★ ˖ ࣪ ♱ 𝙹𝚎𝚕𝚕𝚒 ♱ ˖ ࣪ ★

It had been an exhausting day in Piltover. Vi found herself juggling Sevika's demands alongside the myriad of other troubles that seemed to plague everyone around her, all while grappling with the haunting questions of the day's events. To make matters worse, Caitlyn had been absent, swept away to a banquet or some other social affair, leaving Vi to navigate the storm alone. She hadn't laid eyes on her all day.

When the door swung open, Vi felt a surge of anticipation, akin to a golden retriever eagerly awaiting its owner’s return. She spun around so quickly that it nearly felt like whiplash. Caitlyn, expecting Vi’s gaze to meet her own, instead found her attention captured by the fabric of her dress. It was a rich, dark blue, reminiscent of a tempestuous sea, hugging her curves in a way that ignited a primal yearning within Vi.

As Caitlyn moved closer, a warmth pooled within her, and she inquired, “What’s the matter, Vi?” The sound of her voice shattered the spell that had entranced Vi, yet it did little to quell the flood of desires surging through her mind. Visions danced in her head—of Caitlyn’s thighs encircling her, the intimacy of her pleas, and the raw ecstasy that would paint her skin a vibrant shade of crimson.

“Vi?” Caitlyn’s voice was a soft lure, drawing nearer until she positioned herself between Vi’s legs that dangled off the bed. In that moment, Vi felt her hands migrate instinctively up the sides of Caitlyn’s dress. Caitlyn, in turn, began to undress herself, their shared silence speaking volumes.

Vi’s hands traced the hem of Caitlyn’s dress, gently tugging it off until the velvety fabric pooled on the floor, shimmering like a puddle of midnight blue. The first kisses were tender, but soon transformed into fervent explorations against Caitlyn’s lower stomach. A fire ignited within Vi, her fingers slipping beneath the fabric of Caitlyn’s underwear, sending a rush of butterflies fluttering through her.

When Vi’s fingers finally entered her, it felt as if a thousand blazing suns had burst to life within Caitlyn’s body. With each slow, deliberate thrust, Vi’s gaze remained locked on Caitlyn, who arched her back in sheer bliss. The insatiable itch that had long needed scratching found its fulfillment, drawing them ever closer, until the explosive release of sensations enveloped Caitlyn entirely.

With a playful lick of her fingers, Vi slid Caitlyn’s discarded underwear into her pocket. “Sorry, cupcake, but I have somewhere to be. I’ll return later for seconds,” she said, a mischievous smile gracing her lips as she departed, leaving Caitlyn breathless, staring after her with an expression of astonished disbelief.

The drums from Daruma Ikka’s hideout still pulsed through the metal walls when you stepped inside. The fight was long over, but the air carried leftover violence—blood drying on the floor, laughter rough with adrenaline.

Hyūga sat in the center like a flame that refused to go out. His jacket was half off, chest bare and streaked with the red paint that marked him king. Every muscle still quivered with leftover fury.

You hovered at the edge of the room until his eyes found you.

“Didn’t know we let civilians wander in here,” he said, voice thick with smoke and humor.

“Didn’t know you still breathed the same air as civilians,” you shot back.

The men around him roared. Hyūga’s grin was sharp, but his eyes went cold. He stood, slow as thunder. “You talk like you forgot whose ground you’re standing on.”

“I remember,” you said. “Doesn’t mean I care.”

The laughter died.

He came toward you, boots scraping concrete, the smell of steel and sweat following him. “Say that again.”

“I don’t care,” you repeated, quieter.

He stopped close enough that your breath hit his throat. “You will.”

He dismissed the others with a tilt of his chin. The room emptied fast, leaving the two of you and the hum of lights.

He circled you once, head tilted, predator studying prey. “You’ve got a brave mouth,” he murmured. “Brave until someone makes you use it for something else.”

Your pulse kicked. “That supposed to scare me?”

He laughed softly, a low rasp that crawled under your skin. “No. Just supposed to remind you what happens when you poke at monsters.”

He brushed a knuckle down your cheek, leaving a streak of red paint. “Now you match.”

You slapped his hand away on instinct.

The sound made him still. Then the grin returned, feral this time. “Good. I like fight.”

He caught your wrist, twisted it gently behind your back, spun you until you hit the wall. His mouth ghosted the shell of your ear.

“Look at you,” he whispered. “Still pretending you’ve got control.”

