," he said, his voice shaking, wrecked. "Ohh, that's my good girl. That's my beautiful—"

He buried himself deep and came with a shudder, his hips grinding against you, a groan torn from his throat as he filled you, hot and pulsing, spilling deep inside you. You felt every pulse of him, felt him empty into you, and you collapsed together onto the couch, both of you breathing hard, slick with sweat and each other.

He pulled out slowly, and you felt the mess of him and you slide down your thigh, warm and wet. He kissed the back of your neck, soft and tender, his hand stroking the curve of your hip.

"Y' so beautiful, baby," he murmured against your skin. "'m gonna take good care of you..."

You had crawled into bed with Michael one night, skin glistening from the expensive floral scented lotion you’d just delicately rubbed into your skin, settling comfortably in the sheets next to him. He was quieter that night — he mumbled at dinner, barely conversing with you, playing with his food. Michael didn’t have a large appetite, so his lack of eating hadn’t phased you as much as it did now. You didn’t expect him to be too chatty that night either, you had already had a heated disagreement a few hours earlier that remained unresolved — something that was becoming more frequent in recent times due to his demanding career.

So, when you nestled against him, his hands rigid at his sides, was when you noticed something was undeniably wrong.

“Is everything okay, baby?” You asked, peering up from his chest to glance at his pokerface.

“I think we should split up.”

The words hit you full-force, panic and shock instantly flooding your emotion — sitting up so frantically it made Michael flinch.

“What? What the hell are you talking about?” Your voice was frantic and distressed, face forced into a scrunch of anxiety.

Michael stayed silent for a few moments, not daring to meet your eyes, just staring blankly at the wall next to him.

“Michael, don’t fucking joke with me. Fucking say something.”

“Stop cursing, please.” He forced out, voice hoarse and low, attempting to keep his dignity.

You scoffed in disbelief, “So, you blurt out that you wanna break-up, but all you care about is a curse? Are you fucking serious?” Anger was the emotion at the forefront of your brain now, utterly disgusted with his coldness towards you mixed with the cruelty of his words.

“Things are complicated right now.” He started, still facing away from you, “I’ve got the album and the tour, and we’re fighting too much already because of it. It’s not good for us especially if I’m away for long periods of time. You deserve someone who can be around for you. Someone better.” He sighed, shaking his head, “I don’t want to let this progress and then end up hurting one another more.”

“‘Let this progress?’ Michael we’ve been together for three years, nearly four. You didn’t think to end things three and half years ago if you didn’t wanna get hurt? Are you serious?”

“I still love you, I just want to protect us both from pain.” He spoke quietly.

“Love? This isn’t love, Michael, this is cruel. This is worse pain. Someone who loved me wouldn’t treat me like this. Why are you doing this to me? To us?”

His heart clenched as your voice cracked, not brave enough to look you in your eyes, now brimming with tears.

“I’m sorry.”

The words felt faux as they left his lips — silencing encasing the room. You scoffed, standing up swiftly from the bed, rushing into the bathroom, slamming the door harshly behind you. You missed the way Michael flinched once more as the loud sound echoed throughout the quiet room, a single tear falling down his cold cheek — attempting to ignore your wails of despair from behind the door.

He saw you for the last time as you rushed out of the bathroom — bag full of your toiletries in hand as you raced towards the bedroom door, sobbing.

He called your name, but you cut him off, swearing brutally at him, along the lines of ‘Go fuck yourself, Michael’. Your memory of that night wavered thin now — your brain compartmentalising the pain to the back of your mind, pushing it the furthest away from to prevent you from punishing yourself with the hurtful memory.

You were packed and moved out the same night — moving back in with your parents, who comforted you for weeks on end as you experienced the worst heartbreak you’d ever felt in your life. The one person you loved and trusted the most in your life had been the one to hurt you the most, too. It was a strange phenomenon — to still love and yearn for the person causing you agonising misery.

At month one, you spent most days in bed — wallowing in your despair, reading old love-letters, staring at photos taken on your first tropical vacation, your anniversary, his birthday. You were torturing yourself — a bittersweet pain that you struggled to rid yourself of. Ending most nights by sobbing into your hand as you read the newspapers — headlines of your split plastered everywhere. Utterly devastated at how disgusting tabloids portrayed you as a deadweight on Michael’s blossoming career, that you were only dragging him down, that he made a good decision to free himself of you.

By month two, you got back to work. You had managed to find your new routine — working hard on your own music, pouring your damaged heart into each song, passion flowing from your lips with each lyric. You didn’t cry as much — only now and again when Michael would pop up on the television, his new album ‘Bad’ going world platinum again, just as his others did, his success booming. What irked you most was he looked perfectly fine — smiling happily for the cameras, performing on stage on tour with pure, irrevocable talent, adoration and excitement oozing off of him, like he didn’t destroy someone’s life two months ago.

By month three, you acted unaffected. You’d moved out into your own place — gaining some unwanted independence. You began going about your life like you’d never met him — going on a few dates, dancing at clubs with your friends with guys you were a stranger to, late night calls with men you knew deep down would never compare, but indulging in the fun of it nonetheless— heart fuelled by anger and frustration, desperate to get back at him. When you finally moved on sexually, you were irritatingly disappointed — no man on the planet could please you like Michael had. That’s what filled you with pure rage. Faking orgasms and pretending as though their cock’s even made half the stretch that Michael’s did had you furious — often pushing them away mid sex, ordering them to get out of your apartment.

You were now almost at month six and the ice in your heart towards Michael hadn’t let up.

You pretended, to your family and friends, that you were over it — that it didn’t affect you anymore. That you had totally moved on with your life. Wrong. You were still livid deep down — not a single day going by where you didn’t curl your fists up in fury at the thought of him. Fury that you still had an annoyingly large place for him in your heart — that no matter how bitter you tried to convince yourself you were about him, it did nothing to dilute the sickly sweetness that overpowered your heart.

And that lovesick heart of yours was pounding violently in your chest right now.

Sat in the back of a limousine, dolled up to the Gods — hair, makeup and outfit perfected to a T, you looked divine. So divine you were determined to make a statement — one just as bad his.

Ironic.

The man in question who you were dying to shock, self-proclaimed as ‘bad’, connotations to his new album, was someone you believed to be sweet, tender and loving. An album title you always thought was truly ironic as he was quite the opposite.

Not as of recent.

Diana Ross had been a thorn in your side since the day you and Michael met. Her relentless flirtatious energy towards the man you craved was angering — even before you called it official was she persistent with her teasing.

“So, you’re the girl Michael keeps talkin’ so much about.” She drawled, the day you met her, your handshake harsher than usual as you gripped her bony hand in your own, “Not his girl, yet though, right?” She laughed, “Better snatch that handsome thing up before I do.”

You confessed your love to Michael that night.

You did truly have intense feelings for him — but that old cow had given you the push you needed. No way in hell was she going to take him away from you — not on your watch.

So, rightfully so, you were anxious at the thought of her finding out about your split — wondering what her next move would be. You’d spend everyday reading the newspapers in a panic, skimming through a thousand words a second in an attempt to find any news of them being spotted together.

And the day came — a week before The 1988 Soul Train Music Awards. The very award ceremony you were heading to, looking so beautiful.

Michael and Diana were front page — pressed tightly against one another at a famous club. His smile was bright, wide and genuine — something you’d missed seeing in person, now adorning his captivating face because of that witch. She had looped her arm through his, the picture capturing her pressing a sloppy kiss to his cheek. The title read ‘MICHAEL MOVING ON ALREADY? — OLD FLAME REIGNITED’

Oh, he had really done it this time.

He knew how much you hated her — loathed her, actually. The older woman often getting in the way of your relationship throughout the years you were together — despite having a husband herself, she was betrothed with your man.

So, even if technically he didn’t owe you a thing as you weren’t his anymore, you silently felt fury at him for letting her kiss him for the cameras.

Therefore, your only response was to fight fire with fire — childish? Maybe. But, clever? Absolutely.

“You ready, sweetheart?”

The sound of Prince’s voice next to you in the limo tugged a devilish smirk onto your face as you nodded.

If Michael wanted to play dirty — you would play real dirty.

The car had rolled to a stop — flashes of the paparazzi’s intrusive cameras burnt into your vision as the driver pulled the door open. You stepped out, smoothing your dress, a wide smile on your face, waving sweetly as you waited for your date to exit the vehicle.

If you thought the flash was bright before, you were mistaken. Spots blurred into your vision as Prince stood next to you, instantly taking your hand in his own, confidence oozing from him as always, before smiling down at you. You turned to him — pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, lipstick now smeared across his skin, earning a knowing laugh from his throat.

Cha-ching!

Those pictures, dripping with revenge, were a real moneymaker — something that would put that sloppy, old hag’s attempt to make you jealous to shame.

Everyone knew of the musical feud between Michael and Prince — the two men battling for the title of ‘the biggest star in the world’. You knew that Michael took the cake — but, you also knew that seeing his biggest rival with his ex-girl would shut down any attempt of riling you up.

“Nicely done.” Prince whispered, lips close to your ear as you were ushered inside the building. He was aware of your vengeful plan — and more than willing to help aggravate his arch nemesis.

“You too.” You sent a wink his way, engaging in a childish, unison giggle, knowing exactly what you were doing was going to end messy, “I’ll see you later.”

You parted ways with your exes nemesis, not before letting him press a calculated kiss to your knuckles, peripheral vision burning as more cameras captured your (fake) romantic moment, before being ushered to your assigned seat.

You were fairly near the stage, around three rows in front, next to your favourite female pop-star and close friend, Whitney Houston. A real, genuine smile burst across your face when she seated herself next to you.

“Girl.” She breathed out a laugh, placing her clutch bag gently in her lap.

“What?” You laughed, smiling across at her in confusion.

“Honey, I think you know what.” She shook her head with a grin, “You made quite the entrance back there.”

Perfect.

The corners of your lips tugged up into a deeper smile, “Then my plan is working.”

Whitney chuckled, “I just know that poor man is beyond ticked off right now.”

“‘Poor man’?” You scoffed, “He is far from poor. You saw the papers, right?”

“Everybody did, sweetie.”

“Number one, not helpful,” You pointed a finger at her, ignoring the way she cackled, “And two, he had it comin’” You paused, “Everyone, including him, knows how much I hate her.”

“Hate who?”

You froze — the infamously familiar voice that once had you smiling like a damn idiot before, now had your face falling as your head lurched behind you.

And there he was.

Michael.

In all his annoying glory — sporting a dashing red button-up, a sleek tie around his neck, paired with a black suit jacket, that hugged the curve of the lean muscles in his arms in a way that your breath hitching in your throat.

It aggravated you that he looked so good.

But, you knew that he knew that you looked better.

Your irritation only blossomed as you glanced at the seat to your right — eyes rolling in annoyance as his name, scribbled onto a flimsy piece of paper on the chair right next to you, hit your vision.

Fuck award show assigned seats.

“Well, shit, girl.” Whitney mumbled, laughing under her breath as she turned away from the tension that was rising as Michael took his seat.

“Hello.” He spoke, voice soft and gentle, just like you remembered.

“That’s all you have to say to me?” Your voice came out harsher than expected, an angered frown visible on your face as a grin bloomed on his.

His mouth went to open, but you cut him off, hand shooing him away, “Actually, don’t even speak to me, please.”

“You look beautiful.”

“What did I just say Michael?”

You hated the way he smirked at your snappy tone, lip coming between his teeth as he obeyed your request, getting comfortable in his chair. You also hated the way your heart did an extremely noticeable flip in your chest at the compliment.

This night was going to be the death of you.

And it only got worse as Michael retreated to the stage, not once, but twice — each time looking more gracious and handsome as the next. He won Best Single and Album of the Year for Bad — the trophies enclosed around his beautiful, slender hands, ones that once gave you blissful satisfaction.

You despised your weak mind for the way you let it run away with itself — eyes trailing over his tall, elegant frame each time he’d take the stage. That infamous smile that had you weak at the knees did nothing to cool the desire that was overpowering your anger, the yearn for him only increasing.

Michael thumped into his seat next to you with a sigh, now two awards richer, running a hand through his long curls that cascaded down his shoulders.

You could sense he was looking at you — his smiling face visible in your side eye-line, but you refused to turn, your eyes fixated on the stage as the next category was revealed.

“Saw your little stunt earlier.” He whispered, “Real classy.”

You scoffed quietly, “That’s rich.”

“I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.”

You knew that tone — that cocky, teasing tone that had you gritting your teeth.

You finally turned to face him, “Oh, right. I’m sure letting that old crow kiss you is a regular thing now, huh?”

“Saw that, did you?” He was testing you, it was evident in the way the knowing smirk on his face never faltered.

You were halfheartedly listening as your name was read for the nomination, not even bothering to care as you held your gaze with the man seated next to you — a brutal lock of eyes that said a thousand words. You were furious, failing to hide it miserably, and he, well, he was enjoying it.

“I did.” You started, “Nice to see a downgrade was my replacement.”

Michael’s smile flickered at your harsh dig at his life-long friend, “I think I could say the same about your date.”

“At least I have one.”

That sure wiped the smirk off his face.

“And definitely not a downgrade in the bedroom.”

You basked in his shock — the smirk he once sported now adorning your face, nearly missing the way your name was called from the stage, the room erupting in applause.

“Excuse me?” Michael’s voice was bitter, cold, mortified at your admission. A false one at that, but he didn’t need to know. Yet.

“Sorry, can’t hear you.” You shrugged him off, rising to your feet with a proud smile — at your award mostly, but also at your triumphant win in the petty disagreement, as loud cheers exploded in your ears.

You took the stage — a new found confidence oozing off of you, a gorgeous smile on your face as you took the award from the announcer’s hands, pulling them into a small hug. You thanked your producer, musical team, family and friends — humbleness evident in every word you spoke.

You looked perfect — utterly radiant under the bright lighting blaring down onto the stage, award glistening in your hands as your pearly white smile twinkled in the spotlight.

Michael, albeit still in an angered daze over your admission, couldn’t help himself but rake his eyes over your frame — breasts pushed perfectly up your corseted dress, the curve of the plush mounds visible to everyone’s eyes from the audience, eyes never leaving those perfect tits he’d once nestle his face into as he flung your legs over his shoulders and filled you to the hilt with his cock.

The thought had him readjusting his slacks — hard-on now painful against the restrictive clothing at the delicious reminiscing of your love-making.

It was your next words that had the sexual memories leaving his head.

“And I wanna thank my wonderful date for tonight— matter of fact, come up here! Prince, where y’at, honey?”

The room erupted into cheers once more — everyone but Michael, who attempted to drown out Whitney’s disbelieving laughter from two seats down from him, watching as you shielded your eyes from the light, searching for the man in the crowd.

Michael stared lethal daggers into Prince’s back as he sauntered up the stairs to the stage — his chest heaving in undeniable envy as he watched Prince pull you into a tight hug. Those gorgeous breasts now pressed up against Prince’s chest.

He was livid. Hands tightening around the material of his trousers, knuckles white as his grip turned taut.

“Not only is he a Pop King,” The room exchanged hushed gasps at the title, one that everyone knew belonged to your furious ex, “But, he’s also a fantastic plus one.” Laughs fizzled out the shock at your insinuation that Prince was only there with you, not for his own musical nominations.

Michael, however, had never felt fury quite like it.

That title was his.

One he worked so hard for — something him and that idiot, in his mind, up on stage with you had fought over for so many years. And you knew that.

He knew you were aggravating him deliberately.

Prince smirked, eyes finding Michael’s in the crowd, expression darkening, “Sorry, Michael.”

And with a smooth arm wrapped around your back, and a swift dip in the air — he kissed you.

Well, not actually.

His lips attached to the corner of your mouth, barely touching, but to the audience, and more importantly, the cameras, it looked as though your ex-boyfriend’s fiercest enemy was kissing the life out of you on stage.

And, boy, did everyone in the room eat it up.

Standing ovations and screams of joy sounded in the room as they clapped — basking in the pure drama of it all.

Prince pulled away from you with a smile, winking at you as you laughed, shaking your head. He took his hand in yours, guiding you backstage, the noise of the crowd dying down as you were ushered away.

“You’re evil.” You chuckled, chest heaving from the adrenaline.

“Well, maybe it’ll give him the push he needs to try get y’back.” Prince admitted, “Either that or to write ‘nother okay album.”

You shoved his arm playfully, “Oh, stop. Y’know it was a good album.”

“Sure, sweetheart, sure.” He teased, sending another smug wink your way, earning another giggle from your lips.

You’d barely made it ten steps backstage before an all familiar frame blocked your way.

You swallowed thickly as Michael’s cold, blank expression met your eyes, his hands curled at his side as he held your gaze — watching as the smile fell from your face.

He didn’t fail to notice how quickly you dropped Prince’s hand, either.

“Come with me. Now.” His voice was darker than his usual soft, gentle tone — not holding a deeper undertone of something that had a chill running down your spine.

“Oh, he mad now.” Prince spoke up, a soft, breathy laugh leaving his lips, “Don’t be jealous, brother, y’got ‘Ross don’t’cha?”

Michael’s jaw clenched, his gaze turning to Prince, eyes darkening into something icier, “I’d walk away if you know what’s good for you.”

Prince laughed once again, eyes flickering back towards you, “Good luck, girl.” He turned back to Michael, placing a hand on his shoulder, “Be sure to bring her back t’me when you’re done, yeah?”

Michael lunged, flinging his hand off his shoulder in a brutal shove, turning towards him with clear intent. You rushed in between a seething Michael and a laughing Prince, hands steadying the angered man on his chest.

“Enough. Both of you.” You hissed, “Just go.” You signalled to the amused man behind you.

Prince didn’t fight it — just turned to walk away with his hands in the air in surrender, chuckling as he went.

“Michael, what the hell was that for?” You snapped.

Michael didn’t speak — only grabbed your wrist in a firm, not aggressive, more so possessive, grasp, tugging you away, his longer legs moving swiftly with each stride, your own practically in a run as you fought to keep up.

He found a nearby bathroom, pushing the door open with all his strength, ignoring the way you winced at the sound of the handle harshly slammed into the wall. The door was shut and locked quicker than it had opened — before you were pushed against it.

“Me?” He started, answering your prior question, his chest heaving as he stared down at you, pupils blown in distress, “I think I should be asking you that question, sweetheart.”

The pet-name spat from his mouth with a curl of his lips — face contorted into a scowl.

You gained your pride, taking two hands to his shoulders and shoving him, your strength against his own doing as little as moving him a few steps backwards.

“Don’t get it twisted, Michael.” You retorted, “You started this with that bitch.”

Michael scoffed, “Go’head, baby, try and convince yourself I’m in the wrong here.” His tongue poked out from his inner cheek, “You’re insatiable.”

“Don’t you dare call me that.” Your voice seeping with distaste at the familiar pet-name, “You lost that privilege the second you gave up on us like we were nothin’.” You shook your head, “Would’ve let you have it back if you didn’t let that old slut rub up on you like you’re a fuckin’ groupie.” You laughed darkly, looking him up and down, “Not now. Lost every fuckin’ chance with me.”

Michael looked taken aback by your disrespectful words — teeth grinding together as he never took his eyes away from your own.

“I never gave up on us willingly.” He revealed, ignoring the way you scoffed with a laugh, as he took a step closer to you, “And as for her,” He paused, attempting to find the right words.

“See? You can’t even convince yourself there’s nothin’ going on there.” You cut him off, hands flailing in the air as you spoke theatrically.

“Let me finish, woman.” He shot back, “As I was sayin’ — she means nothing to me. Absolutely nothing. She’s an old friend. Someone who mentored me as a kid. We have history — but nothin’ more than platonic. Barely even platonic, just professional.”

“Don’t kid yourself, Michael. No ‘professional mentor’ kisses their ‘colleague’ like that.” You air-quoted the words that felt faux with your manicured fingers, shaking your head, “Do you take me for some kind of idiot?”

“Not in that sense, no.” He started, “For actin’ like that with him? Maybe.”

You laughed in disbelief, “You just love it, don’t you? Pretending to yourself that I’m the bad guy, that I went up there and acted like that just to hurt you with no real reason?” You looked him up and down with disgust, “You’re so blind.”

“How many times, girl? There’s nothin’ going on with me and Di.”

He regretted the use of the nickname the second it left his mouth.

“Di? That sounds real professional to me, asshole.” You turned on your heel, clicking the lock back open and twisting the handle, pulling the door open in an attempt to storm out.

Before you could even move, the door was slammed shut once again. The loudness blooming a new found silence in the room, one that failed to occur from the second you walked in there.

Michael’s hand, despite his burning anger, remained gentle as moved your body back to face him, pressing you back into the door.

“Don’t even think about it.” He whispered, “You are not walkin’ away from me.”

“That’s ironic.” You bit back, “If you hadn’t have done that in the first place, we wouldn’t be havin’ this argument.”

“Y’think I wanted to do that? Think I wanted to sit there and watch you panic? Listen to you cry? Hear you cuss me out because of pain and anger I caused? No. That’s where y’dead wrong, girl.” He let out a shaken breath, “I have always, from the moment I met you, till this very day, loved you. Loved you so much I had to give you the life you deserved. I had to let you go. Had to get you away from the pain I was bringin’. No one wants to be with someone who’s never there, and when they are, they’re always fightin’.” Then, he went silent, his eyes now softened as they met your glassy ones, tears threatening to fall as you let him talk.

You both stayed in deathly loud silence, louder than any door slamming or screaming argument — silence that spoke more words than any you’d ever said.

You swallowed thickly, your resolve cracking as his admission settled in your brain, “That wasn’t your decision to make, Michael.” Your voice was quieter now, still with the same stubborn sharpness, but less accusatory, now filled with evident upset.

Michael breathed, his head hanging low, his forehead a mere few inches from your own, “I regret that night every fucking day.” He whispered, a vulnerable string of words that hung heavy in your heart, “Letting you walk out that door was the worst mistake of my life.”

“Why her?” Your voice cracked as you spoke, a stray tear falling down your cheek as you met his gaze.

“It wasn’t a personal attack. She was just at the same club and approached me.” He revealed, “The picture was taken before I even had a chance to say no.”

You shook your head, breaking the eye-contact as you looked at your feet, hiding your rapidly falling tears. Michael’s trembling hand reached for your face, a tentative hand cupping your warm cheek, lifting your face to meet his eyes once more.

“Mama..”

“Stop.” You turned your head, pushing his hand away with your own, “I can’t even look at you.”

“Don’t act so innocent.” Michael’s tone, that had once softened, grew the all too familiar iciness that had been evident the whole evening, “I’m trying to fix things here despite your little ordeal earlier. D’y’know what it’s like to see you kissing him up there? That used to be me if you even remember.”

You let out a low laugh, “He didn’t even kiss me, fool, ‘was all an act. Unlike you and Di.” You barked, “Y’know you actually blow my mind, you’re so—Mmmph!”

Michael connected your lips in a frantic kiss, cutting off your incessant bickering, lips moving against yours quickly.

You shoved him back, gasping for air at the sudden loss of breath, “What the fuck are you doing?”

“Puttin’ that bratty fuckin’ mouth to better use.”

He kissed you again — mouth sliding against your own in a feverish lip-locking, a hand now gripping the nape of your neck, the other on the curve of your waist.

And this time — you let him.

You melted into him, hands flying to his face, eyes fluttering shut as you caved, droplets of tears falling onto the tops of your cheeks — falling deeper into his mercy. His tongue slid across the surface of your bottom lip, still awaiting permission despite his frustration. You allowed it, letting his tongue slide into your warm mouth, humming in delight at the taste of his minty breath on the hot muscle, revelling in the way he pushed his body into yours. His hands wondered — now travelling down your body to grab a handful of your ass through your dress, continuing his oral assault on your swollen lips.

“Jump.”

You obeyed, leaving his lips to leap into his arms — his hands cradling your behind as he connected your lips once more, settling you on the sink, slotting himself between your ajar legs.

Michael detached his mouth from own, moving his lips down the curve of your jaw, and down your exposed neck — letting his hips rock into yours involuntarily, while he sucked possessive marks into your skin, at the sound of your breathy moans, head tilted back to allow him better access.

“Michael, please.” You whined, voice a needy plea, hands sliding up into his hair, threading through his tight curls.

“Please, what, angel?” He mumbled against your neck, breath hot against your skin, fresh lovebites forming as he spoke.

“Please—mmhm—Need you, fuck.”

Michael pulled away, hands flying to your dress, pulling down the zipper harshly — before pulling you to your heeled feet, pushing it off your body swiftly, leaving you in just a skimpy bare of lace panties.

Ones you knew were his favourite.

“Oh, sweetheart,” He breathed, eyes raking over your bare frame, glossy doe-eyes peering up at him as he towered above you, “Wore my favourite just for me?”

You nodded, “Just f’you, Mike.”

Michael turned you, with precise smoothness, pressing your stomach against the cold of the sink, your bare back now pressed against his chest.

He slid a tentative hand up your side, toying with the tiny string the thong that clad your bottom half, as he locked eyes with your own in the mirror before you, “How am I supposed to know you didn’t wear them for him, mama?”

You pushed back against him, rolling your hips into the statement of his arousal, “Shut up about him and fuck me.”

A harsh hand connected with your left ass cheek — a half-gasp half-moan ripping from your throat at the sudden contact, “Thought I told you to keep that bratty mouth shut?”

You, testing your luck, ground against him once more, smirking at the way his hand tightened against your hand-printed behind, “Give me what I want then.”

Michael shook his head behind you — one hand working on his belt, pushing his slacks down along with his boxers, his palm wrapping around his achingly hard cock, pumping himself slowly, while the other pulled down your panties, now morphed into the shape of your plush folds from your leaking arousal, to the side, “Be careful what you wish for, doll.”

With one swift, sudden thrust, Michael pushed inside you — bottoming out instantly. A scream erupted from your throat at the instant fullness, your tight cunt struggling to adjust to the sheer size of him as his leaking tip kissed your cervix. Your pussy betrayed you as it clenched around him, drooling around him, coating his cock in your slick.

His hand flew to your mouth, his large palm enclosing around your swollen lips, muffling the whimpers that left you as you struggled around him — eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of him throbbing inside you.

“Keep those eyes open, mama,” He ordered, sliding out of you slowly until the only thing that remained inside your quivering hole was his plump mauve cockend, “Want you to see how pathetically you fall apart on my cock. My cock. No-one else’s.”

He pushed in again with the familiar harshness from before as your eyes shot open — now starting a brutal, animalistic pace that had you clawing at the tense of his hand that enveloped your mouth, hiding the high-pitched squeals and whines of pure, irrevocable lust that took over your mind, body and soul.

Michael groaned into your ear, eyes locked on your own as he fucked into you with such a pace and lack of gentleness that you’d never seen before. During your companionship, Michael took his time with you — worked you open with his mouth and fingers, took his time to get you ready for the thickness and length of him. But, not this time — all the pent up rage brought upon him from the start of the night now being fucked into you with every harsh rock of his hips.

Keeping you flush against his chest, his free hand slid down to where you connected — rubbing tight figure eights against your clit that throbbed for attention. Your head fell back against his shoulder, eyes rolling to the back of your head, ignoring any order he gave you to hold his gaze.

“Mmphmh—M-Mich—Michael, please!”

Words failed you as you cried against his hand, drunk on the way his cock dragged in and out of your gummy walls that sucked him in with each thrust — the sound of your feverish moans and your squelching cunt mixing with his breathy groans filling the air of the bathroom that now stunk of Michael’s intoxicating cologne and passionate sex.

“Take it, baby, take this fuckin’ dick.” He grunted into your ear, his words unlike his usual loving coaxes, “Make up for what’cha did.”

Michael hissed as you bit down on the skin of his palm, his hand pulling away from the source of pain as he meet your gaze in the mirror — your own expression now deepening into a scowl, “Fuck you.”

The words spat from your mouth, dripping with venom, at his words of blame, watching as his face scrunched up in frustration.

“Oh, you’ve done it now, ma.”

His pace never let up — if anything, since your oral stunt, it quickened. He forced you down, now completely bent over the sink as he created a new angle — his cock now driving deeper into your sopping cunt, abusing the sweet spot inside you relentlessly.

Now released from his grasp, your loud, incessant cries sounded throughout the small room — so voluminous that any passerby would hear every scream of his name.

His hand collided with your ass cheek again — cursing under his breath as the familiar feeling of a much needed orgasm crept up his abdomen. The lustful spark in your stomach blossoming much the same as he slid a hand into your hair, tugging your head upwards to look directly into the mirror once more. You were a state, completely, and literally, fucked — eyes streaming with tears that coated your hot cheeks, lips swollen and stricken with spit from his frantic kisses, and a small yet equally evident imprint of his fingers around your mouth where he held you harshly.

“‘M gonna cum so fuckin’ deep in this pussy that you can’t fuckin’ walk without flooding your little panties with my seed.” He grunted, never letting his thrusts faltering as you squirmed beneath him, “Who’s needy little cunt is this?”

Words failed you as you continued to cry — only desperate, eager whimpers falling from your lips.

Another spank connected with your ass cheek, coaxing a loud whine out of you, “Answer me when I ask you a fuckin’ question, woman.”

“Yours!—fuck, Michael, it’s all yours.” You panted, tears falling from your eyes faster than you could stop them.

“Say this pussy’s mine.” Michael spat, tugging hard on your locks of hair.

“My pussy’s all yours, baby, fuck—mmph!—Gonna cum!”

Michael hummed, clearly pleased with your response, his hips stuttering as he neared his own release, “Cum with me, beautiful, cum on my cock like a good girl.”

You cried out, loud and despairingly, as you finally broke — red-hot ecstasy taking over your body as you came, the flood gates of your pleasure breaking open to consume you. Michael followed, the tight clenching of your quivering pussy sending him over the edge, spurting his hot seed into your fertile cunt as he groaned lowly — the sensation of his cum filling your fluttering sex only furthering your own orgasm.

You slumped against the countertop — chest heaving as you attempted to catch your breath. Michael stilled behind you, swallowing thickly as he softened inside you. He leant down, pushing his chest against your back, coated with a sheen of sweat, before pressing a soft, loving kiss to your shoulder.

His kisses trailed up to your neck, beneath your earlobe, your cheek, before using a trembling hand to tilt your head to the side, and pressing his lips against your own. You sobbed into the kiss, more tears, now from overwhelming emotion, falling from your eyes. Michael’s hand cupped your cheek — deepening the kiss, that once held so much irritation, resentment and anger, now filled with undeniable attachment, deep love and compassion.

“I love you.” Michael breathed, disconnecting your lips, resting his forehead against yours — singular curl that stuck to his slick forehead tickling your own, “Please be mine again.” He whispered.

You nodded, pressing a soft kiss to his nose, head reeling from the overstimulating rush of emotions.

“But don’t pull that shit again.” He added with a playful smile.

“Yeah,” You sniffled with a breathy laugh, “You too.”

°❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

The hand resting on the arm of his throne curls into a fist, knuckles whitening. One of the advisors is still talking—something about grain shipments—but Zuko’s focus is completely locked on the way your hand moves beneath your robe. You let your lips part just slightly, letting him see the way your breath hitches when you dip two fingers lower and push inside yourself.

You’re so wet the faint, obscene sound of it is almost audible to you. You pray the advisors can’t hear.

Zuko’s chest rises and falls a little faster. His eyes burn—literally, the gold flaring brighter for half a second before he forces it back under control. You can see the tension in his shoulders, the way he’s gripping the edge of the table now like he’s two seconds from standing up and clearing the entire room.

You slide your fingers deeper, curling them just the way he does when he’s inside you, and your thighs tremble. A soft, involuntary exhale escapes your lips. You don’t break eye contact. Instead, you mouth his name silently—Zuko—while you fuck yourself slow and teasing on your own fingers, thumb still working your clit in lazy circles.

He shifts in his seat, and you know he’s hard. You can see the slight bulge beneath his robes, the way he has to adjust his posture to hide it from the men still obliviously discussing tactics.

One of the advisors asks him a direct question. Zuko’s voice comes out rougher than usual, “Repeat that.”

You smile sweetly and oh so innocently, even as you pump your fingers a little faster, chasing your orgasm. Zuko’s gaze drops for a split second to where your hand disappears under the fabric, then snaps back up to your face. The look he gives tells you you're going to pay for this later.

The thought only makes you wetter. You add a third finger, stretching yourself, imagining it’s him fucking you right here in front of everyone. You’re so close already, body wound tight from hours of denial and ovulation hormones turning you into a desperate little mess.

Zuko clears his throat, cutting off whatever the advisor was saying.“This meeting is over.”

The men blink, startled, but they know better than to argue with him. Chairs scrape as bows are offered, and they file out quickly, murmuring among themselves.

The second the heavy doors shut behind the last advisor, Zuko is on his feet immediately. You don’t stop touching yourself—still lazily fucking your fingers, lips parted on soft little pants—until he’s right in front of your chair.

He grabs your wrist and yanks your hand out from under your robe. Your fingers are shiny with your slick. Without breaking eye contact, he brings them to his mouth and sucks them clean, tongue curling around them. “Couldn’t wait until I was done? Had to tease me like that in front of everyone?”

You bite your lip, still breathing hard, thighs pressed together as another rush of wetness coats your folds. “You looked bored,” you whisper, “I thought I’d give you something better to focus on.”

In one swift motion he hauls you up from the chair, spins you around, and bends you over the long war table. Your palms slap against the polished wood as he shoves your robe up over your hips, yanking your soaked panties down your thighs. “Fuck,” he hisses, one large hand spreading your ass so he can see how dripping and swollen you are. “Look at you. So fucking wet for me already. That explains your behavior.”

You whimper at his words, pushing back against him, aching to be filled. The thick head of his cock nudges against your entrance and you moan when he drags it through your slick folds, “Zuko—please—”

He laughs mockingly as he keeps teasing your entrance without pushing in. “Please what? Use your words. You were so bold a minute ago, mouthing my name and fucking yourself right in front of me. Now you’re suddenly shy?”

You whine, fingers scrabbling against the table. “Please fuck me. I need you—need your cock—”

He doesn’t make you beg twice before you cry out, fingers scrabbling against the table as he starts fucking you hard and deep. Zuko groans, one hand gripping your hip hard while the other fists in your hair, pulling your head back just enough to speak against your ear. “So greedy today. Can’t even sit through one meeting without playing with this needy little cunt. What am I going to do with you?”

He starts fucking you in deep, punishing strokes. “You’re going to pay for that little show,” he growls,

“Teasing your Fire Lord like that… making me hard while I’m supposed to be listening to grain shipments.” He punctuates the words with a particularly hard snap of his hips. “You really thought that through didn’t you?”

You moan loudly, pushing back to meet his thrusts, the table creaking beneath you. “Zuko—ah—yes—I was thinking about you the whole time.”

Without warning he pulls out, making you whine at the sudden emptiness. Before you can protest, he flips you onto your back on the wide table, spreading your legs wide and hooking them over his elbows. He slides back into you in one smooth thrust, the new angle making your back arch.

“There we go,” he murmurs, golden eyes soft even as his hips snap forward hard. “Better? I know how needy you get, my empress.”

He leans down to kiss you, tongue sliding against yours while he fucks you. You moan into his mouth, hands clutching at his shoulders. He feels so good, so thick, and exactly what you needed. After a few more deep thrusts he pulls out again, ignoring your desperate sound of protest. With easy strength he lifts you off the table, turns you, and sits himself in one of the heavy advisor chairs before pulling you down onto his lap facing him. You sink onto his cock, taking all of him. “Ride me,” he orders, hands gripping your hips.

You brace your hands on his chest and start moving, bouncing on his cock with frantic, needy rolls of your hips. Zuko groans, head tipping back for a moment before he looks up at you again, one hand sliding up to cup your breast flicking the peak as you whimper.

“Look at you,” he teases, “So pretty when you’re desperate like this. My perfect girl, dripping all over me because she couldn’t wait another minute.” He suddenly thrusts up hard to meet you, making you cry out. “That’s it—fuck, just like that.”

He lets you ride him for a while, watching as you chase your pleasure. You’re so so fucking close when he picks you up still buried inside you, and carries you a few steps to press your back against the cool stone wall. “Zuko—ah—please, I’m so close—” Your legs wrap around his waist as he fucks you against it, the angle letting him grind against your clit with every thrust.

“I know, princess,” he coos, pressing open-mouthed kisses along your neck while his hips piston into you. “I can feel how tight you’re getting. You feel so good ”

The combination of his sweet words and the brutal way he’s fucking you sends you over. Zuko groans at the feeling, fucking you through it with deep, steady strokes.

Before you can even catch your breath, he pulls out once more, spins you around, and bends you over the table again, “Again,” he murmurs against your ear, “You’re ovulating, love. I know you need more than one. So be good and come for me again while I fill you up.”

You push back against him, pussy squelching loudly. “That’s my princess… I love when you get like this. I love you”

You come a second time as tears prick your eyes from the overstimulation. Your walls clamp down around him, milking his cock as he cums hard. Zuko’s rhythm falters as he twitches inside you, the last of the thick white spurts filling you.

Then he gently pulls out, turns you to face him, and lifts you into his arms with surprising tenderness. He carries you over to his throne-like chair at the head of the table and settles you on his lap, your head resting against his chest.

Zuko brushes damp strands of hair from your face, golden eyes warm and full of affection as he looks down at you. “Feeling better, princess?” he asks softly, a playful little smirk tugging at his lips, “Or do you need me to give you a few more rounds?”