“You don’t own me,” you said through clenched teeth.

He laughed again, low, delighted. “That’s the best part—you think ownership needs your permission.”

He let go long enough for you to turn, then pinned both palms beside your head, caging you in. His breath was hot, his eyes darker than the paint on his face.

“Say it,” he ordered.

“Say what?”

“That you know where you belong.”

You shook your head. “I don’t belong to anyone.”

The smile that spread across his face was slow, wicked. “We’ll fix that.”

He leaned closer, lips a whisper from yours. “You talk too much,” he said. “Let’s see if I can make you forget how.”

He kissed you like a threat—hard, consuming, teeth clashing. You shoved back once, but his hand caught the back of your neck, not hurting, just holding, forcing you to meet him. The taste of metal and paint filled your mouth.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.

“You hear that?” he asked.

“The city?”

“No. That sound you make when you stop pretending.”

He stepped back, chest heaving, eyes never leaving you. “You think degradation’s just words,” he said. “It’s a mirror. You look into it and see what you are when the mask burns off.”

You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand. “And what am I?”

He smiled, almost gently. “Mine, when you stop lying about it.”

For a long moment neither of you moved. Then he reached up, thumb tracing your jaw again, leaving another streak of red. “There. That’s better. Now you look like someone who’s fought and lived.”

You met his gaze, unflinching. “And if I don’t kneel?”

He tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “Then I’ll find another way to make you fall.”

Outside, the wind carried the sound of distant motorcycles. Inside, the world shrank to breath and heartbeat. Hyūga’s grin softened into something almost human.

“You really don’t scare easy,” he said.

“Wouldn’t be here if I did.”

He nodded once, satisfied. “Good. Keep that spine. Just remember who bends it.”

You stepped past him toward the door. He didn’t stop you, only called after, “Next time, bring that sharp tongue again. I’ll teach it better words.”

You glanced back. “Like what?”

His grin returned, all teeth and promise. “Like please.”

The door shut behind you, leaving him alone with the echo of your defiance. Hyūga wiped the red from his fingers, stared at the stain, and laughed under his breath.

“Stupid,” he muttered to the empty room, though the smile stayed. “She’ll be back.”

And he knew he’d let her—because degradation, for Hyūga, was never about breaking things. It was about seeing what refused to shatter.

The arena lights die like exhausted stars. Ozone and sweat still hang in the air. You’re standing amid the broken stage scaffolding, heartbeat hammering out the rhythm of survival. The city beyond the glass is blacked out, but the afterglow of the game’s explosions still paints the skyline.

A slow clap echoes behind you. One… two… three.

Kyuma steps from the shadows, shirt open, chest slick with the remnants of battle and rain. There’s no guitar in his hands tonight, but his movements carry the same rhythm—an easy, sensual roll of the shoulders, the glint of someone who knows the entire world is his instrument.

“Still shaking,” he says, voice like velvet dragged across stone. “You looked beautiful out there when you thought you were going to die.”

You flinch at the way he says beautiful. He doesn’t move closer right away. He lets silence stretch, testing its pitch, waiting for your breath to fall into time with his.

When he does approach, it’s a slow, deliberate pace—each step a beat. The smell of smoke and skin warms the air between you. His fingers catch your chin, tilt your face toward him.

“Afraid?”

You want to say yes. You want to say no. The word catches somewhere between. He smiles when he hears nothing—he likes silence better than honesty.

Kyuma leans closer until his breath grazes your ear. “Every note needs resistance. Otherwise it’s just noise.”

He presses his thumb just below your jaw, where your pulse jumps. Pressure—steady, possessive—builds until you have to open your mouth to breathe. His other hand rests at your hip, the calloused pad of his thumb tracing the bruise left by the game’s harness.

“Pain,” he murmurs, “is what keeps the rhythm from breaking.”

The shove comes without warning. Your back hits the cold wall of the stage scaffolding, metal biting into your shoulders. His palm lands beside your head; the other drags down your throat to your collarbone, following the path of your breath.

You can feel the tremor of his control, the way he measures every motion like a song written for two bodies. His grip tightens—not enough to hurt, just enough to make your body obey the tempo he dictates.

“Breathe in.” You do. “Hold.” The air burns behind your teeth. “Now exhale—slow.”

He releases you with surgical precision, the touch gone as quickly as it arrived. The world sways, vision pulsing in time with your heartbeat. Kyuma watches, head tilted, admiring the effect.