You laugh breathlessly and nuzzle closer to him as he laughs, pressing a kiss to your forehead. “That’s what I thought. We’ve got all afternoon… and I’m more than happy to keep spoiling you rotten.”

you smile but can't help but tease. "rotation? so you're saying i'm just another roster chick?" maki just snickers and changes the topic. "i hear sukuna's been over your house a lot, how about you go for him. he's sexy, tall, tatted up, drives a motorcycle, older, he's easily available-"

"okay, first, he's always been coming round that's nothing new, second he's a fucking asshole, maki. and my brothers best friend. i'd rather choke on naoya's dick than even touch sukuna."

she trys her best not to laugh on the other end, "wow, and that's saying something... can't tell me you haven't thought about it before though, hate-fucking's a thing."

a pulse ran through your body, sure you'd thought about sukuna from time to time. late at night when it was just you and your thoughts, when you could hear him talking shit with toji from down the hall with that deep voice, but the idea disappeared as soon as it came. you shook the thought out of your head before making up some dumb excuse about needing to go get a drink, leaving maki with her teasing thoughts and a dead line.

.

you don’t even think twice when you pad down the stairs, the hardwood cool against your bare feet, hair messy from the afternoon heat. it’s summer and the sun has been baking the house since dawn, so you’ve been living in tank tops and thin pajama shorts for days now.

your first year at university was finally over. no lectures, no stupid assignments, no responsibilities for six. whole. weeks. just you, your snacks, and the rare bliss of doing whatever the fuck you want, legal or not.

the problem is, you’re never alone in this god damned house. someone's always got an eye out for you and your bad habits.

you catch the sound of voices before you even step off the last stair. familiar and very masculine.

one of them is unmistakable, that deep tone you’ve known your whole life. toji, your brother. but there’s another voice, one that crawls under your skin the second it hits your ears. its smoother and raspier, sukuna.

of course he’s here. of course he’s sitting in your living room at 4 p.m. like he owns the damn place.

he's your next-door neighbor, your brother’s best friend, the permanent leech hovering around your house chucking insults at you every chance he gets.

your families are so tangled together that you swear the twenty something year old spends more time here than in his own home. your mother thinks it’s sweet and your brother calls it a convenient coincidence, everyone else calls it “brotherly banter” when he’s got your name in his mouth 24/7.

but you know better. you know the tone of voice in a man who's a little more protective than he seems on the surface. whenever you get into trouble or any sort of bad situation, parties until sunrise, smoking with maki, messing around with guys, he'd be scolding you alongside your parents and brother like an annoying pest. like he had any right?

you hesitate for only a second at the bottom step, silently praying you can slip into the pantry unnoticed by the older males. but luck has never been your friend where sukuna is involved.

he’s slouched on the couch, one arm falling along the backrest, his broad shoulders stretching the thin fabric of his black tee, tattoos visible out from under the sleeves, crawling down the veins of his arm. he's the tallest, most intimidating guy you'd ever seen, and that's saying something considering toji's your brother.

6'6 of pure muscle, tattoos and fucking ego.

he glances up the moment your bare legs come into view, gaze dragging slow and unhurried, as if he has every right to look. and god, he does look. from the thin strap of your tank top slipping down your shoulder to the way your shorts barely cover the tops of your thighs. his mouth twists at the corner, sharp and knowing, a predator’s smirk.

“well, look at this,” he drawls, voice thick with amusement, leaning forward just enough to rest his forearms on his knees. “it's your gross little sister.”

you should’ve stayed upstairs.

you should’ve thrown on sweats, should’ve remembered that where there’s toji, sukuna is never far behind.

“shut it,” toji cuts in, tone hard and final. he shifts his gaze to you "better not think of doing something sketchy, brat." your brother’s always been like that, standing between you and anything he doesn’t trust.

"god, can't i grab something to eat without you assholes bouncing on my tip." you push, chucking the ups at sukuna as you walk closer to the kitchen.

"she's got spunk today, i like it."

"i'll kill you bro, shut up." toji retorted, taking a mouthful of his booze.

sukuna doesn’t seem fazed. if anything, his grin only sharpens, “oh relax, just making an observation.” his eyes flick back to you, trapping you in place like you’re pinned beneath a spotlight. “nothing wrong with appreciation.”

“you just called her gross, how is that appreciation, dick head,” toji rolls his eyes with that bored look.

god you want to crawl in a hole and die, can this guy stop shooting bullets through you?!

everything about him is designed to get under your skin, the way he walks into your house like he belongs there and the way he walks into your room like it's his god given right to, the way his comments toe the line between playful and something nasty. and the worst part? everyone else laughs it off, calls it harmless teasing, except toji ofcourse, but he's not the issue.

you clear your throat, forcing your legs to move, heading straight for the pantry as if you can pretend you’re not squirming under sukuna’s gaze. you keep your eyes down, grab the first bag of chips you see, but you can still feel him watching you.

the bag of chips crinkles in your grip as you make a beeline for the stairs, heart hammering too fast. you tell yourself you’re annoyed, that you can’t stand the way he opens his mouth and makes your skin burn. but as you climb the steps two at a time, you know that’s only half the truth.

once you leave, the living room becomes quiet before toji decides to speak up.

"that little shit gets into enough trouble as it is, ryo. don't need you winding her up n' making her act up any more."

"oh give it a rest, toji. i look out for her too."

~

your room has always been your little sanctuary. four pale walls lined with little collages from highschool, shelves sagging under the weight of manga, paperbacks, and dusty trinkets you’ve collected since you were a kid.

it’s a lil messy but hey, its you. clothes in piles on the chair, open notebooks scattered across your desk, fairy lights drooping at uneven intervals across your wall. an uncharacteristically perfect room for someone so notorious for acting up.

your bed is your throne though, a mountain of fluffy blankets and mismatched pillows that swallow you whole.

tonight is no different, you’re sprawled out in the nest, propped up on your elbows with your phone lighting up your pretty face.

your tank top is practically glued to you, pajama shorts riding up as you shift against the sheets.

its so nice and peaceful, but in the back of your mind, you know he’s still lurking around somewhere, loud infuriating. and worse, when sukuna sleeps over, it means his presence lingers late into the night, infecting every corner of your house. you tell yourself he’ll stick to your brother’s room, maybe crash on the couch with a beer in hand, but you know better.

you know him.

the crash comes, the slam of your door against the wall, and your heart jumps into your throat.

“what the hell-" you start, pushing yourself upright, phone slipping out of your hand.

and there he is. filling your doorway like he owns the place, shirtless and cocky, tattoos sharp like smoke over skin stretched taut with thick muscle.

shit, don't stare.

he’s barefoot with his sweatpants hanging very low exposing his cut v-line, he looks every inch like he just rolled out of bed, but there’s that fuck ass grin on his face.

“jesus, asshole, ever heard of knocking?” you snap, scrambling upright to pull the hem of your shorts lower and the neck of your top higher.

“knocking?” he repeats lazily, voice rough from sleep, dragging across the room as if he’s already bored of you. “this house is basically mine, sweetheart. no need to knock when i’m home.”

oh my god can he get any more insufferable?

he says it so casually, like he hasn’t just barged into your space uninvited like this isn’t your room, your private little haven.

you groan and flop back onto your bed. “can you like... get out?”

but he doesn’t leave, instead, he scoffs and walks in further, eyes falling over your shelves, desk, bedspread. he’s cataloguing it all, you can tell, waiting to rip you apart for it.

and then he starts touching shit.

“sukuna- don’t-” your voice pitches higher as he reaches for the first shelf, dragging his fingers across spines of your manga before yanking one free. he flips through it like it’s a brochure, expression blank, before tossing it onto the floor.

“what the fuck is this? you still into kiddie comics?” he scoffs, a lazy look yet his eyes scream with something deeper, possession.

“they’re not comics, fuck face,” you bite out, rushing to pick it up before the pages crinkle.

“sure,” he hums, already moving on. he plucks up a tiny snow globe, shaking it violently so the glitter storm inside whirls, then lets it fall back onto the shelf with a dull clink. “real sophisticated taste you’ve got here. does mommy still buy these for you?”

you clench your fists. it’s the same every time, him tearing through your things like they’re nothing, mocking your choices, dragging you back down to the role of little sister he thinks you’ll never escape.

“sorry i don't collect boring cookie cutter bullshit like the hoes you screw. put it down!” you warn through gritted teeth.

he ignores you, grabbing a stuffed keychain and dangling it from one finger before flicking it across the room.

“stop!” you’re off the bed now, rushing over as he reaches higher.

and then he grabs it. the one thing he shouldn’t.

your fragile little glass strawberry sculpture. a stupid gift you picked up at a summer market years ago, delicate and tiny, a perfect little red fruit frozen in glass. it’s silly, but it’s yours, and it’s survived moves, fights, and careless hands, until now.

“don’t you fucking dare,” you breathe, voice sharp with panic as he holds it up between two fingers.

sukuna’s grin spreads slow and wicked, his red eyes glittering with recognition of just how much this matters. “this ugly little thing?”

“give it.” you step forward, hand outstretched.

“nah,” he says, lifting it higher, well out of reach. at his full height, he towers over you, arm stretched so easily it might as well be suspended from the ceiling.

“i’m not playing with you, sukuna,” you snap, jumping up, fingers brushing his wrist.

“you think i am?” he teases, shifting just enough to keep it away, his grin deepening as you strain. “c’mon, short stack, jump higher.”

your chest burns with fury. you hate this shit.

“you’re a fucking child,” you spit, trying again, nails catching his skin.

and that’s when he pounces.

sudden and dominant. his free hand shoots out, grabs your wrist, and in the next breath your back slams against the wall. the fragile strawberry glints in his other hand as he cages you in, his arm braced beside your head, his body close enough that the heat of him makes your skin prickle. lips so close, one wrong move and they'd connect.

your heart stutters, skips, then races.

he leans down, breath ghosting across your cheek. “careful,” he murmurs, almost too soft. “you’re gonna break it.”

your stomach knots. not just from the glass strawberry but from the weight of him, the deliberate trap he’s set.

“get off me,” you whisper hiss, trying to twist away, but his grip on your wrist tightens, pinning you.

“funny,” he says, voice lowering to a purr. “you never fight this hard when i’m in your space. makes me think you like it.”

“you’re delusional,” you snap, though your voice cracks.

his smiles wider then tilts your chin up with two fingers, forcing your gaze to meet his. “y’know what else makes me think that?” he drawls, his eyes narrowing with dangerous amusement. “that little phone call you had earlier.”

your blood runs cold.

“w-what?"

“oh, don’t play dumb, pretty,” he cuts you off, thumb brushing the corner of your jaw. “you really think i couldn’t hear you downstairs? house has paper thin walls. every word about gojo. geto. about me.”

your chest caves in, shame clawing hot and sharp at your throat.

“that’s… that’s not-”

“don’t bother lying,” he says, pressing closer, his voice like a blade. “you said i was an asshole. that you’d rather choke on naoya’s dick than touch me.” his smile doesn’t reach his eyes now. “real sweet of you to say, by the way. i like to hold myself to a higher standard than that woman hater.”

your heart slams against your ribs. he heard it all. every reckless word you threw at maki.

“sukuna, i didn’t-”

“hurts my feelings,” he interrupts, mocking a pout. “here i thought we had something special. all those years of me giving you my attention, my concern, and you talk about me like that?” his gaze held something below the surface, like what he was saying ran deeper than stupid teasing.

you try to yank your wrist free, but he doesn’t budge.

“you’re insane,” you whisper.

he chuckles low, shaking his head like you’ve said something cute. “maybe. but you know what’s worse, honey?” his grin returns “if you don’t drop the attitude, i could tell toji everything.”

your breath catches.

“what-”

“about you fucking gojo and geto,” he says, voice dripping with venomous amusement. “how his precious little sister’s nothing but a slut for his old collage friends. can you imagine the look on his face?”

panic spikes through you, stomach plummeting.

“you wouldn’t,”

“wouldn’t i?” he cuts in, tilting his head. “gojo and geto are a lot older than you, sweetheart. toji wouldn't be too happy about that, and you know me. you know i’d enjoy it. watching him lose his shit, maybe kick your boyfriends’ asses, maybe yours too.” there's a different look behind his eyes, one that looks like anger, almost disappointment as he talks about your past with the boys.

“they’re not my boyfriends-”

“doesn’t matter,” he says, leaning in until his mouth is by your ear. “what matters is, he’d never look at you the same.”

your body trembles, fury warring with fear, with the electric charge of being this close to him, trapped under the weight of his dominance.

“so here’s the deal,” sukuna murmurs, his breath hot against your skin. “you stop running that pretty mouth. you quit with the bitchy attitude you're always giving me, and maybe, just maybe, I can keep my mouth shut about your little summer escapades.”

your teeth clench, nails digging into your palm.

he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes again, grin curling cruelly. “sound fair, brat?”

you don’t even realize you’ve been holding your breath until the word slips past your lips.

“…okay.”

it comes out small, fragile, like it doesn’t even belong to you.

sukuna’s grin spreads slow, satisfaction swooshing in his eyes as if he’d been waiting for that word all along.

“good girl,” he smiles as he finally eases back. his arm drops from the wall, his grip loosens on your wrist, and suddenly the heavy weight of him pinning you is gone.

for a second, your body sways, disoriented by the space he leaves behind.

then, with infuriating carelessness, he lifts the glass strawberry higher into the light, turns it once in his hand like it’s worthless, and-

"hey! dont!-”

you lunge, but it’s too late. he tosses it behind him with a lazy flick of his wrist, like throwing away a scrap of trash.

you scramble past him, diving across your bed to catch it before it shatters on the hardwood. your hands close around it just in time, heart hammering, chest heaving with relief and rage all tangled together.

“asshole,” you whisper under your breath, clutching the fragile thing to your chest.

“hm?” his deep voice cuts through the silence, sharp as a knife.

you freeze. did he hear you? urgh, of course he did. his hearing is sharp as hell, you’ve always known that.

but when you turn your head, he’s already at the door, stretching his arms above his head with a yawn, muscles flexing under tattoos. he looks relaxed, almost lazy, like he didn’t just corner you, threaten to ruin your life, and wring a broken promise out of you.

“thought i heard something,” he says lightly, glancing back at you with that smug smirk. “must’ve been a ghost.”

your face burns, but you clamp your mouth shut, refusing to give him another ounce of satisfaction.

he chuckles under his breath, like your silence is an answer all its own, then pads out into the hall without another word. the door swings shut behind him, leaving you alone with nothing but your racing pulse and the strawberry clutched tight in your hands.

for a long moment, you just sit there, knees pulled to your chest, trying to untangle the mess in your head.

you hate him. you hate yourself more for letting your body react the way it does.

your throat tightens. you shove the strawberry back onto the shelf, careful this time, and flop back onto your bed with a groan. the ceiling fan clicks above, steady and useless, but the heat in your chest doesn’t fade.

you tell yourself you’re just angry. that’s all it is.

.

down the hall, sukuna is grinning.

he closes your door behind him with an easy swing, the sound drowned by the white noise of the house. his smirk hasn’t fallen, not even as he strolls cockily toward toji’s room, rolling his shoulders like he’s just stretched after a nap.

you’d said okay.

that one little word plays on repeat in his head, each time sweeter, each time bending his grin wider.

you’d folded, just like he knew you would. this was his round about way of trying to make things civil between the two of you. for too long had this constant back and forth been a wrench in his final goal of being on good terms with you, so, forcing you to be 'nice' to him was just the first step in the long run.

he pushes open toji’s door without knocking, his best friend is laying on the bed with his phone in hand, looking bored and irritated.

“took you long enough,” toji mutters, tossing his phone aside. “what, decide to rub one out while you were in the bathroom?”

sukuna snorts, flopping down onto the other end of the bed like he owns the space. “yeah, somethin’ like that.”

toji eyes him, disgusted, but doesn’t press. instead, he grabs a controller off the nightstand and tosses it at sukuna, who catches it with one hand already leaning back against the headboard. the screen glows blue with the fifa menu, music blaring low through the tv speakers.

but before toji hits start, he smirks, leaning back on his elbows. “actually, got a better idea.”

sukuna arches a brow. “yeah?”

“couple girls i’ve been talking to,” toji says casually, like it’s nothing. “they’re down to meet up. thought i’d bring you along. a two man, make a night of it.”

normally, that’s an easy yes. girls are simple, fun, disposable, a guaranteed good time. sukuna never says no to an opportunity like that.

but tonight, his mind hesitates.

because when toji says girls, sukuna doesn’t picture nameless faces. he pictures you, pressed up against the wall, eyes wide and furious, lip caught between your pretty teeth.

the way you glared at him. the way you whispered under your breath like it burned your tongue.

his jaw tightens.

“nah,” sukuna says, surprising himself as much as toji. “not feeling it tonight.”

toji frowns. “you? not in the mood for pussy? what, you sick?”

sukuna scoffs, jabbing a button on the controller. “fuck off. just wanna play fifa.”

toji shrugs, unconcerned. “suit yourself.” he grabs his own controller, starts the match, and within seconds they’re both locked in, banter filling the room.

"hm, by the way, did you see y/n in her room? i'm scared she's snuck out again, doing drugs or whatever the fuck she does when she goes out. heard a rucus before."

sukuna just shrugs. "she's not that out of touch, i mean, the worst thing she's done is sneak out to a few parties, right?"

toji just scoffed. "that's all i tell you about, sure. but bro, that girl is seriously bad news when she's unsupervised. scared she's gonna get herself into some seriously messed up stuff..."

"yeah, tell me about it." his mind shoots back to your phone call with maki, wanting to bang an older guy, your carelessness, the possible dangers such an act could bring for you...

for the rest of the night, sukuna's body plays on autopilot, fingers moving without thought, but his mind keeps slipping back to you. the heat of your room. the way you scrambled for that stupid strawberry like it was worth your life. the sound of your voice cracking.

he knows he’s an asshole, he knows he pushes too far, digs too deep. but that’s the point. he wants to see how far you’ll bend before you break. and tonight, he saw it, just a glimpse. for years he's watched you grow up, do risky shit, fuck risky men at horribly low ages, and it fucks him up. truly.

all he wants is for you to be safe and sound at home with your family, but you clearly had other plans. he saw you as the type who wanted to grow up too fast, too hard. but you in your room, in those pyjamas, looking so at his mercy for a girl so wild...

fuck if it doesn’t make his blood run hot.

he shakes the thought away, biting down on the inside of his cheek.

this isn’t him. he doesn’t obsess, he usually doesn’t give a damn about anyone past the moment.

so why the hell is your face burned into the back of his eyelids, even now? after he'd promised himself years ago he would stop fantasising about you?

toji curses beside him, controller rattling as his team misses a shot. sukuna smirks, falling back into the game, letting the noise of fifa drown out the thoughts he doesn’t want to face.

but deep down, beneath the arrogance and the cocky grin, he knows the truth he’ll never admit.

you’ve gotten under his skin.

and that’s a dangerous place for anyone to be, especially someone he can never stop thinking about.

~

"y/n! where the fuck is my razor you little shit!?" your brothers voice booms out thought out the house at a crisp 7.a.m in the morning.

you groan, rub your eyes, and pull yourself out of bed and to your bedroom door to scream back at him. "in the upstairs bathroom!" you yell.

over the sound of the radio in the kitchen and your parents getting ready for work, you hear the loud, over the top groan that toji lets out. you assume he's heading to work, some accounting firm where he somehow does fuck all but gets paid a pretty penny.

you decide to get ready yourself, do somthing nice today as a reward for finishing your first year at uni successfully.

no risky shit, just a clean, honest day out. a nice change of pace.

but the second your brain kicks in, last night comes back to you. sukuna’s weight pinning you to the wall, the way his breath dragged over your ear, the cruel threat he left you with.

you squeeze your eyes shut. fuck.

you can’t sit here and stew over it. you need some air.

so you shower, throw on the prettiest little outfit you own, nice skirt, some stockings, a flattering tank that clings just right, some cute boots, makeup, and perfume that projects. hair done, bag hanging over your shoulder.

your plan is simple, go into town, pick up some bits and pieces, and grab yourself a coffee. minimal human contact, just retail therapy and caffeine. easy. low chance of getting into any trouble.

except nothing’s ever easy in this house.

you’re halfway down the stairs when you smell it first, coffee, strong and bitter. then you hear the clink of a spoon against ceramic.

your stomach drops.

when you step into the kitchen, there he is. leaning against the counter shirtless, tattoos stretched over broad shoulders and chest, muscles flexing lazily with every move. a mug in one hand, phone in the other, like this is his kitchen and not yours.

he looks up when you walk in. red eyes sweep over you slow, from your sneakers to your glossed lips, and that grin that curls across his face.

“well,” he drawls, voice still rough with sleep. “look who decided to play dress up this morning.”

you grit your teeth, moving straight for the door. “don’t start.”

he takes a sip of his coffee, watching you over the rim. “just making an observation. you look… different from last night. put a little effort in for once, huh?” his gaze lingers on your legs, smug and knowing. “where you headed, sweetheart?”

“into town,” you answer curtly, shoving your keys into your bag.

“town, huh?” he echoes, like he doesn’t believe you for a second. “dressed like that? lemme guess, you’ve got a little date, maybe with an older guy? one sleazy enough to buy you drugs?”

you roll your eyes, spinning to glare at him for the reference to your phone call with maki. “no. just shopping and coffee,”

sukuna cocks his head, smirk deepening. “sure. shopping and coffee. sounds like code for dick and illegal shit to me.”

you glare at him and quickly add, "shut up. plus, i'm old enough to buy drugs if i wanted to. i don't need some relic to do it for me."

in usual sukuna fashion, he just rolls his eyes like he doesn't believe a word you say. "yeah right, a dealer wouldn't touch you with a ten foot pole, honey. you're too bait."

your pulse jumps, but you remember his words from last night, the trap he set. no attitude. no lip.

so you clamp up down on the sharp reply on your tongue, force your voice flat. “believe what you want.”

then you’re out the door before you can betray yourself.

behind you, sukuna exhales a laugh that doesn't sound very amused, shaking his head as he tips back the rest of his coffee. deep down, the second you clicked the door shut, his brain flew into panic mode stressing all of the fucked up shit you could be getting into alone.

.

the city is busy, buzzing with the weekend crowd. you weave through clusters of shoppers and couples, duck into the bookstore, and spend way too long scanning the manga shelves until your arms are full.

your reward for surviving the week is a nice expensive coffee.

you head toward your favorite cafe, already tasting the cafine on your tongue. but the second you spot the familiar sign, your steps falter.

because sitting right there at an outdoor table, sipping his drink like something out of a glossy ad, is suguru geto.

black hair tied back in that pretty half up style, dark eyes sharp even in the morning light. his shoulders broad, his posture relaxed.

he looks good, no, better than good.

and you can already feel the heat of memories rising. his mouth hot against your neck last summer, his voice low and commanding when he told you exactly how to move for him.

fuck.

you turn on your heel, ready to walk the other way, when a familiar voice slices through the noise.

“no way! y/n?” you freeze.

gojo satoru is striding toward you, white hair a mess, sunglasses perched on his head, a grin that could disarm anyone. tall, lean, built like a muscular ballerina.

and just like that, you’re trapped. just when you were about to finish up a problem free day.

“well, if it isn’t my favorite girl,” he says, looping an arm around your shoulder before you can protest. “what are the odds, huh?”

“…unlucky, that's what,” you mutter, but he doesn’t hear. or maybe he does but pretends not to.

before you can reject, you’re being ushered toward the table, dropped right into the seat across from geto, who smiles slow and easy when your eyes meet.

“been a while,” he says smooth as honey.

you’re suddenly seventeen again, pressed between them in the backseat of gojo’s car, their hands everywhere, mouths hot against your skin. your thighs press together under the table, heat rising to your cheeks.

“yeah,” you mumble, clutching your bag tight..

it’s awkward, painfully so. your cheeks burn as you grip your iced coffee, trying not to think about the nights you spent tangled up with them. first separately, then together. the memory flickers unbidden, gojo’s laugh against your neck, geto’s steady hands, the way they’d pushed boundaries you didn’t even know you had.

they’re older, just like sukuna and toji, maybe a year or two younger, but still men in a way that leaves you feeling so young, inexperienced, even when you’ve already proven otherwise.

and they know it.

and they use that power.

“you look incredible,” geto says easily, eyes lingering.

“better than incredible,” gojo cuts in, leaning forward on his elbows. “we were just saying the other day how much weve missed you.”

you swallow thickly. “miss me?”

“yeah,” gojo says, grin softening into something hungrier. “miss this pretty face. miss how much fun we all had.”

your thighs press together under the table, heat rushing through you before you can stop it.

geto smirks, low and subtle. “you should come by our place, pretty. come visit. we’d make it well worth your time.”

oh god. you want to laugh it off, deflect it, but the way they’re both looking at you all hungry makes it impossible to breathe.

gojo tilts his head, studying you like he’s trying to memorize every detail. “god, you really did grow up, huh? all pretty and put together now. makes me wonder what else you’ve been hiding from us.” his voice drops, just enough for you to feel the weight of it in your stomach.

geto’s gaze slides down your body. “not hiding. she’s just being wasted on the wrong people.” his eyes flick up to yours, calm and devastating. “we wouldn’t waste you, baby. need some older guys to set you right?”

oh god. this felt off.

gojo laughs, leaning closer, elbows on the table so his face is inches from yours. “don’t look so shy. we know you much better than that.”

“satoru,” you hiss under your breath, but he only grins wider, shameless as he slips a hand over your trembling thighs.

“what? it’s true. you were wild. couldn’t get enough of the both of us. remember?” he gestures vaguely, like he doesn’t need to specify because you know exactly what he’s talking about.

and you do. the car windows fogged up, geto’s voice in your ear telling you to be good, gojo laughing while his fingers dug into your thighs.

you want the floor to swallow you whole.

geto leans back, calm where gojo is reckless, but his words cut sharper. “don’t pretend you’ve forgotten. we haven’t.”

you suck in a breath, trying to find some anchor, some excuse to leave, but they don’t let up.

“you’re even prettier now,” gojo adds, eyes flicking to your mouth. “dangerously pretty. we were idiots to let you slip away.”

“we should fix that,” geto says, his tone deceptively casual. “no reason we can’t pick up where we left off.”

you shouldn’t be here. not with them. not when sukuna’s threat from last night is still ringing in your ears.

but then, like some cruel twist of fate, you hear the growl of an engine.

your heart sinks before you even look up.

because parked across the street, astride his black motorcycle, helmet under one arm, is sukuna.

he’s staring right at you.

oh fuuuuck. you were screwed.

he takes his time, swinging one long leg over the bike, setting his helmet down on the seat. then he walks toward the shop, every step so confident. gojo and geto don’t even notice until his shadow falls across the table.

“yo,” sukuna greets, that shitty grin plastered on his face.

gojo’s head snaps up, then breaks into a wide grin. “no fucking way, ryomen?”

they clasp hands, pulling each other into a dap up like old friends.

“it's been a while,” geto says, standing to clasp his hand too.

“mm, haven't seen you two in a bit,” sukuna hums, leaning against the table.

and then his gaze slides right over to you.

you nervously laugh and scratch at your collar. "wow, what a coincidence.." you spit through gritted teeth and an extremely forced smile.

“mhm, small world,” sukuna drawls, tilting his head. “you three know each other?”

the silence is really, really awkward. you want to scream at them not to say it, not to ruin you infront of him despite him already knowing, not to hand sukuna the ammunition he’s begging for.

gojo opens his big mouth first. “yeah, we-”

“mutual friends,” geto cuts in smoothly, “ran into each other a couple times.”

sukuna’s eyes narrow. all he wanted was to put these guys heads through the wall, but that would frighten you.

“that so?” he says softly, eyes never leaving yours. “funny. you’d think i’d have heard about that.”

your throat locks, gojo shifts in his seat, oblivious, but geto saves it. “guess it just slipped through the cracks.”

sukuna chuckles darkly, then pushes off the table. “huh. guess so.”

his smirk lingers as he turns away, but you can feel the weight of his gaze still pinned on you, like he’s already plotting what to do next.

he lets it hang there, brushing it off with the kind of nonchalance that makes your skin crawl. but his eyes, when they flick to you again, burn.

you know he's internally laughing at the lie.

and worse, you know he’s storing this away.

he pulls out his phone and pretends to read a quick message. “looks like your brother’s got timing,” he says suddenly, sliding his phone away into his pocket. “toji just texted. says to bring you home.”

your heart plummets. “what? he doesn't even know i'm-”

“shoosh.” sukuna straightens, already moving toward you. “c’mon, let’s go.”

“hold on-”

but gojo interrupts, frowning behind his sunglasses. “already? we were just catching up.”

“yeah,” geto adds, expression a shade colder, though his tone is still smooth. “huh, what bad timing,”

sukuna shrugs, not even pretending to be sorry. “sorry boys, orders from the top.”

you look between them helplessly, but gojo’s grin softens a little, like he’s trying to reassure you. “guess we’ll have to steal her another time.”

geto leans back in his chair, eyes fixed on you. “you should give us a call when you’re home, y/n.” it’s really not a suggestion and sukuna knows that.

“yeah,” gojo echoes, flashing you a wink. “can't wait for our next encounter."

before you can respond, sukuna’s hand clamps around your arm as he hauls you up.

“later,” he tosses over his shoulder to the boys, already dragging you toward the street.

“hey- sukuna!” you hiss, stumbling to keep up. “what the fuck-”

but he doesn’t answer, nor does he look at you. he just shoves a helmet into your hands when you reach his bike, clearly pissed off.

your stomach knots and you hesitate. sukuna when he’s being dumb, when he’s cocky, you can handle. sukuna when he’s angry? not so much. you’ve seen what he does when he’s pissed off, holes punched in walls, bottles shattered against your kitchen floors when he's mad at your brother. the thought of all that energy turned on you makes your pulse spike.

so, you don’t argue. you slip the helmet on, hands shaking, and climb onto the back of the bike.

he scoffs, the engine roars, and then you’re flying down the street, clutching his back for dear life as he weaves through traffic, faster, faster, until your lungs are tight and your eyes sting behind the visor.

but when you finally reach your neighborhood, he doesn’t pull into your driveway. he slows just enough to swing into his instead, killing the engine with a sharp twist.

confused, you yank the helmet off as you climb off the bike. “why the hell are we at your house?”

“inside,” he cuts you off, tossing his own helmet onto the seat.

you stare at him, anger bubbling through your fear. “no. you don’t get to just drag me out of there, ruin my morning, and then not even take me home. what the fuck is wrong with you?”

he turns to you slowly.

“get the fuck inside,” he repeats.

“sukuna-”

he sighs, scrubs a hand over his face, then leans down so his mouth is right by your ear. “get inside, brat. or i’ll tell toji every little detail about last summer. every. single. one.”

you genuinely choke on the air in your throat.

he straightens, watching your face crumble, the victory already written in his face.

your legs move before your brain catches up, carrying you up his porch steps and through the door.

you whirl on him, voice sharp. “why are you doing this? what is your problem?!”

sukuna leans back against the door, arms folded, eyes boring into you.

“you really don’t get it, do you?”

“no, i don’t!” you shout. “you barge in, ruin my morning, drag me here like some caveman, what the fuck is wrong with you?”

his laugh is humorless, bitter. “what’s wrong with me? what’s wrong with you?”

“excuse me?”

he pushes off the door, crossing the space in two long strides. his size dwarfs you, tattoos shifting as his arms flex, voice rising.

“you think you’re grown, huh? think you can dress up all pretty, go prancing around town, hang around guys who are almost four years older than you like it’s nothing?” his face twists, fury sharp. “you’re fucking naive.”

your chest tightens. “i didn’t even mean-”

“don’t lie to me.” he roars, slamming his hand against the wall beside your head. you flinch, his eyes are wild, mouth twisted in a snarl.

“i saw the way they were looking at you. i know the shit they’ve done to you. you think those sleezy bastards give a fuck about you? they don’t. they just want what’s between your legs.”

your chest heaves. “they just happened to be there! i didn’t-”

“bullshit!” he slams his hand against the wall beside your head, the sound making you flinch. “you’re too fucking young, that’s your problem. you think they want you for you? wake the fuck up."

your throat tightens. his words slice through you, cruel and raw.

“you think it’s fine, don’t you?” he presses, voice rising. “letting twenty-one-year-old men fuck you when you were so young? you think that’s normal?” his tone is full of disgust, but you pick up on the undertones, and they sound a lot like jealousy.

“no! it’s fucked,” he bites out, jaw tight. “it’s so fucking messed up. do you even realize what you let happen? or are you too busy pretending it makes you grown?”

you shake your head, tears building up, but he doesn’t relent.

his hand grips your chin suddenly, forcing you to look at him. his eyes blaze, red and unyielding.

your eyes sting. “stop-”

“no, shut up and listen for once,” he growls, grabbing your chin, forcing your gaze up to his. “you wanna play adult? fine. then act like one. stop being so goddamn reckless. stop letting creeps twice your size use you up and trade you around like pokémon cards. fucking take care of yourself, y/n.” he pauses.

“because if you don’t, someone else is gonna make that choice for you. and trust me, you won’t like it.”

your breath shudders out of you, you feel alot of emotions, alot of them aren't really what you'd expect to be feeling right now.

this isn’t the teasing, cocky sukuna who always gets under your skin. this is something so much angrier, protective and it twists your insides up.

you glare up at him, “why?”

he blinks. “what?”

“why the hell do you care so much about me, sukuna?” your voice cracks, equal parts fury and desperation. “you act like i’m your fucking responsibility. like you get to control where i go, who i talk to. why do you even give a shit? you're just some stupid guy who follows my brother around!”

for the first time today, he fumbles. just for a second. then his jaw locks tightly.

“because i care about your safety,” he growls. “because it made my fucking skin crawl when i heard you on the phone talking about how you let those idiots fuck you, bragging about wanting older guys like it was nothing.”

your eyes widen. “god can you just drop it-”

“no! no, i can't,” he cuts you off, voice sharp as glass. “you think i enjoyed listening to that? you think i liked picturing those two bastards putting their hands on you?” disgust twists his features. “you’re a fucking kid, y/n.”

rage spikes through you, wiping away the sting of shame. “a kid?” you spit, shoving at his chest. “you don’t get to call me that, not when you’re dragging me into your house like you own me, pinning me against walls, getting all up in my space like you’re about to take advantage of me yourself.”

his nostrils flare, muscles going taut.

“what’s the difference, huh?” you press, voice rising. “you’re older than gojo and geto. you treat me like your toy just as much as they did. tell me, how are you any different?”

for a good second there you think you'd gotten through to him about how ridiculous this all was, but the look of shock on his face was quickly replaced by one of anger...

then he explodes.

“don’t you dare compare me to them,” he snarls, slamming his palm against the wall beside your head for the nth time, the sound reverberating through the house. you flinch, but his eyes are locked on yours, burning.

“i wouldn’t use you up and toss you aside like they did. i wouldn’t leave you fucked out and broken just to move on to the next piece of ass.” his voice cracks with rage, raw and unfiltered. “i’ve known you for years. i’ve been there, watching, worrying, while you pulled your ridiculous little stunts. i give a fuck about you even when you think i don’t.”

his chest rises and falls hard, like every word is ripped out of him.

yourre stunned.

“do you have any idea what it felt like,” he presses, quieter but no less vicious, “knowing you were within arms reach, so close yet you still managed to get yourself into a situation like that without anyone knowing, you let those sick fucks touch you, they took advantage of you while you were too naive to see it, and it makes me sick that i was one door away from stopping it.”

you feel like crying.

he leans closer, so close you can see every fleck of red in his eyes, every tense line in his jaw.

“i’d rather burn this whole fucking city down than see you let someone like them use you again.”

the room is silent except for your uneven breaths, his towering figure caging you in, his fury crashing against your own.

and then you laugh. soft, broken.

“you really think you’re any better?” your voice trembles, but you keep your chin high. “you walk into my space, throw my shit around, talk to me like i’m worthless. you make me feel small every other day. you don’t care about me, sukuna, you just like having power over me.”

his eyes flash.

“power?” he bites out.

you push on, reckless. “you’re obsessed with controlling me. admit it. you don’t want me safe, you want me scared. you want me to need you.”

his hand shoots out, gripping your jaw tight enough to sting. your breath hitches, but you refuse to look away.

“you think that’s what this is?” he hisses. “me wanting control? me getting off on scaring you?” his thumb digs into your chin, holding you still. “if that’s what i wanted, i’d have taken you already. i’d have ruined you years ago. and don’t fucking lie, you know i could of.”

your pulse slams against your throat. his words coil hot and dark inside you, terrifying and intoxicating all at once.

his grip eases, but he doesn’t pull back. his voice drops, low and guttural.

“the difference between me and them? i give a shit what happens to you. i’ve been there every time you fucked up, even when you hated me for it. those clowns just wanted to stick their dicks in you and leave, i'm gonna be here forever.”

youre shaking as he holds you tight aagainst the wall.

then his eyes soften.