“You see? Obedience sounds like music.”

When you lunge—anger, fear, some fragile spark of pride—he catches your wrist mid-swing. The grip turns; a twist, a pivot, and suddenly your arm is behind your back, your chest against his. His breath ghosts down the side of your neck.

“Every fighter thinks they hate surrender,” he whispers, “until they learn what it feels like to be conducted.”

His words vibrate against your skin. His teeth close on the curve of your shoulder—not a bite, more a signature. The pain blooms quick, sharp, then fades into warmth. He lets you go only when he feels your knees soften.

He circles you like a predator tracing the boundaries of its stage. “The Borderlands give us one gift,” he says. “No rules worth keeping.”

His hand returns, skimming down your arm, over your bruised ribs, stopping at the edge of a scar you earned in the game. His thumb drags across it gently, reverently. “You survived,” he says, voice lower now. “So now you can feel something else.”

He pushes you until the backs of your thighs hit a fallen speaker cabinet. You sit because your balance gives out first. Kyuma stands over you, the flicker of a dying spotlight cutting gold lines across his body.

“Pain first,” he says. “Then pleasure. The order matters.”

He pulls the fabric from your shoulder where the skin is marked red from his earlier grip and presses his mouth there. The kiss burns, open-mouthed, teeth catching enough to draw another hiss from you. His hands follow, heavy and warm, framing your face.

“Tell me when it’s too much.”

“It already is.”

That earns a quiet laugh. “Good. You’re listening to the tempo now.”

His movements turn slower, deliberate again—control layered over violence until you can’t tell which is which. Every bruise he leaves feels symmetrical, intentional. You start to understand that for him, sadism isn’t chaos. It’s composition.

At some point you stop counting the breaths between his touches. You just follow the rhythm—pressure, pause, whisper, pain, relief. The sounds blur: your gasps, his measured breathing, the creak of the metal scaffolding, the soft thud of his heartbeat against your back when he finally holds you still.

Kyuma’s voice, near your ear, almost tender now: “You keep time beautifully.”

He releases you, steps back. The cold air rushes in where his body was, and you shiver.

When you look up, he’s watching you the way a conductor watches the end of a perfect performance—satisfied, a little sad, already hearing the next song in his head.

“You should go,” he says quietly. “Before I decide I need an encore.”

You stand, shaky, clothing rumpled, skin alive with the ghost of his hands. The stage around you is silent except for the wind threading through broken lights.

As you reach the door, he calls your name. You turn.

Kyuma smiles—not cruel now, just knowing. “You’ll hear me the next time you close your eyes.”

Outside, the rain starts again, keeping time.

The first time he saw you, you were leaning against the side of the convenience store after school, a cigarette dangling between black-painted fingers, boot heel pressing into the curb like you wanted to crush the world beneath it. The smoke curled around your face like a ghost that belonged only to you. Chifuyu should’ve kept walking — he told himself he would — but there was something magnetic about the way you looked at the sky as if you were waiting for it to disappoint you again.

Your uniform skirt was shorter than regulation, your tie was loose, and your eyes lined dark enough to look like sin itself. You looked like you bit people for fun.

And Chifuyu? He was fucked from that moment.

“Why’re you staring, Matsuno?”

You caught him the second day. He’d been trying to be subtle — watching from across the classroom, pretending to take notes while his pen hovered uselessly over the page. You tilted your head, all mock-innocent, like you hadn’t just called him out in front of everyone.

“Uh—wasn’t.” “You were.”

You smiled, and it wasn’t sweet. It was slow, sharp-edged, a warning dressed like a kiss.

He started walking home the long way, hoping to “accidentally” run into you again. He told Baji he had errands; Baji called bullshit. Still, every time, there you were — black earbuds, black boots, black heart — humming something haunting under your breath.

You didn’t talk much, but when you did, it was poetry soaked in ink.

“You ever think about how beautiful bruises are?” you asked once, voice soft, staring at the purple bloom on your knee like it was a piece of art. “They’re proof something touched you hard enough to stay.”

He didn’t have words for that. Just the sudden, confusing urge to be the reason one bloomed again.

One rainy night, you were both trapped under a shop awning after a late cram session. You were drenched, black mascara smudged into the perfect kind of ruin, and Chifuyu thought you’d never looked more like a song no one else could sing.

He offered you his hoodie, shyly.

You didn’t take it. You grabbed it, pulled it over your head, and the smell of his shampoo hit you like déjà vu. You looked up at him from under the hood, lips barely parted.