“you drive me insane,” he mutters, words tumbling from his big stupid mouth before he can stop them. “if you knew how long i spent thinking of you, worrying? shit, i’d never let anyone fuck you over like that again, not those fuckwits, not even myself.”

your breath catches. something shifts in your chest, sharp and terrifying.

you shouldn’t understand him. you shouldn’t feel the way you do now, heat curling low in your stomach, shame and longing tangled together.

but you do.

because aside form all the insults and the threats, the control, you’ve always felt the difference. sukuna never looked at you the way other guys did. not like prey, not like a quick fuck, no, his attention was always heavier, so much more dangerous.

you hate it but you craved it.

your lips part, words slipping out before you can stop them. “...maybe i don’t want you to put up that restraint.”

his eyes darken instantly.

it just got really fucking tense. his breath is mingling with yours as he stares at you with hunger and restraint.

he tilts his head, gaze flicking down to your mouth. your heart stops as his lips connect with yours, the both of you sigh so sensually into the kiss, he moves his mouth in soft clicks over your pretty lips.

the world narrows to the space between you.

but then, he pulls back.

his hand drops from your face, his body turning away like the nearness burned him.

you sag against the wall with your chest suddenly hollow.

he runs a hand over his face, muttering a curse under his breath. his fists clench, then unclench.

“this is fucked,” he growls.

your throat tightens. “sukuna i-”

“don’t,” he snaps, but softer than before. his eyes move back down to you, conflicted and stormy. “just… don’t.”

the silence is insanely akward. you feel neglected in a way, like he was taunting you, or making some cruel joke only he understood.

finally, he exhales, “we can’t… i can’t.”

your cheeks go red, you'd never felt so embarrassed in your entire life.. all you want is to yell at him, scream at him for toying with you, but you can't. one word out of your mouth and you know you'll cry. so, you nod your head.

he moves toward the door, shoulders stiff, pausing only once. “you can go, just- dont get into anymore shit. and don’t make me regret telling you any of this.”

and then he’s gone, leaving you against the wall, totally and utterly reeling.

~

night creeps up on you way too slowly, toji's still at work as your parents blast some late night tv drama downstairs, and you're lying halfway off the side of your bed with your phone screen pressed to your ear.

“so… let me get this straight.” maki’s voice comes through, “you went to a café. bumped into gojo and geto-”

“by accident,” you add, cutting her off.

“sure. and then sukuna shows up out of nowhere, drags you out like some caveman, takes you to his house, screams at you for being… what? naive?”

you groan, pressing the heel of your hand to your forehead. “don’t say it like that, it sounds worse when you-”

“and then,” she plows on, completely ignoring you, “you two kissed?”

“oh my god, maki.” you bury your face into the pillow, voice muffled. “can you not?”

there’s a pause, then a laugh bursts through the speaker, maki’s laugh is never pretty; it’s always mean, like she’s pointing at you through the phone. “holy shit, you’re serious. sukuna actually kissed you. your brother’s scary ass best friend. the guy who makes a sport out of tormenting you every time he’s over? thats a laugh. im telling yuki.”

you sit up, clutching the phone tighter. “oh my god don't you dare. it was just, like... a moment. i don’t even know what it was. he got all pissed at me, yelling about how i’m reckless and i need to act like an adult, and then he…” your voice falters. “…he said all this deep shit, maki. stuff i didn’t think he cared about."

for once, maki doesn’t immediately bite back. you hear her exhale, "sounds like he cares a little too much.”

your stomach squishes together in a way you don't like. “god, don’t say that.”

“why not? you’ve been whining about him for years, and now the second he gets real with you, you’re suddenly shy? please.”

you flop onto your back again, glaring at the ceiling. “it’s not like that. he’s- he’s toji’s best friend. he’s older. he’s…”

“hot?” maki supplies flatly.

heat crawls up your neck. “i didn’t say that.”

“you didn’t have to. you should’ve heard your voice just now. god, you sound like every dumb girl with a crush.” she snorts. “this is hilarious.”

you groan, shoving your pillow over your face. “i’m so screwed.”

“no, you’re not.” maki’s tone shifts, not softer exactly, but steadier. “look. sukuna’s an asshole, i’ll give you that. but he’s not gojo or geto. he’s not gonna sweet talk you, fuck you, and then vanish. if he wanted that, he would’ve done it already. hell, you’ve basically been bait dangling in front of him for years, and he hasn’t touched you. that’s… saying something? i guess?”

you peek out from under the pillow. “…he said something like that too.”

“see? told you. maybe he was waiting for you to stop being jailbait, now you're grown? he's taking his chance.”

“but he’s so…” you trail off, words stuck in your throat. how do you explain the way his anger felt less like rage and more like panic? how his words, cruel as they were, carried something heavier beneath them? how his kiss felt less like a mistake and more like the edge of something inevitable?

“…so what?” maki presses.

“intense,” you whisper. “it’s like, he makes me feel so small, and i hate it, but at the same time… i don’t. like, i can’t stop thinking about it. about him.”

silence. then another laugh, this one slower, more knowing. “oh my god. you actually like him.”

you jolt. “i don’t.”

“yes, you do.” she’s smug as hell, you can hear it. “listen to yourself. you’re crushing hard. on sukuna. and honestly? i say go for it.”

your eyes widen. “are you insane? toji would kill me. he’d kill him. my parents-”

“who cares?” maki cuts in. “when have you ever cared about rules before? besides, if sukuna wanted to just use you, he would’ve. and he didn’t. instead, he’s yelling about your safety and trying not to kiss you. that’s not on some casual shit. that’s him being hung up on you.”

you roll onto your side, curling into yourself. “…you really think so?”

“i know so,” she says simply. “and if you’re crushing this hard already, you’re not gonna shake it. so either you own it, or you keep denying it until it eats you alive.”

you bite your lip, staring at the dark corner of your room. owning it feels terrifying. but denying it feels impossible. sukuna’s face keeps flashing behind your eyelids, the fire in his eyes, the grip of his hand on your jaw, the ghost of his lips against yours.

“shit,” you whisper, more to yourself than her. “i think i really like him.”

maki hums, satisfied. “good. about time you admitted it.”

you groan into your pillow again, but this time, the sound is half-laugh. “you’re the worst.”

“i know,” she says, smug. “but at least i’m right.”

~

the weeks that follow that little event are nothing short of litteral torture.

not the kind you’re used to, though. not sukuna’s constant barbs thrown across the living room, the digs at your clothes or the way you roll your eyes, no, this is different. this is gross uncomfortable silence.

at first, you think maybe he’s planning something. a long game? a new way to drive you insane? but the longer it goes on, the more obvious it becomes: sukuna’s totally avoiding you.

he doesn’t tease you at all, doesn’t even look at you the way he used to, that infuriating glint in his eyes like he knows every single thing you’re too afraid to say out loud. now, when you walk into a room, he just stiffens. looks away. sometimes, if you’re lucky, you’ll catch the faintest pink at his ears before he hides it with a scowl.

and you hate it.

sukuna’s whole presence has always been overwhelmingly loud, cocky, but without it, without him pressing your buttons at every turn, the house feels so wrong.

he still comes over, of course. he and toji are glued at the hip, always have been. you hear his laugh from the kitchen when he’s with your brother. he jokes easily with your parents, it’s only you he can’t seem to deal with.

and the worst part? you know why.

he thinks he’s doing the right thing. you can see it in the way he keeps his distance, its as if one more step closer to you and he’ll lose whatever fragile control he’s clawed together since that night in his house.

what you don’t see, what you can’t see, is the war raging in his head.

.

in sukuna’s mind, it’s simple, he fucked up.

he shouldn’t have let himself get that close. shouldn’t have let the heat of the moment, your wide eyes and sharp words, push him into something reckless. he should’ve shut it down before it started. should’ve kept the walls up like he always has.

you’re his best friend’s little sister, you're only 18. five or so years younger. too young for him to even think about this shit with.

and yet, he can’t stop.

it’s like the more he tells himself no, the worse it gets. his brain replays every second of that day on a loop. the way your breath hitched when he grabbed your jaw. the sting in your voice when you demanded to know why he cared. the kiss he still feels burning on his lips even though it was brief.

he hates himself for it, so he avoids you. he keeps his distance, forces himself to act normal. it’s hell, but it’s just a tad safer.

because if he lets himself slip. if he gives in, even once, he knows he won’t be able to stop.

.

you notice it worse at night. when the house settles, when everyone else is too busy or too tired to notice how weird things have gotten.

like tonight.

toji’s mindlessly playing video games, your parents in their room downstairs. sukuna’s staying over, stretched out on the couch, the light of the tv illuminating his tattoos. you can see him from the hallway, and he looks as good as ever.

normally, you’d poke at him. steal the blanket just to watch him snap at you. but now? he doesn’t even look up when you walk by.

your face clenches with hurt, you'd really had enough of this fuckwit's little mind games.

you wait patiently for the next two hours, biding your time in your bedroom, and when you hear the floor creak, the sound of him heading toward the bathroom, you move.

your room’s right beside it, the timing perfect. you slip out, grab his wrist before he can even register it, and yank.

“the fuck-”

the door shuts. the lock clicks. the light stays off.

you’ve got him cornered in the dark.

“what the hell, y/n?” his voice is defensive.

you stand your ground, pressing your back to the door crossing your arms. “why won’t you talk to me?”

he scoffs, “jesus. you’re insane.”

“don’t do that.” your voice cuts, firmer than you feel. “don’t brush me off. you’ve been avoiding me for weeks. you won’t even look at me anymore.”

“good,” he snaps. “maybe you’ll get the hint.”

your chest tightens. “what hint?”

“that this,” he growls, gesturing vaguely between you, “whatever the fuck you think is happening, can’t. it’s wrong.”

you feel your chest reduce in size by about 10000% and your heart thump wrongly in your ribs.

“wrong?” you whisper.

he exhales dragging a hand over his face. “you’re my best friend’s little sister. you’re- fuck, you’re too young. i can’t,” he breaks off.

“bullshit.” you push off the door, stepping closer until you can just make out the faint outline of his frame in the dark. “that’s bullshit, sukuna. you’ve never cared about what’s right or wrong a day in your life.”

he laughs dryly,. “yeah, well, i do now.”

“why?” you challenge, closing the gap between you. “why do you care so much? you can’t just act like nothing happened and then shut me out. we’re close, sukuna. we’ve always been close. so talk to me. tell me what the fuck changed.”

his silence is growing up your arms in all the wrong ways. you can almost hear his thoughts tearing him apart, the push and pull inside his head.

he wants you. god, he wants you so badly it makes him sick. every inch of him screams to grab you, to press you up against the sink and take what he’s been denying himself for a long time. but the other half? the half that knows how dangerous this shit is, holds him back.

“drop it,” he says frayed like rope pulled to breaking.

“no.” your chin lifts, defiance burning in your face. “i’m not letting you ignore me. not after everything you said.”

“y/n-”

“no, sukuna!” your voice cracks, too loud, bouncing against the bathroom walls. “you don’t get to yell at me about my choices, act like you care so much, and then pretend i don’t exist. that’s not fair. i deserve to know why.”

he snaps, and moves like a storm breaking, two strides and he’s on you.

palm clamping over your mouth, your back hitting the cold porcelain of the sink.

his body crowds yours, heat pulsating off his chest with his tattoos flickering in the faint strip of light under the door.

“shut. up.” the words rasp out guttural and his breath is hot against your ear. “you don’t get it. you don’t fucking get it.”

your pulse slams against his hand.

his forehead drops to yours, close enough that you can feel the scrape of his breath on your lips. his hand still silences your protest, fingers splayed firm across your jaw.

“you think i don’t want this?” he growls, barely more than a whisper. “you think i don’t want you?”

your eyes widen, muffled sound catching under his palm.

“i do,” he spits, “so fucking bad it’s killing me. you’re in my head every damn second. i can’t fucking sleep without seeing you. i can’t sit in your house without wanting to drag you somewhere dark like this and-” he cuts himself off, sucking in a shuddered breath, the restraint rattling his frame.

his thumb twitches against your cheek, like it aches to stroke instead of restrain.

“you’re all i can fucking think about, y/n.” the words drip with hunger, and for a second, you swear he’s going to break. his eyes flick to your mouth, linger there, heavy and dangerous.

your knees weaken, but his body pins you upright.

“then why,” your muffled voice fights against his hand, desperate, trembling.

he rips it away like it burns him.

“because i can’t have you,” he bites out, staggering back half a step, it takes every ounce of him not to reach back for you.

“why not?” you demand, the words tumbling out sharp, urgent. “why the hell not, sukuna? if you want me, then-”

“because it’s wrong!” he explodes, cutting you off. his voice cracks like thunder, raw and brutal. “you’re toji’s little sister. you’re eighteen. you’re- you’re fucking off-limits, y/n. don’t you get that?”

“off-limits?” your voice wavers. “so i’m just, what? a kid to you?”

“no! that’s the fucking problem. you’re not a kid to me. not anymore.”

you step forward, fire blazing in your chest. “then stop acting like it. stop pushing me away like i don’t matter. i’m not a child, sukuna. i know what i want.”

his jaw clenches, muscles jumping. “yes, but you don’t know what you’re asking for.”

“i do.” your voice is firm, even as your insides shake. “i want you.”

god. he thinks.

his hand shoots out, gripping the edge of the sink behind you, caging you in without touching you. his face is inches from yours, teeth gritted, and eyes burning.

“you don’t get it,” he rasps. “if i have you, even once, i won’t stop. i won’t let you go. i’ll ruin you, y/n. you think you’re ready for that? you think you’re ready for me?”

your lips part, trembling. “yes.”

he sucks in a breath with his forehead dropping to yours again.

you close your eyes, waiting, begging.

but it doesn’t come.

instead, his voice drops.

“no.”

your eyes snap open. his stare cuts you clean in half.

“i can’t.” the words are shards, each one slicing deep. “i can’t give you what you want. not now. not ever. this-” his voice fractures, but he forces it steady. “this ends here.”

your throat tightens, the ache crawling up until it burns your eyes. “sukuna-”

“don’t.” he steps back fully, ripping the heat of his body away from yours. the cold rushes in where he stood, suffocating. “don’t make this harder than it already is. i said no. and that’s final.”

the finality in his tone is devastating.

“so what now?” your voice is barely a whisper. “you just ignore me? pretend none of this ever happened?”

his jaw ticks, his eyes hard. “yeah. exactly that.”

the cruelty of it knocks the air from your lungs.

“sukuna!”

“enough.” his voice cracks, but the word lands like a gunshot. “you need to drop this. for both our sakes.”

this is brutal..

then his hand, trembling, drops away completely. he spins, shoving the lock open with a snap. the door creaks, light spilling into the suffocating dark.

and just like that, he’s gone.

the door clicks shut behind him, his shadow disappearing down the hall, leaving you stranded.

your chest heaves, the echo of his words clawing through your ribs.

you grip the sink so tight your knuckles ache, the porcelain biting into your palms.

he said he wanted you. admitted you were all he thought about. and then he cut you down with a finality that left you gutted.

alone.

rejected.

if he won’t look at you, then fuck it. you’ll find someone else who will.

~

your spiral into madness kicks off with a bang.

a party here, a risky blunt there. late nights you know you shouldn’t be out, people you know you really shouldn’t be with. you’ve always had a rebellious streak, but this time it’s different. this time, you’re not just looking for fun, you’re looking to numb.

and the first time toji catches wind of it, he’s pissed.

“what the fuck is wrong with you?” he snarls, arms crossed as he stands in your doorway. “sneaking out in the middle of the night? going to parties with people you don’t even know? people i don't even know? are you trying to get yourself killed?”

you roll your eyes, throwing yourself back on your bed. “jesus, toji, i’m not a kid anymore. stop acting like i am.”

“you’re acting like one,” he fires back. “and i’m not gonna sit here and watch you throw yourself into shit you can’t handle.”

“i can handle it,” you snap, bitterness rising. “not like you’d know. you’re too busy with your own shit to even notice me half the time.”

that one really lands a blow to his chest. you see the flash of hurt in his eyes before he storms out, muttering curses under his breath.

but it doesn’t stop you.

if anything, it pushes you further.

more parties. more trouble. more risky decisions that would’ve terrified you a year ago. and every time, you come home with that hollow pit in your stomach, pretending it’s fine. pretending you don’t care.

.

because toji notices, obviously sukuna does too.

toji would casually mention your attitude when he and sukuna were hanging out, but then the stories get worse. the night you came home drunk. the fight you picked with him. the random numbers texting your phone.

sukuna listens silently with his jaw clenched, a muscle in his cheek twitching as he grinds his teeth.

he shouldn’t feel this angry. you’re not his problem. you’re not his sister. you’re not his responsibility.

and yet, every word out of toji’s mouth feels like a knife to the gut.

because deep down, he knows it’s his fault.

he lit the match, gave you hope when he should’ve shut it down completely. and now, you’re burning for it. acting out, pushing limits, looking for attention in all the wrong kinds of places.

you’re self destructing, and he’s the reason why.

.

it all comes to a head one night in toji’s room.

gta is paused on the tv. toji’s sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands. sukuna’s leaned against the dresser, arms crossed, watching his best friend unravel.

“i don’t know what the fuck to do with her anymore,” toji admits, voice low, rough. “she’s always been a brat, yeah, but lately? it’s worse. she’s reckless. sneaking out, hanging with guys i don’t trust... i’m worried, man.”

sukuna swallows staying quiet.

“she’s not a dumb child anymore, i get that,” toji continues, dragging a hand down his face. “but she’s still my little sister. and the shit she’s doing? it’s not just stupid, it’s dangerous. i feel like i’m losing her.”

fuckk.

he wants to tell him everything. wants to admit that he knows why you’re spiraling, that he’s the one who hurt you. but the words stick in his throat like poison.

he clenches his teeth and says nothing.

because how the fuck could he explain it?

hey, bro, your little sister’s acting out because i cornered her in the bathroom, told her i wanted her, then rejected her like it meant nothing to me.

yeah. no.

so he listens. and he burns.

burns with guilt. burns with anger. burns with the kind of helpless frustration that makes his hands twitch, like he needs to smash something just to let it all the fuck out.

because toji’s scared, and sukuna knows he should be.

you’re spiralling out of control.

and it’s his fault.

~

"n/nnnn, c'mon! we'll only stay for a few hours, it'll be a fun way to end the weekend." maki had been talking your ear off about coming to some house party on the other side of town for around half an hour now, and with each sentance you were becoming more and more into it, she was a really bad influence.

"hot guys, free drinks, weed, what more could you want?" she adds.

"we don't even go to that university, we wouldn't know anyone." you retest, but ofcourse, she has an answer for everything.

"suguru and satoru are going."

...

"god, i hate you." but, unfortunately, that was all you needed to be swooned.

maybe it was apart of you that wanted to pay a final fuck you to sukuna and bang the guys he had been so worried about you getting involved with, but it was also just a good situation. one where you didn't feel like a desperate ex calling them up wanting a quick lay, you just so happened to be going to a party they were going to, no desperation involved. you glanced at the clock, 10.p.m, perfect. "okay i'll meet you outside at like, eleven."

.

the house is dead silent when you slip out, not the kind of tense silence you’re used to, where sukuna’s shadow lurks on the couch and toji’s muttering curses at his video game.

no, tonight’s different. the living room’s... empty? the tv dark, the whole place still in a way that feels almost suspicious.

you pause in the hallway, shoes dangling from your fingers. normally, this would be the part where sukuna’s voice cuts through the dark, 'where the fuck do you think you’re going?' or toji stomping out of his room like a storm cloud.

but nothing.

you creep past toji’s door, listen. no movement inside. check the couch, empty. you even peek toward the kitchen, expecting sukuna’s tall frame leaning against the counter, waiting to catch you.

still nothing.

they’re not here.

a weird thrill rolls through you, it shouldn’t be this easy. it’s never this easy. but for once, they’re both gone, probably holed up at sukuna’s place across the street, drowning in beers and whatever bullshit guys like them talk about when you’re not around.

“perfect,” you whisper, smirking to yourself as you shove your shoes on and slip out the front door.

maki’s waiting at the end of the block, leaning against her car with her phone in hand, one eyebrow raised when she sees you jogging over.

“damn,” she whistles. “that was fast. thought i’d be waiting twenty minutes for you to sneak out.”

you grin, tugging the car door open. “house was empty. like, empty empty. kinda freaked me out, honestly.”

maki snorts as you climb in. “well, don’t question it. take the win.” she throws the car into gear, the engine humming as she pulls onto the street. “besides, it’s like the universe wants us to party tonight.”

you roll your eyes, but there’s no hiding the smile tugging at your mouth. “you’re a bad influence.”

“and you love me for it.”

.

tonights nothing like the frat parties maki usually drags you to, it’s more intimate, the kind of house party that feels like everyone knows everyone, except for you two.

“see? told you this would be better than some stupid frat thing you wanted to go to,” maki grins, already tugging you deeper into the chaos. “real college kids. real fun.”

you laugh, rolling your eyes, but there’s a nip in your chest, a mix of nerves and excitement. “yeah, yeah. we’ll see. hopefully they don't realise we're from the college across the way.”

the kitchen is crammed with people playing beer pong, the counters littered with red cups and empty bottles. maki beelines for the drinks, pouring herself something dull and shoving a cup into your hand.

“to shitty decisions,” she says, clinking yours with hers.

you smirk. “to even shittier influences, i guess.”

the burn of alcohol slides down your throat, warmth spreading instantly. the music shifts, someone turning it up even louder, and maki is already tugging you toward the living room.

you let yourself sink into it. for once, you don’t think about sukuna’s scowl or toji’s lectures or the way your house has felt like a minefield lately. you just move, laugh, drink, and let maki spin you in circles until you’re dizzy.

hours blur. the party swells. you’re glowing, tipsy, hair sticking to your neck, and maki disappears into the crowd, pulled toward some guy shouting her name.

you don’t even notice until you’re left standing near the edge of the dance floor, drink empty, pulse buzzing.

and that’s when you feel two sets of eyes.

you turn, and there they are.

suguru geto and satoru gojo.

they look almost out of place here, a tad older, more put together than the drunk college kids spilling beer down their shirts.

“well, well,” gojo drawls, eyes dragging over you shamelessly. “didn’t expect to see you here, sweetheart.”

your stomach churns with heat licking up your neck, you were here for them. you force yourself to smirk. “what, you two crash college parties often?”

“only when the scenery’s worth it,” geto says smoothly, his gaze unapologetically slow as it travels down your body and back up. “looks like tonight’s our lucky night.”

you scoff, but your chest tightens. you came here for them. you can’t pretend you didn’t.

gojo steps closer towering over you, “you look good,” he says, tone dropping just enough to curl around your spine. “real good. a shame we never got a call from you after that little run in at the coffee shop.”

your breath shudders, but you mask it with sarcasm. “i'm a busy girl, you know.”

“hmm,” gojo smirks. “i'm sure you are.”

geto chuckles, low and rich. “we were talking about you earlier, actually.”

your brows lift. “oh yeah? should i be flattered or worried?”

“flattered,” geto says without missing a beat, leaning in close enough that his lips nearly brush your ear. “definitely flattered.”

oh my god.

god, it feels good. after weeks of being ignored, of sukuna’s rejection in your chest, the attention feels like a drug, different to the lazy good looking douches you've been entertaining, no. this was like comparing marijuana to heroin.

“god, you're so pretty, y/n,” gojo teases, catching the tension in your shoulders. “seriously, we've missed you.”

“well, aren't you two forward, don't hold back, huh?”

“what’s the point?” geto shrugs, eyes glinting. “life’s too short to dance around what you want.”

your throat goes dry. the voice in the back of your head, sukuna’s voice, sharp and scathing hisses that this is exactly what he warned you about. two older guys who’ll use you, chew you up, and spit you out.

but you shove it down.

because right now, under their gaze, you feel desired in a way that makes your whole body jitter.

“so,” gojo drawls, tilting his head, “you here alone, or…?”

you smirk, feigning bravado. “does it matter?”

“not really,” geto answers, eyes dark. “just means we don’t have to share.”

gojo leans closer, voice dropping. “tell us the truth, sweetheart. did you come here hoping to find us?”

your lips part, but no sound comes out.

geto saves you the trouble. “because we were hoping to find you. maki told us beforehand you were showing up.”

that little four eyed liar.

the words are silk and smoke, wrapping tight around you.

your chest heaves. you should walk away. you should remember every warning, every scolding, every time sukuna’s voice told you this exact thing would happen.

instead, you tip your chin up. “maybe.”

gojo grins like he’s won something. “knew it.”

geto chuckles, satisfied. “what a smart girl.”

they close in, one on either side, the world narrowing until all you can see, all you can feel, is them. the crowd, the music, the party, it all fades.

gojo’s breath fans your cheek. “so, what’s it gonna be?”

geto’s voice is velvet at your other ear. “gonna let us take care of you?”

your pulse is a drum, your head spinning with alcohol, lust, and reckless defiance.

"please."

.

“yo, kuna.”

across that same party, sukuna jerks his head up at the sound of his name.

the rooms loud, but he’s not paying much attention. he and toji showed up less than an hour ago, the place already reeking of booze and sweat. toji’s in his element, laughing with some girl draped over his arm, but sukuna’s on edge.

“you look like shit,” toji snorts, handing him a fresh drink. “you need to relax, man. fuck a girl, blow off some steam. i saw one of your old flings here, red dress, big tits, you should go for it.”

sukuna grunts, barely glancing in the direction toji nods.

normally, he’d say fuck it. normally, he’d already have the girl pressed against a wall whispering dirty things down her neck.

but tonight, something nags at him. a weight in his gut he can’t shake, like something's wrong, really wrong.

still, he forces himself to walk, weaving through the crowd toward the girl in red. toji had dragged him here earlier, saying they needed to bang something bad to get rid of the stress they'd both been feeling lately. he'd agreed, not thinking anything of it. but now? all he can focus on is whatever bad thing you could be doing at the moment, out doing god knows what with god knows who.

just as he's about to plaster on a devilish smirk and wrap an arm around his old fling, he sees you.

your laugh, high and shaky, carries over the music. he spots you wedged between two tall figures, and his blood goes cold.

gojo. geto.

the same two fuckers he ripped into you about weeks ago. the ones who made his skin crawl when you talked about being with them.

and there you are, looking up at them with wide eyes, lips parted, cheeks flushed.

their bodies are too close. their eyes are too hungry. and you?

you’re letting it happen.

a fire detonates in his chest.

he doesn’t hear the music anymore, doesn’t see the girl in red still eyeing him mere meters away, all he sees is you.

you, with their disgusting hands trailing you up and down, looks of deceit and arrogance plastered on their sleazy faces.

exactly like he fucking warned you.

and it feels like the floor drops out from under him.

he watches as your head tips back, your hand brushing against gojo’s arm as he leans in close. geto says something low against your ear, and sukuna watches your body react, watches the shiver crawl across your skin.

it should be simple, he should storm over there and tear you away from them, snarl in their smug faces until they back the fuck off. that’s what the protective best friend role demands. that’s what toji would expect of him.

but his feet stay planted.

because deep down, he knows he’s got no fucking right.

you’re not a kid. you’ve always been naive, but in the end you make your own choices, reckless or not. he warned you. he yelled at you. hell, he confessed in the dark of that bathroom that he wanted you, wanted you bad enough to lose sleep over it, and then he still shoved you away.

and this? this is the fallout.

you don’t listen. you don’t care. you’re doing exactly what you want, just like always.

he should’ve never let it get this far. should’ve never let that night in the bathroom happen. he can still feel the ghost of your breath against his lips, the desperate edge in your voice when you demanded answers. he should’ve shut it down, but no, he let himself slip. he admitted the truth. and then he gutted you with rejection.

and now you’re here, seeking out the exact poison he warned you about, just to spite him.

his grip tightens around the cup until the plastic crumples.

gojo’s hand trails down your arm, fingers brushing yours in a way that makes your breath hitch. geto leans in closer, lips grazing your temple like it is nothing, like he has every right to be there. you laugh, but it is thin, brittle around the edges. the kind of laugh sukuna knows too well.

his stomach knots. he sees it, clear as day. you are starting to fold in on yourself, the tipsy bravado is slipping. the way your shoulders tense, the way your eyes dart for half a second toward the crowd like you are looking for an exit. you chew your lip again, a nervous tell he remembers from when you were younger, when you thought no one noticed.

and fuck, it is all he needs to see.

because this is not you having fun, and those bastards are getting bolder, with their hands inching lower, mouths getting closer. gojo whispers something against your ear, and the look that flashes across your face, quick and sharp before you bury it, makes rage ignite in sukuna’s head.

he swallows it down. he has to think. because as much as his fists itch to connect with their smug faces, he catches a glimpse of muscular movement across the room. toji.

the dumbass is weaving through the crowd, laughing with a beer in his hand, already scouting for his next distraction. he is too close. one more step and his line of sight will land straight on you. his baby sister, cornered between two men he would genuinely kill on the spot if he knew what they were capable of.

sukuna’s pulse slams. he cannot let that happen. he cannot let toji see you like this. the disappointment would gut him, and the aftermath? unthinkable.

his decision snaps into place before he even realizes he is moving.

he pushes off the wall, shoulders set, expression flat. his height cuts through the crowd easy, a predator zeroing in. geto and gojo are too wrapped up in you to notice until he is already there.

and then his hand is on you.

“what the-” you start, but the word dies in your throat when you are yanked clean out of their little trap. sukuna’s grip clamps around your wrist, and before you can protest he is pulling you through the throng of bodies like you weigh nothing.

it happens so fast no one can stop it. geto blinks, gojo curses, your heels scuff against the floor as you stumble to keep up.

you twist, eyes wide. “sukuna, what the fuck-”

“shut up,” he snaps.

behind you, you hear gojo’s mockinh laugh, but it barely cuts through the roar of blood in your ears.

because nothing about this makes any sense? you never saw him coming. never expected him to be here, let alone to drag you away like some scene out of a nightmare.

he shoves the back door open and drags you out into the cool darkness. the music from the house thunders behind you, muffled by walls and the growing distance, but your pulse is so much louder, crashing in your ears as your heels scrape against the sidewalk.

he doesn’t slow until he’s pulled you into the shadow of a narrow side street, his grip finally loosens, dropping your wrist like it burnt him.

you rip your arm back harshly, anger sparking so hot you barely recognise your own voice.

“what the fuck is your problem?” you snap, “you can’t just drag me out like that! what the fuck gives you the right?”

he says nothing while standing there still. you want a reaction, you want him to scream or yell or something.

“say something!” you shove at his chest, the force making him stumble half a step, but his hand shoots up, catching your wrist again before you can hit him again.

“you’re welcome,” he scoffs.

your laugh bursts out sharp, “you’re welcome? are you kidding me? you think this is some fucking favor? dragging me away from them like i’m some dumb child who can’t make my own choices?”

“those weren’t choices,” sukuna growls. “those were mistakes waiting to happen, i knew you were uncomfortable.”

“and that’s your call, huh?” your voice cracks, “you think you get to decide who i talk to, who i touch, who i let touch me?” your hands are trembling now, and you clench them into fists so he doesn’t see. “you think you’re better than them? you think you’re not the biggest mistake i ever made?”

his eyes are bllown out but he doesn't say a single word.

and that silence, that maddening restraint, makes your throat tighten. tears sting hot behind your eyes, but you blink hard, furious at yourself for letting him see.

“i liked you,” you spit, chest heaving. “do you get that? i fucking liked you. i thought we had something, i thought-” your voice splinters, and you bite it back, nails digging crescents into your palms. “i thought you wanted me too. and then you” the bathroom walls flash in your mind. the way he looked at you, the way his voice dropped when he confessed he wanted you. and then the way he gutted you with rejection, leaving you stranded in the dark.

“you ripped me apart,” you choke, words tumbling out far too fast now. “you could’ve just said no. you could’ve said you didn’t feel that way. but no, you made me think there was something real, then you shoved me away like i was nothing.”

sukuna’s shoulders twitch, like he wants to speak, but he doesn’t. he just stands there with the veins in his neck straining.

“and now now you think you can just drag me out of there, away from them, away from anyone who looks at me like i’m worth something? fuck you, sukuna. seriously fuck you.” your voice is breaking, hot tears finally slipping, but you don’t care anymore. you want him to see. you want him to hurt. “you don’t get to do this. you don’t get to reject me and then act like you own me. you’re such a fucking asshole.”

sukuna finally steps closer, his head dipping like he’s trying to breathe through his own rage. “you don’t know what the fuck you’re saying,” he growls like he’s fighting every word.

“i know exactly what i’m saying,” you snap. “you hurt me. you really fucking hurt me! you made me think i wasn’t good enough- like i was just some stupid girl you could toy around with.” the tears are really flowing now, you're staring at him like he'd just killed your whole family.

shit, he felt like a dick. his eyes, fuck, his eyes look wrecked.

inside his head it’s messy every word you spit slashes deep, because you’re right. he did crush you. he did push you away like it was nothing, like you were nothing, because it was the only way he could think to save himself from losing everything else. he told himself it was better, that hurting you once cleanly was kinder than stringing you along. but now? seeing your tears glint in the lamplight, hearing the raw break in your voice? it feels like he chose the cruelest option of all.

he never wanted this. not your pain. not your anger. not the ache sitting heavy in your chest that he put there himself.

he can't help but move closer, his head falling closer to your face as he inches forward. but you don’t back away. you’re trembling, glaring at him through wet makeup, waiting for something, anything. an answer. an explanation?

he doesn’t have one. not one that doesn’t make him sound like a coward.

what he does have is this unbearable pull.

your mouth is right there. your chest heaves close to his. your scent wraps around him, sweet and sharp, clinging to the back of his throat.

and he breaks.

his hand shoots up to cradle your jaw. not gentle, it's desperate.

he crowds you into the wall, lips crashing against yours hard enough to steal the air from your lungs.

your gasp melts into the kiss, fury colliding with hunger, tongue forcing past your resistance like he’s starving.

and god help you, you kiss him back.

he groans pathetically into your mouth and it shoots straight through you. his hand pulls up your ribs like he wants to understand the shape of you.

you break for air, both of you panting, foreheads colliding. “you...” your voice shakes, “you can’t just-"

“god, shut up,” he groans, his mouth takes over yours again, swallowing your complaint.

your tears streak hot down your cheeks, but he kisses them away, mouth dragging rough along your jaw and down your neck. you let out a whimper with your nails digging into his shoulders.

“you drive me fucking insane,” he quips against your throat. “you think i don’t want you? i can’t fucking breathe around you.”

your knees nearly buckle, your body arching as his teeth graze your skin. “then why? why did you-"

“because it’s wrong,” he spits, pressing you harder against the wall, like pinning you there will make you believe him. “because you’re his little sister. because you deserve better than this, than me.”

his words are a whip, but his mouth contradicts them, trailing fire down your neck, his hand gripping your waist like he’ll never let go.

you shove at him, tears burning. “you don’t get to say that after everything. you don’t get to push me away and then then kiss me like this”

he silences you again, lips crashing to yours, swallowing the sob in your throat.

and this time, you don’t fight it.

you melt into this big, confusing man you'd become so infatuated with. his hand tangles in your hair tugging enough to make you gasp, to let him deepen the kiss until you’re dizzy with lust.

his breath is ragged when he finally breaks away and pushes his forehead to yours huffing and puffing.

“i can’t stay away from you,” he admits, “i tried. i fucking tried, this was my last attempt at getting you out of my damn head, but i just can’t. you’re all i fucking think about.”

holy shit.

“if you want me... please... just have me,” you whisper desperatley.

everything disappears then he’s kissing you again, slower this time but deeper, like he’s pouring every war inside him into you, and you allow him to.

because no matter how wrong it is, no matter how much it will burn you both alive, you’ve never wanted anything more than what he's giving you right now.

“let's not do this here. you deserve better than an alley,” he pulls away.

before you can argue, his fingers lace tight around yours. one hard tug, and he’s pulling you from the wall, dragging you out of the narrow side street. your complaints fade form your brain replaced by the thud of your pulse as he leads you fast.

“kuna-”

his bike waits where he left it, black and mean under the streetlamp next to toji's car, shit, he was here too?

sukuna swings one leg over, settling in like he was born on it, then jerks his chin at you.

“c'mon.”

the tone brooks absolutely no argument. it’s not a question.

.

he kills the engine outside his house, he swings off first, boots hitting the pavement with a solid thud, then turns to your pretty little figure on his bike. god you looked perfect.

your fingers twitch before you finally slip yours into his.

his hand is massive as it encases your entire wrist aswell as your fingers, he pulls you towards his door with a strong grip, he couldn't wait a second longer than he needed to.

he keys the door and inside the house is still and quiet, his parents were always off on trips to do with their business, so it's no wonder the house is empty.

you don’t get two seconds before your back hits the wood hard enough to rattle the frame. he's devouring your lips much rougher this time, like he’s been starving for it the entire ride. his hands cage your face, thumbs pressing into your pretty cheeks as his tongue claims until you gasp.

your fingers knot in his shirt, yanking him closer, your fury bleeding into want and need.

you gasp his name into the heat, but he swallows it whole, groaning into your mouth like the sound alone undoes him. "hmm, easy, baby." he whispers.

his hands drop, dragging down your sides, gripping your waist so hard you think he’ll bruise. he hoists you up without warning, and instinct takes over, your legs wrapping around his hips.

the world falls at an angle as he carries you deeper inside, his mouth doesn’t leave yours until he sets you down hard against his kitchen counter, the edge biting into your thighs.

he looks down at you like he doesn’t know whether to tear you apart or worship you slowly.