“You always this nice,” you murmured, “or am I special?”

He chuckled, but his pulse was wild. “You’re definitely something.”

“Something what?”

He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The rain was too loud, your eyes too dark, and every inch of him was screaming to taste the smirk tugging at your mouth.

You didn’t make him wait.

You stepped in close — too close — the air between you tasting like rain and smoke. You whispered, “You can kiss me, you know. I won’t bite.”

“That’s a lie,” he breathed.

“Maybe.”

Your lips met in the middle of a thunderclap — soft first, then desperate. You tasted like cherry chapstick and secrets. His hands found your waist; yours tangled in his hair, tugging just enough to make him groan into your mouth.

When you finally pulled back, breathless, you tilted your head, studying him like a new toy.

“Hmm. You kiss like you’re scared to break me.”

“I’m not,” he said, voice rough.

You smiled again, that sinful little curve that made him forget his name. “Prove it then.”

Later, in your room — a shrine of posters, candles, and too much black lace — he tried not to look too long at your bed. You sprawled there lazily, scrolling through your phone, one leg bent, the hem of your skirt riding indecently high.

“You really like it dark, huh?” he asked, eyes wandering.

“Light gives me headaches.”

He laughed, low, sitting beside you. “Guess I’ll have to be your flashlight.”

You turned your head, slow, deliberate, and said, “You’d have to get real close to shine on me.”

His pulse tripped over itself. He leaned in.

“Like this?”

You nodded once, eyes flicking to his lips. “Closer.”

The kiss this time wasn’t soft. It was heat — tongues brushing, breath hitching, teeth grazing. He swallowed your sighs, his hands sliding down your thighs, feeling the leather of your garter straps under his fingertips.

You gasped into his mouth when he squeezed, and the sound made something primal flare in his chest.

“Chifuyu…”

“Yeah?”

“You’re blushing.”

“Shut up,” he muttered, but his grin betrayed him.

You hooked a finger under his chin, tilting his face toward you. “Cute. Dangerous combination.”

He wanted to say something cocky, but your lips brushed the corner of his jaw, slow and deliberate, and his thoughts dissolved into static.

Your voice was a whisper against his neck. “You ever fuck someone in candlelight, Chifuyu?”

He exhaled hard, shaking his head. “You planning to teach me?”

You hummed. “Maybe. If you’re good.”

He never forgot that night — not because of what happened (or didn’t), but because of what it felt like. You on his lap, kissing him until the world blurred; his fingers tracing your thigh, trembling; your breath ghosting against his ear when you whispered, “You look beautiful when you’re trying to be bad.”

It was the kind of moment that branded itself into bone.

Weeks later, when people whispered about you — called you weird, said you looked like death — Chifuyu just laughed. He’d already seen the way you smiled into his hoodie when you thought he wasn’t looking, the way you melted when his hand brushed yours under the desk.

You weren’t death. You were every dark thing that made life worth bleeding for.

And when you looked at him with that mischievous half-smile, whispering, “You’re so light, Chifuyu — maybe that’s why I keep coming back,” he finally got it.

He didn’t love you despite the darkness. He loved you because of it.

The camp is barely breathing. Night has folded over the Borderlands like a soot-stained blanket; smoke drifts from the last barrel fire, curling into the heavy heat. Everyone’s asleep or pretending to be. You sit with your knees drawn up, watching the orange die out in the embers.

Footsteps scrape over concrete — slow, certain, the weight of someone who doesn’t need to hurry. You don’t have to look up to know it’s him; his presence lands before his voice ever does.

Aguni smells of the day’s ruin long before you see him. Ash, sweat, rain trapped in his hair, the raw metallic tang of gun oil. You hate that you recognize it instantly, that your pulse lifts for it. When he stops beside you, the air changes: heavier, thicker, edged with heat.

“You should sleep.” His voice is gravel dragged through a low hum.

You glance up, half a smile. “You’re not.”

He shrugs out of the vest clinging to him, and the movement sends a wave of scent your way — damp fabric, salt skin, smoke. It’s sharp enough to sting, rich enough to pull something loose in your stomach. You look away fast, pretending to watch the fire.

Aguni lowers himself beside you, elbows braced on his knees. The quiet between you is the kind that swallows the world. His breathing is rough around the edges, and every exhale brings another drift of that smell: heat, exhaustion, the bite of survival. You catch yourself inhaling deeper.