“my god,” he mutters almost to himself with forehead pressed to yours for the millionth time tonight.

all you can do is look at him, 230kg of pure man yearning for your body, your touch.

his hand cups the back of your neck, pulling you into him again, slower this time, deeper, like he’s finally letting himself taste what he’s been dying for.

you arch into him gasping with the counter biting into your skin as he grinds you back against it. the motion is intoxicating, the pull of his teeth on your bottom lip almost making you whimper.

he drags your hips forward, forcing your legs wider around him, one hand locking at the back of your neck to hold you steady as he devours you. his other hand grips your waist like a vice.

it’s frantic and almost violent how fast hes trying to devour you.

but then he does.

he tears his mouth from yours with his chest heaving. his grip lingers another second before he forces it to loosen, before he eases you back down onto the counter.

“fuck, y/n, i-” he cuts himself off and swallows deeply, eyes screwed shut like it’s the only way he won’t cry.

“tell me this is okay,” he asks softly “tell me you want this. because i swear to god, i know it’s fucked up. i know i’m a hypocrite, telling you all that shit about staying away from older guys. i know i told you no, i shoved you away, and now i’ve got no fucking right to put my hands on you like this.”

his fore fingers sweep over your cheeks.

“you’ve got every right to shove me off, every right to tell me to fuck myself. i won’t stop you. i’ll take it. but if this isn’t what you want-” his breath is stuck. “if this is just you doing what you were doing with those two earlier, just acting, just covering up what you really feel? then i’ll stop. i’ll stop right now, i swear."

you reach for his wrists and hold them gently, he stares into your glassy eyes and stutters.

“kuna,” you whisper. “just take me”

he could feel his cock twitch uncontrollably in his pants.

“i’m not uncomfortable,” you reassure him. “i want this. i want you. all of you.”

she's perfect..

his hands tighten ever so slightly on your face, “god,” he whispers again. when you tilt your chin up, giving him permission to continue, he finally lets himself come undone.

it hits you how long this has really been building.

years of it buried in the throw away lines of your everyday life. years of him barging into your room without knocking, stealing your snacks, teasing you until your blood boiled, making sure everyone thought it was just harmless banter when it was always more.

all of it led here.

it all crashes down into this single moment with his forehead against yours, his hands shaking slightly where they cradle your face, the weight of every year, every tease, every scarred piece of your heart smashing together at once.

he kisses you again and its so much more intimate. you whimper into it, clutching his wrists tighter, terrified he’ll vanish again, that he’ll come to his senses and push you away like he did before. but he doesn’t.

he kisses you harder, deeper.

"your lips are so sweet, pretty."

your legs hook tighter around his hips, pulling him in, your body telling him what words already had, you want this, you want him.

the second your mouths break apart, sukuna pulls.

his grip slides from your face down your body, rough palms skimming the skin of your waist, and in the same motion he lifts you off the counter.

"need you closer."

you gasp against his mouth, arms locking around his neck as he carries you straight to the couch. he knows if he doesn’t get you somewhere softer than marble right now he’ll ruin you against the damn kitchen.

the couch swallows you in a messy tumble just before his mouth is on yours again with no patience left.

his hands are already on your thighs, spreading them, kneading the muscle hard enough to make you squirm. he growls low when your skirt rides higher, bunching at your hips, the fabric no match for how badly he wants to get to you.

your fingers fist his shirt, tugging him down, desperate to keep him close, to keep the heat pressed between you. but he’s already dragging the hem of your skirt down, peeling it off like it’s offending him, leaving you bare from the waist down before you can catch your breath.

his eyes burn as they rake over you, and the weight of his stare makes your stomach twist tight. years of teasing, of pretending, of silence, it’s all there in the way he looks at you now, raw, unapologetic, like he’s finally letting himself feast.

he doesn’t waste time. his hands grip your thighs again, thumbs digging in as he drags you closer to the edge of the couch. you let out a breathless sound, your hips already lifting for him, your body giving in without question.

"can i taste you, sweetheart?"

"please, yes please, just-"

and he devours you, absoloutley no warning.

"k-kuna- h-ah!"

sukuna groans into you, the vibration making your toes curl. his grip on your thighs tightens, pinning you open as his mouth works deeper, his tongue dragging, circling, pressing until your entire body is arching up to meet him.

it’s messy and oh so perfect.

"you taste so fucking sweet, holy shit,"

he eats you out like a pro, pulling lewd sounds from deep within your throat.

the world blurs. all you know is his mouth, his tongue, the wet heat making your stomach clench tighter and tighter. you’re gasping his name before you can think and he answers with a sexy sound that vibrates against your clit.

"ryo! i'm- i'm gonna-"

the climax rips through you hard pulling a cry from deep in your chest as your body bows tight. your fingers grip his hair harder but he doesn’t stop his tongue and lips working you through every shudder until you’re gasping limp against the couch.

only then does he pull back, mouth glistening, chin wet, his eyes red and wild as he looks at you.

“fuck,” he rasps, voice gravel scraping low, his chest heaving. "shit, your face when you come, need to see that again."

you can’t answer, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then leans over you again. his mouth crashes to yours, letting you taste yourself on his tongue, and you moan into it, the filth of it sparking another rush of heat through your veins.

"i've never been with a girl as gorgeous as you, y/n."

his body presses heavy into yours, his hips grinding down, and you feel the bludge of him against you, thick and hard. you whimper, hips lifting to meet his, and the sound he makes is absolutely feral.

"i've never been with someone as intimidating as you." you reply through breathless speech.

“you make me fucking psychotic,” he mutters into your mouth, his hands already tugging at his belt, your fingers help until the leather slips free and his pants are shoved low enough for him to press his cock against your bare cunt.

the press of him makes your breath stutter, hes so big, so heavy, it's perfect.

he drags the head along your clit slowly and your hips jerk, a sharp whine escaping before you can catch it.

looks you deep in the eye, “this okay?” hes soft and kind with his words. “tell me. i need to hear you say it.”

your chest squeezes, because you hear what he’s really asking. not just for permission, but for forgiveness. for confirmation that you want him after everything he did.

“yes,” you breathe clutching his face holding him there. “please, sukuna. i want you, so badly.”

the relief in his eyes is brief before it’s swallowed by an immense hunger again.

he pushes into you slowly first, dragging every inch out, letting you feel the stretch, the way he fills you. your breath hitches, mouth falling open as your body clenches around him overwhelmed.

“god,” he growls, his eyes squeezing shut as he bottoms out, his hands gripping your waist so tight it hurts. “yr' so tight.”

you cling to him, nails digging into his shoulders, your body adjusting, burning with every pulse.

and then he finally moves.

long, deep thrusts at first, dragging out, pressing back in until you’re gasping, your body arching to meet his. the couch creaks under the rhythm, the slap of skin loud in the dim room, every thrust hitting deep, hitting where you need it.

you can’t hold back the sounds, moans, whimpers, broken cries that tumble out without thought. he snarls at every one, his hips snapping harder, faster, like he’s chasing the noises, like he needs them.

the years of restraint, the bathroom, the parties, the spiral, it all pours out here, in the way he fucks you. relentless, hungry, like he’s reclaiming every second he denied himself.

your body can’t keep up, already tightening again, the build sharp and desperate. “a-aa! ryo-” you gasp, nails clawing at his back.

he groans low, forehead dropping to your shoulder, teeth scraping your skin. “c'mon baby, come for me,” he rasps, voice ruined. “wanna feel you, fuck, wanna feel you come undone on my cock.”

and you do.

the second climax crashes harder, your body convulsing around him, squeezing, clenching, pulling him deeper. your cry breaks against his ear, and he snarls, hips pounding through it, chasing his own release.

"f-fuck y/n- you're so good baby, you're so- hah-"

it hits him fast, violent, his body tensing above yours. he buries himself deep sound ripping from his chest as he spills inside you, holding you tight against him as if letting go would kill him.

you moan at the feeling of fullness washes over you, pulling and scratching at his bare back. "holy shit- kuna-"

the roomm falls quiet the only sound is your ragged breaths, tangled together, sweat sticking your bodies. his forehead stays pressed to your shoulder, his chest heaving, his grip still bruising on your waist.

and for the first time in years, there’s no teasing, no pretense, no walls. just him. just you. just the wreckage of everything you’ve held back finally, finally spilling free.

"shit, y/n..." he takes a few beats to catch his breath as he lifts his head from your shoulder. "that was fucking mind blowing."

you look up at him as he pulls a strand of hair behind your ear, kissing your forehead sweet, long. he looks tired, yet so at peace with himself, like everything he'd ever wanted was lying beneath him, because it was.

your body feels boneless, trembling and heavy, but sukuna doesn’t let you stay collapsed on the couch. the second his breath steadies enough, he presses a long kiss to your forehead, when he finally pulls back, his big hands are still gentle on your waist, thumbs rubbing the spots he’d been holding tight.

“come on,” he murmurs, voice low, ragged from use, but carrying a warmth you’ve never heard from him before. “couch is shit for sleeping.”

you almost laugh, your body too wrung out to manage more than a breathy sound as he carefully lifts you, cradling you against his chest.

his bedroom is tucked away at the end of the hall. he kicks the door open with a heavy boot and sets you down softly on the edge of his bed. the mattress dips under, the sheets cool against your overheated skin.

you expect him to pull back, maybe go to the bathroom or go outside to have a smoke, but he doesn’t. he kneels instead, hands on your ankles, slipping your remaining garments off with surprising care. his touch drags up your calves, soothing, then he leans up to kiss your knee before moving to the dresser.

when he comes back he’s holding a damp towel and a glass of water. “drink,” he orders, but his voice is softer than usual, not sharp, not mocking. when you obey, he watches you finish half the glass before setting it down on the nightstand.

then he takes the towel to you. slow, careful strokes as he cleans you up, wiping away the mess between your thighs, murmuring low praise under his breath. “so good for me,” he says, thumb brushing your hipbone, “look at you, took me so fucking well.”

once he’s done, he tosses the towel aside and pulls you further up the bed, tugging the blanket over your legs. then he strips off his shirt, kicks off his jeans, and slides in beside you, immediately pulling you into his chest.

you tuck yourself under his chin, listening to the steady thump of his heartbeat. sukuna exhales slowly with his hand rubbing up and down your back. “been thinking about that for a long time, longer than i’d like to admit.”

“me too,” you whisper pressing closer.

his arm tightens around you, his mouth brushing your hair. “but it isn’t just that.” he shifts slightly, enough to tilt your chin so you’re looking at him. his eyes are softer now, stripped of the usual arrogance, raw in a way that makes your stomach flip. “you’re not just some quick fuck to me, y/n. you’re more than that."

your eyes sting from the weight of his confession. after everything, after the rejection, the pain, the nights you thought he didn’t care at all, to hear this now feels like your chest is cracking open.

“then what are we?”

sukuna’s expression softens in a way you’ve never seen beforehe looks needy and desperate. “i want us to be something real,” he admits, “i want you. all of you. not just like this. not just when i can’t hold it in anymore.”

your breath hitches, chest tightening, like your ribs are too small to hold everything pressing inside. “you mean…?”

he exhales slow, the faintest tug of a smirk curling his mouth, it’s almost tender. “i’m asking you out, dumbass.” the words are gruff, but the weight behind them is undeniable. “be mine. officially. no more hiding. no more pretending i don’t want you every damn second of the day.”

l, searching his face needing to see if he means it. “you really mean that?”

his gaze pins you in place. “i mean it. i want him to know you’re mine. i want everyone to know i’m not letting you go.”

your lips curve into a small smile. “then we’ll tell him. together.”

his hand slides into your hair, cupping the back of your head as he pulls you in for another kiss. this one is softer still, his lips coaxing more than taking. when he finally pulls back, he tucks you against his chest, his hand never leaving your hair.

the silence stretches, but it’s not empty. it hums, alive with everything still unsaid.

you’re the first to break it, your voice small. “why now?”

he shifts slightly, his arm tightening around you. “what do you mean?”

“you’ve been avoiding me for weeks. you rejected me so hard that i thought i’d made it all up in my head. so why now? why tonight?”

sukuna sighs, his chest rising beneath your cheek. “because i couldn’t take it anymore. seeing you at that party with those two? letting them put their hands on you like they had any fucking right?”

his jaw tightens, and you feel the muscle tick beneath your fingertips where your hand rests on him. “i wanted to rip them apart. and it wasn’t just because i was jealous, though i was losing my mind with it. it was because i knew you weren’t with them for you. you were trying to bury something. and i couldn’t watch it anymore.”

you bite your lip, the truth of his words cutting close.

“i told myself rejecting you was the right thing,” he continues, his voice low, strained. “you’re young, you’re my best friend’s little sister, it’s fucked six ways to hell. i thought if i pushed you away hard enough you’d hate me, move on, find someone else. someone who wasn’t me.”

he pauses, the sound of his breath unsteady. “but you didn’t. you just hurt. and i couldn’t stand it. i hurt you more than anyone else ever could. and that’s not what i wanted.”

your throat aches, your eyes sting, but you force the words out. “mm. you did hurt me. you made me think i wasn’t worth anything. i tried to forget you, i tried to fill that space with someone else, with anyone else, but it never worked. because it was never them. it was always you.”

his arm tightens around you until it’s almost crushing, his face burying in your hair. “fuck. i’m sorry. i’m so fucking sorry.”

you shake your head, pressing your palm to his chest. “don’t be sorry now. just don’t do it again. don’t shut me out. don’t pretend this isn’t real.”

he pulls back enough to look at you, his hand sliding up to cup your face. his eyes are raw, open in a way that feels dangerous. “it’s real. it’s the realest fucking thing i’ve ever felt. i’ve wanted you for years." he took a long breath.

"do you know how many nights i sat in your house, drinking with your brother, trying not to look at you when you’d walk past? do you know how many times i wanted to climb through your window when you left it cracked open? do you know how many times i almost gave in, almost touched you when you were right there, but i stopped myself because i didn’t want to ruin you?”

your breath stutters, your pulse racing at the raw honesty spilling from him.

“and every time i teased you,” he goes on, “it was because i couldn’t help myself. i wanted to see you blush, i wanted to see you snap at me, i wanted any reaction that meant i had you looking at me and no one else. i’m a selfish bastard, y/n. i’ve always been selfish when it comes to you.”

your hand slides up his chest, to his jaw. “and i’ve always wanted you, even when i hated you for teasing me. i didn’t care if it was selfish. i just wanted you to look at me like you are now.”

his lips crash to yours, it’s relief, it’s surrender, it’s years of weight finally breaking apart.

when he pulls back, he rests his forehead against yours, both of you breathing heavy, like the words themselves took more out of you than anything else tonight.

“i don’t know how we’re gonna do this, your brother’s not gonna take it easy. and i’ve fucked up a lot already. but i know one thing.” he tilts your chin, forcing you to look at him. “i want to try. with you. i want to make this work. i don’t care how messy it is, i don’t care how much hell we catch for it, i want you.”

you nod, your throat too tight for words, tears sliding hot down your cheeks.

he kisses them away, murmuring against your skin. “don’t cry, baby.”

you bury yourself in his chest, your hand clutching his shirt like you’ll never let go.

and for the rest of the night, you talk.

you talk about the first time you realised you wanted him, about how every stupid argument was just another way of circling each other.

he admits how jealous he was about last summer when he found out about gojo and geto, how it killed him to picture you with anyone else. you confess how lost you felt after the bathroom, how much you hated yourself for still wanting him after he’d made you feel like nothing.

he listens, every word sinking deep, and when it’s his turn he lays it all bare. the nights he lay awake thinking about you, the excuses he made to himself to avoid you, the sick twist of guilt every time he thought about what it would mean to toji.

each confession feels like tearing open an old wound, but together you stitch them closed. piece by piece, word by word, you rebuild something stronger.

5k special yayyy !! thank you all so much for all of the love and support it means the world to me.

It's risky and you know it is. It's still fairly early on in your relationship with Jason and you're not sure how he's going to react but you're feeling so confident (and a little turned on) in the new lingerie you just bought. Besides, you send selfies to Jason all the time. You're certain he'll appreciate these.

The lingerie set is a deep red, complimenting your skin tone beautifully. Your tits feel like they're in your throat but they look so good pushed up like this. And the lace on the panties lays perfectly across the globes of your ass.

Your heart beat quickens when you grab your phone. You feel silly for feeling like Jason isn't going to appreciate the pictures but you can't help it. You shove those nerves down as you stand in front of your floor length mirror.

You pose a few different ways and take multiple pictures of each angle. You try not to spend too long looking over them, afraid you'll psych yourself out and tear yourself apart over each one. Finally you send a simple one with dim lighting and the camera is hiding half your face, your free hand on your hip.

You text it to Jason with sweaty palms and a giddy feeling rises up inside of you.

You know he's out on patrol so you're not surprised that it takes him a few minutes to reply but when he does all he sends is,

“Red?”

You frown a little and reply back with, “yup”. You sit on the edge of your bed, debating on changing out of the set and into some pajamas but not even five minutes later there's a knocking on your window.

“Jason?” You open the window with a confused look on your face. He's still in his Red Hood gear, helmet and all.

He steps through the window with ease and you step back to give him room. But he doesn't stop, not until the back of your knees hit the edge of your bed. You can't see his eyes or his face but you can tell he's looking you up and down in the lingerie set you're still wearing.

Your heart hammers in your chest, your palms holding you up as you sit at the foot of your bed. Jason is imposing as he stands in front of you, his knees almost touching yours, he's staring down at you in a way that has a fire starting in your stomach. He bends over until you can see your reflection in his helmet and he cocks his head just slightly. He smells like gunpowder and rain.

“You know what that little picture did to me, baby?” His modulated voice growls out.

You press your thighs together as pressure builds up in your lace panties. But you shake your head, playing dumb. The sardonic laugh he lets out sends a rush of excitement through your veins. One gloved hand slowly raises until his fingers are toying with the strap of your bra. He hooks his finger under and slowly slides it down your shoulder.

“Let me show you.”

His hand moves down your arm, a barely there touch, before he's grabbing your wrist and pressing your palm against his crotch. You suck in a gasp at the gesture before you're palming his growing erection. He groans at the movement and makes you apply more pressure.

“Fuck, that's it.” The deep voice makes you groan.

When you finally break eye contact to look at the bulge in his pants he lets go of your hand and puts his hand on the back of your head. He pushes you forward until you're nosing at the tent in his pants. You open your mouth and start licking at the fabric, it's rough against your tongue but you don't stop when you hear Jason moaning. Then he scoffs a laugh at you.

“You know where I've been tonight? That's fucking filthy.” But the way he grinds his cock against your tongue tells you that he's loving this.

He lets you undo his belt, his thigh holster, and then his pants - but only while making eye contact while you continue to mouth at him through his clothes. You're eager to get to him, to have his warmth in your mouth to satisfy the craving you've been having all day. But the second he's free and the spongy top of his cock hits your lips he pulls you back.