He notices. Of course he does. One dark brow tilts, almost amused. “Something wrong?”

You shake your head. “You smell like smoke.”

He huffs a laugh, soft but real. “Everything does here.”

Not like this, you think. Not like you.

The wind flickers; his shoulder brushes yours. The contact is brief, enough to taste the salt of him in the air. You wonder if he knows how close you are to leaning in, to letting your nose find the hollow of his throat where his pulse hides. You wonder what he’d do if you did.

“You’re staring.” You flinch. “Am I?”

His mouth curves faintly — not a smile, more the ghost of one. “You look like you want to say something.”

You want to say you could drown in the way he smells right now. You want to ask how he carries the scent of the world ending and makes it holy. But instead you murmur, “You should wash up. You’re covered in blood.”

He glances down at his forearm; the smear there is already drying to rust. “Later.”

The word lands low, rough. Later. After he sits here with you. After you’ve forgotten that everything outside this firelight wants you dead.

Your throat tightens. You shouldn’t breathe him in again, but you do — slow, deliberate, lungs aching for it. He catches that, too. The air thickens. His gaze drops to your mouth, then back up. You see the moment he understands.

When he speaks, his tone gentles but doesn’t soften. “You really like the way I smell.”

It isn’t a question.

You could deny it. You don’t.

He leans closer until your knees touch. The world narrows to heat and breath and the heady mix of him — wood smoke, worn leather, something animal beneath. His fingers find your chin, tilt it up; the pad of his thumb grazes your lower lip. You breathe him in, helpless.

He doesn’t kiss you yet. He just watches the way you inhale, slow and greedy. “Tell me.”

“It’s—” your voice breaks. “It’s the way you smell after a fight. Like you came back alive.”

His eyes flicker. The hardness in them fractures for a heartbeat. “And you like that?”

You nod. The truth hums through your bones. You like that he smells like blood and sweat and heat and that you’re close enough to memorize it. You like that it makes you feel real.

Aguni’s hand slides to the back of your neck, broad and calloused. His thumb strokes the hinge of your jaw, slow, grounding. He leans in until his breath brushes your cheek. “You shouldn’t.”

“I know.”

But when he exhales, the scent of him fills your mouth, and reason evaporates. Your fingers catch in his shirt. You pull him that last inch, until your forehead meets his.

For a long time neither of you moves. Just breathing each other. Every inhale is a confession. Every exhale, a surrender.

Finally, he whispers, “You’re trembling.”

You laugh, small, unsteady. “So are you.”

His shoulders rise, fall. “It’s been a long time since anyone wanted me for something this human.”

You could answer, but the words dissolve against the sound of the wind. He shifts, and suddenly you’re against his chest, his arm circling you. The heat of him pours through the thin cotton between you. His skin smells of steel and rain, and underneath that, something sweet, like cedar.

You breathe him in again, deeper. The scent floods you, settles behind your ribs. You feel him tense, then sigh as if it costs him.

“Keep breathing,” he murmurs. “If it helps.”

It does. Each inhale steadies you. The longer you stay pressed to him, the more the world outside fades — the sirens, the games, the blood. There’s only his scent, heavy and alive, marking the air around you.

He tips his head down, the side of his face brushing your hair. “You smell like rain,” he says.

“Is that good?”

“It’s dangerous.”

The words rumble through his chest into yours. You can feel the vibration under your palms, feel how close you are to something that could undo both of you.

Your fingers find the edge of his collar. You whisper, “Maybe I like dangerous.”

His answering breath is a rough laugh, half warning, half surrender. Then his mouth finds the corner of your jaw — not a kiss, more a claiming of space. The scrape of stubble, the warmth of skin, the slow drag of breath. He lingers there, breathing you in the way you’ve been breathing him.

When he speaks again, it’s against your pulse. “Now I smell like you.”

The admission sends a shiver through you. You press closer, greedy for it, for the mix of him and you, the scent of survival braided with something almost tender.

He holds you tighter, nose buried in your hair. “This is what keeps me alive,” he says quietly. “Not the guns. Not the fights. This.”

The fire snaps, scattering sparks. Outside, the night hums with distant danger, but here, wrapped in the heat of him, you only breathe. The scent of sweat, salt, smoke — and a heartbeat beneath it all. You breathe until it’s part of you, until you can’t tell where one ends and the other begins.