“Eager, huh?” He murmurs as he drags his hand across your cheek. “You have no. Idea.” He growls out again. Jason toes off his boots and kicks off his pants and underwear before guiding you further up the bed until you're comfortable on the pillow.

Pretty, he thinks.

“Jason, your jacket- the helmet-” you point out after he's done manhandling you so easily.

“Stays on.” Is all he grunts out before he's sliding his leaking tip over the damp fabric of your panties. Be sounds impatient and that makes your heart skip.

His head tips back when he starts grinding against the lace and you see his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. A moan slips past your lips when his tip rubs against your throbbing clit.

“Jay, please.” You whine. You hear him tsk at you.

“No, no, baby girl. You teased me, now it's my turn.”

He tortures you with a slow grinding against your needy cunt. Your slick mixes with his and you suck in a sharp breath when his cock skips into your panties. The heat between the two of you is becoming unbearable but he's in complete control. His cock slides between your lips, his tip continuing to rub and grind against your clit.

You try to wiggle your hips to get him to slip it in but he stills you. His hands are on your hips, thick fingers gripping at the red fabric of your panties.

“Fuck, this should be all you wear. Look how fucking good you look.” A hand reaches up and starts kneading your tit, his thumb rubbing over a pebbled nipple. You squirm underneath him and he laughs again, dark and low.

When he finally slips the tip of his cock into your needy entrance he stops and that helmet tilts again at your gasp.

“Is that what you want?” He asks. You nod, biting down on your bottom lip. “You want my cock to fill your greedy pussy? Shit, can feel her gripping me already-” you whine and wiggle your hips again.

“Tell me who this pussy belongs to.” Jason demands, holding you still with his one hand.

“You,” you breathe out, “you, Jason. Please-”

He kneads your breast almost painfully and cuts you off.

“Nu-uh.” He shakes his head. “Tell me who it belongs to.”

You're desperate at this point. You know how good he's going to feel when he finally starts fucking you, you can practically taste it at this point. Your mind swims with heady pleasure at the lewdness of it and it makes you hesitate before you answer.

“Red Hood-” heat floods your skin, “Red Hood owns this pussy.” You slur out.

You barely have time to blink before Jason's slamming into you. The stretch burns at first but your body quickly adjusts to the intrusion. A low moan escapes Jason while your own high pitched one mixes with his. He stills when he finally bottoms out, his balls slapping against your ass.

“Feel that?” He asks, grinding up into you. Your eyes have long since rolled to the back of your head. “‘m in your fuckin’ stomach, baby.” He laughs almost mockingly.

His hand leaves your hip to pull your panties further to the side and you hear a rip, he stops for a second before telling you, “I'll buy you more”.

Each thrust keeps you stuffed full, each snap of his hips into yours sends shock wave after shock wave through your body. You cunt grips at him, spasms with an orgasm but he doesn't stop. Not when your slick runs down the length of his cock and you're ass, drips off his balls onto the bed covers beneath you.

“Mm fuck, Jay-” you moan out as another orgasm starts to peak. “Feels good…” your mouth hangs open.

His thrusts turn roughed, hips snapping, making your tits bounce in that pretty lace bra. Jason can't stop watching.

“Yeah? Feels good?” He manages as he focuses on fucking you and not coming.

“Mhm, ‘s good. You're so big baby, shit-”

This orgasm rips through you. Your back arches off the bed as your muscles contract and spasm. Jason grips your hips and holds you up but he doesn't stop, he keeps fucking you through your release.

“God, she's so good. Perfect pussy, hm?” He grunts.

The new angle has you seeing stars. He feels deeper, like he's trying to fuck into your cervix. It doesn't take him but a few more rolls of his hips before his movements begin to stutter. He buries himself to the hilt when he finally cums, not moving an inch.

As thick ropes of Jason's cum spills into you he lets out a shaky breath.

“Want her to take all of it.” He murmurs, “Every day, ‘kay baby?”

All you can do is nod and hum a “mhm”.

When Jason's finally done, when he's almost certain nothing is going to spill out when he slides out of you, he gently sets you down and removes his helmet. His hair sticks to his forehead, his face is flushed, and he's breathing heavily. Leaning down he places a kiss to your forehead and then your temple.

“You did so good for me,” he coos. You let your eyes fall shut when you finally hear his voice and not the helmet’s modulator. “You okay?” He asks.

“Yeah, ‘m okay.” You answer as you swallow thickly on an attempt to soothe your dry throat.

Jason shrugs off his jacket and drops it to the floor along work his helmet and then flops onto the bed next to you. He wraps strong arms around you and then puts his hand on the back of your head to keep you close.

“So,” you speak up sleepily after melting against him, “does this mean you liked the picture?”

Jason huffs a laugh, like he can't believe you have the audacity to ask.

“Yeah, babygirl, I liked the picture.”

You turn slowly, leaning your hip against the counter, letting the flannel ride up another half-inch. "Found it in the drawer. Smells like you."

His nostrils flare. He takes one step, then another, boots heavy on the wood. "You wearin' anything under it?"

You bite your lip, let your eyes flick down to the obvious bulge already straining behind his jeans. "What do you think?"

He's on you in three strides. Big hands clamp around your waist, lifting you onto the counter like you weigh nothing. The cold edge of the wood bites into the backs of your thighs but you barely register it—Joel's mouth is already on yours, hungry, bruising, tongue pushing past your lips like he's starving. You moan into the kiss, fingers curling into the thick salt-and-pepper hair at his nape, pulling him closer.

He breaks away just long enough to look down between you. The flannel has ridden up; your bare cunt is exposed, already glistening. His thumb brushes the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, teasingly close but not touching where you need him.

"Look at you," he murmurs, voice low and wrecked. "Walkin' around my house in nothin' but my goddamn shirt, drippin' for me. You want it bad, don't you, baby?"

"Yes." The word comes out on a shaky exhale.

"Say it." His thumb finally grazes your clit—just a feather-light pass—and your hips jerk. "Tell me exactly what you want."

"I want you to fuck me," you breathe. "Hard. In your shirt. Don't take it off."

A growl rumbles deep in his chest. "That's right. Gonna fuck you just like this—my pretty girl wearin' my clothes, smellin' like me, takin' my cock like she was made for it."

He yanks you forward by the hips until your ass is right at the edge of the counter. You hear the metallic clink of his belt, the rasp of his zipper, then the thick, hot length of him springs free—already leaking at the tip, flushed dark and heavy. He doesn't bother with teasing. One hand fists the flannel at your lower back, holding it up and out of the way; the other guides his cock to your entrance.

He doesn't push in slow. He slams home in one brutal stroke. The stretch burns so good your head falls back on a choked cry. He's so thick, so deep, the head of him kissing your cervix on the first thrust. Your walls flutter around him, trying to adjust, but Joel doesn't give you time. He pulls almost all the way out—only the fat crown still inside—then drives back in, setting a punishing rhythm right from the start.

"Fuck—tight little pussy grippin' me so good," he grits out against your throat. His teeth scrape your pulse point. "You feel that? Feel how deep I am? That's my cock rearrangin' you, baby. Makin' sure you remember who you belong to."

You can only whimper, nails digging into his shoulders through his Henley. The flannel slips off one shoulder; he immediately mouths at the newly bared skin, sucking a bruise into the slope of your neck while he fucks you harder, hips snapping forward with wet, obscene sounds.

"Look at these tits bouncin' under my shirt," he growls, shoving the fabric higher so your breasts spill out. He palms one roughly, thumb flicking the stiff peak. "No bra, no panties—just my flannel hangin' off you like a fuckin' claim. You like bein' marked up like this? Like everyone who sees you knows you're mine?"

"Yes—God, Joel—yes—"

He angles his hips on the next thrust and hits that spot inside you that makes your vision white out. You scream his name; he groans like he's been punched.

"That's it. That's the spot I'm gonna ruin tonight." He hooks one of your legs over his forearm, spreading you wider, opening you up so he can drive even deeper. "Gonna fuck you till you can't walk straight. Till every time you sit down tomorrow you feel me still inside you."

Your hands scramble for purchase—fisting his shirt, the counter edge, his hair—anything to hold on while he pounds into you. The flannel is rucked up around your ribs now, the worn fabric rubbing against your overheated skin with every brutal snap of his hips. You can smell him on it—leather, pine, gun oil, sweat—and it only makes you wetter, slicker, the wet slap of skin on skin echoing in the small cabin.

"Touch yourself," he orders suddenly, voice dark. "Rub that pretty clit while I fuck you. Wanna feel you come all over my cock while you're wearin' my name on your back."

You obey instantly, fingers finding your swollen clit, circling fast the way you like. The added stimulation makes your walls clamp down hard; Joel swears viciously.

"Fuck—yeah, squeeze me like that. Milk me, baby. Gonna fill this tight cunt up. Gonna pump you so full you'll be leakin' me for days. You want that? Want my come drippin' down your thighs under my shirt?"

The filthy words tip you closer. Your fingers speed up, breath coming in ragged gasps. "Joel—please—I'm so close—"

"I know you are. Can feel it. This little pussy's flutterin' around me like it's beggin'." He leans in, lips brushing your ear, voice dropping to a gravel whisper. "Come for me, sweetheart. Come on my cock while you're wrapped in my flannel. Let me feel you soak me. Then I'm gonna flip you over, bend you over this counter, and fuck you again till you're screamin' my name so loud the goddamn trees hear it."

That does it. Pleasure snaps through you like a live wire—sharp, blinding, devastating. You come with a broken cry, walls pulsing, gushing around him. Joel keeps thrusting through it, dragging the orgasm out until you're shaking, thighs trembling, tears pricking your eyes from how good it feels.

He pulls out suddenly—your whine of protest cut off when he spins you around, bends you over the counter. Your forearms brace on the wood; the cold surface is a shock against your overheated breasts. He kicks your feet wider, notches himself at your entrance again, and slams back inside.

The new angle is devastating. Deeper. Harder. His hands grip your hips so tight you'll have bruises tomorrow—perfect imprints of his fingers. The flannel hangs loose around you now, slipping off both shoulders, pooling at your elbows like a cape.

"Fuckin' perfect," he pants, pace brutal. "Ass up, back arched, takin' every inch like a good girl. Look at you—my shirt, my cock, my come gonna be leakin' out of you soon."

You push back to meet every thrust, moaning brokenly. "Fill me—please, Joel—want it—want you to come inside—"

He groans your name like a prayer and a curse. One hand slides up your spine, gathering the flannel in his fist, using it like a handle to yank you back onto his cock even harder.

"Gonna do it, baby. Gonna come so deep you'll feel it in your fuckin' stomach. Gonna mark you from the inside while you're wearin' my clothes on the outside. You're mine—say it."

"I'm yours," you gasp. "All yours—only yours—"

He buries himself to the hilt and stills. You feel the first hot pulse of him spilling inside you—thick, endless, flooding you. He grinds against your ass in slow, deep circles, working every drop as deep as it'll go while he pants against your neck.

"Fuck... that's it... take it all... good girl... so fuckin' good..." When he finally pulls out, you feel the warm trickle immediately—his come leaking out, sliding down your inner thigh. He groans at the sight, swiping two thick fingers through the mess and pushing it back inside you, making you whimper.

He turns you gently this time, cups your face, kisses you slow and filthy—tongue lazy, tasting himself on you. Then he pulls back just enough to look at you: hair wild, lips swollen, cheeks flushed, his flannel hanging off you like it was made to be ruined this way, his spend still dripping down your legs.

"Keep the shirt on," he murmurs, thumb brushing your bottom lip. "We ain't done yet. Bed. Now."

Joel's hand is already curled around the back of your neck the second your bare feet hit the hallway floor, steering you forward with that firm, unhurried grip that makes your pulse kick up all over again. The flannel is still hanging off you—half-unbuttoned now, one sleeve slipping down your arm, the tails brushing the backs of your thighs with every step. You can feel his come still leaking out of you, warm and slick, coating your inner thighs, making them stick together as you walk. Every few steps you clench involuntarily, trying to keep more from dripping, and he notices.

"Still leakin' me out, huh?" His voice is low, amused, filthy. He presses himself against your back so you feel how hard he still is—already recovered, thick and insistent against the small of your back. "Good. Means I didn't waste a drop. Gonna make sure there's plenty more where that came from."

You whimper when he pushes you through the bedroom doorway. The room is dim—only the soft amber glow from the bedside lamp and the faint silver of moonlight through the frost-etched window. The bed is unmade, sheets rumpled from this morning, smelling faintly of him: cedar soap, gun oil, sleep-warmed skin. He doesn't bother turning on more light. He just kicks the door shut behind you both and spins you to face him.

His eyes rake over you again, slower this time, savoring. The flannel gapes open enough that both breasts are exposed, nipples still tight and aching from earlier. His gaze lingers on the dark marks he's already sucked into your throat and collarbone, then drops to where the fabric clings damply to your lower belly—evidence of how wet you got, how much he made you come.

"Fuckin' look at you," he mutters, almost to himself. One rough hand reaches out, fingers tracing the open placket of the shirt, brushing the underside of your breast, then sliding down to palm your mound. Two thick fingers slip easily through your soaked folds, gathering the mix of your arousal and his come before pushing back inside you. You gasp, knees buckling.

He catches you around the waist, walks you backward until the backs of your legs hit the mattress.

"Lie down," he says. Not a request.

You drop onto the bed, scooting up until your head hits the pillows. The flannel falls open completely now, framing your body like dark wings. Joel stands at the foot of the bed for a long moment, just looking—chest rising and falling, jeans still unzipped, cock jutting out heavy and slick from earlier. He strips the rest of the way slowly, deliberately: Henley tugged over his head, jeans and boxers shoved down and kicked off. Every inch of him is solid, scarred, powerful. The silver in his hair and beard catches the lamplight; the dark trail leading down his stomach makes your mouth water.

He climbs onto the bed, knees sinking into the mattress, crawling over you until he's braced on his forearms above your head. His weight pins you without crushing, heat rolling off him in waves. He dips his head and kisses you—slow this time, deep, filthy. Tongue stroking yours like he's tasting every sound you make. When he pulls back his voice is wrecked velvet.

"Hands above your head. Grab the headboard." You obey instantly, fingers wrapping around the cool iron bars. The position arches your back, pushes your breasts up toward him. He groans low in his throat.

"Perfect. Stay just like that." He sits back on his heels between your spread thighs, eyes locked on where you're still dripping. You would have thought he was looking at a priceless work of art the way his eyes sparkled.

"Look at this mess I made." His fingers spread you open—gentle but firm—exposing your swollen clit, your puffy folds, the slow trickle of white leaking out. "So pretty. All creamy and fucked-out and still wearin' my shirt like it's yours now."

He leans down, breath hot against your core. You tense in anticipation—but instead of his mouth he drags the tip of his cock through your slit, coating himself in the slick mix of both of you. Up, down, circling your clit until your hips twitch and you whine.

"Joel—please—"

"Shhh." He notches himself at your entrance again, just the head inside. "You're gonna take me slow this time. Gonna feel every inch. Gonna watch my cock disappear inside my girl while she's wrapped up in my clothes."

He sinks in one torturously slow inch at a time. Your head tips back, mouth falling open on a silent moan. He's so thick—stretching you open again, dragging against every sensitive place inside. When he's buried to the hilt he pauses, grinding in deep circles, letting you feel how full you are, how perfectly he fits.

"Fuck, baby," he breathes against your throat. "This pussy was made for me. So hot. So wet. Still flutterin' around me like you didn't just come all over my dick in the kitchen."

He starts moving—long, rolling thrusts that drag almost all the way out before sliding back in, slow enough that you feel every vein, every ridge. The wet sounds are obscene in the quiet room. Every time he bottoms out the base of his cock grinds against your clit and you gasp.

"Look at me," he orders. Your eyes snap to his. Dark, blown pupils. Jaw clenched. Sweat beading at his temples.

"Watch me fuck you," he growls. "Watch how deep I go. Watch how this little cunt takes every inch like it's hungry for it."

You glance down—his thick length disappearing inside you, slick and shining, the dark curls at his base grinding against your mound. The sight makes you clench hard around him; he curses under his breath.

"Yeah—just like that. Squeeze me again, sweetheart. Let me feel how bad you want it."

You do. Over and over. He rewards you by picking up speed—still controlled, but deeper, harder. The headboard thumps rhythmically against the wall. The flannel bunches and twists around your torso with every thrust, the soft fabric rasping over your nipples, keeping them peaked and sensitive.

He drops his mouth to one breast, sucking the nipple hard through the open shirt, teeth grazing just enough to sting. You cry out, back bowing.

"Love these tits," he mutters against your skin. "Love how they bounce when I fuck you. Love how they look peekin' out of my shirt like you're tryin' to drive me fuckin' insane."

He switches to the other, sucking a fresh bruise into the soft underside while his hips snap forward harder. The angle shifts—he hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, opening you wider, driving so deep you swear you feel him in your throat.

"Joel—oh God—right there—"

"I know, baby. I know exactly where you need it." His voice is rough, strained. "Gonna make you come again. Gonna make this pussy gush all over me while you're still wearin' my name on your skin."

His free hand slides between you, thumb finding your clit—rubbing firm, steady circles that match the brutal rhythm of his thrusts. You're shaking now, thighs trembling, breath coming in short, desperate pants. The pleasure coils tighter, hotter, unbearable.

"Come on," he coaxes, lips brushing your ear. "Give it to me. Let me feel you fall apart. Let me feel this tight little cunt milk every drop outta me again. You're gonna come wearing my shirt, gonna come screaming my name, gonna come so hard you soak the fuckin' sheets."

Your whole body locks up—back arching off the bed, walls clamping down so hard he groans like he's been punched. You come with a broken sob of his name, pulsing around him, gushing wet heat that slicks his cock, his thighs, the sheets beneath you. He fucks you through it—hard, relentless—chasing his own release.

"Fuck—fuck—gonna come—gonna fill you up again—"

One last brutal thrust and he buries himself deep, grinding against your cervix as he spills inside you. Hot, thick pulses that seem to go on forever. His forehead drops to yours, breath ragged, hips still twitching with aftershocks as he empties every last drop.

For long seconds you just lie there—sweaty, trembling, tangled. His cock still softening inside you. His come leaking out around him, pooling beneath you. The flannel is wrecked—twisted, damp, clinging to your skin.

Finally he lifts his head, brushes damp hair off your forehead, kisses you slow and sweet.

"Still with me sweetheart?" he murmurs, voice hoarse. You manage a shaky nod, a wrecked little laugh.

"Barely." He smirks—soft, satisfied, possessive.

"Good." He doesn't pull out yet. Just rolls you both so you're draped across his chest, still connected, his arms banded around you. One hand strokes lazily down your spine, over the rumpled flannel. "Keep it on. All night."

You bury your face in his neck, smiling against his skin. "Wasn't planning on taking it off."