When dawn comes, the first light finds you still against him, his jacket draped around your shoulders. The world will wake soon, brutal as ever. But for a few stolen breaths, you let yourself exist in this small, secret thing — the scent of a man who survived, and the quiet proof that you did too.

The Borderlands at night were too quiet. That silence—unnatural, heavy—seeped into the walls, through every cracked window and half-lit alley. Out there, the air always smelled faintly of smoke, of burning that never quite reached its source.

In here, it was just him.

Chishiya sat on the battered couch across from you, one leg crossed neatly over the other, hair falling in a pale curtain against his cheek as he thumbed through a deck of cards he’d lifted from who-knows-where. He wasn’t playing, not really—just shuffling them idly, sharp eyes tracking the rise and fall of your chest while pretending he wasn’t.

You knew him by now. Knew his habit of watching when others thought he wasn’t. Knew the way his smirk never revealed the whole story, just the part he wanted you to believe.

But what you knew most was this: under all that foxlike cunning, Chishiya loved control. He wielded silence and smirks like weapons, twisting situations to suit himself. He lived on the edge of smug detachment, untouchable, always above it all.

Which is exactly why you’d started to wonder what would happen if you pressed the right way—if you cut past that armor.

You lay back on the mattress, stretching out, watching him. His gaze flicked up, caught yours, then dropped back to the cards like nothing. But the corner of his mouth twitched.

“You look bored,” he said, voice smooth, almost lazy.

“Maybe I am,” you answered, rolling onto your side, propping your head on your hand. “You’re not very entertaining.”

He chuckled, soft and sly. “Depends who you ask.”

You let your eyes trail over him deliberately, slowly enough for him to notice. “I think you could be.”

His smirk deepened. He set the cards aside, tilting his head at you like a predator humoring prey. “Oh? And what would entertain you, exactly?”

You didn’t move at first. You let the silence stretch, thick as molasses, before answering: “You.”

That single word cracked the calm in his eyes. It was fleeting—less than a second—but you caught it, the flicker of surprise he smothered almost instantly.

Chishiya rose, crossing the distance with his usual unhurried grace, stopping just at the edge of the bed. He looked down at you, unreadable, pale hair falling over his brow. “You’re bold.”

You smiled faintly. “You like bold.”

The fox mask twitched again. Then, with deliberate slowness, he sat on the edge of the mattress, one hand braced on either side of your body. “Show me,” he murmured.

You shifted, pulling him down until your lips brushed his. He kissed like he did everything—calculated, precise, but devastatingly effective. His mouth pressed against yours, cool and soft, before parting just enough for his tongue to slide against yours, stealing the breath from your lungs.

When you pulled back, panting faintly, you whispered against his lips: “Good boy.”

The reaction was instant. His fingers tightened against the sheets, grip twitching. He tried to smirk through it, but you felt the catch in his breath, saw the way his pupils dilated.

You kissed along his jaw, slow, deliberate. “Always so clever. Always in control. But I think you like it more when someone tells you you’ve done well.”

A soft groan escaped him, muffled against your neck where he buried his face. He didn’t answer—wouldn’t—but his body betrayed him, cock hardening against your thigh, the rhythm of his breathing uneven.

You slid your hands under his shirt, palms skimming the lean muscle of his torso, nails dragging lightly over his skin. “You’re doing so well for me, Chishiya. Letting me see the real you.”

“Shut up,” he muttered, but his voice was rough, strained. He kissed you again, harder, like he could smother the words with his mouth.

You let him, for a while—let him press you into the mattress, let his hand slip between your thighs, fingers teasing the damp heat already pooling there. He worked you with practiced ease, circling your clit, slipping two fingers inside until you arched, moaning. His smirk flickered back, faint but triumphant.

“Still think I’m not entertaining?” he murmured.

You gasped, clenching around his fingers, and whispered breathlessly, “Such a good boy.”

His composure shattered. He groaned low, forehead pressing against yours, hips grinding down into the mattress helplessly. You felt him, hard and needy through his pants, rutting against you without his usual control.

You caught his chin in your hand, forcing him to look at you. His eyes—usually sharp, sly, calculating—were dark, wild, stripped bare.

“Say it again,” he demanded, voice almost broken.

“Good boy,” you whispered.

He surged forward, mouth crashing against yours, desperate now. He pulled at his clothes with frantic hands, shoving pants down just enough to free his cock, flushed and slick at the tip. He ground against you roughly, spreading your wetness, shuddering when you moaned into his mouth.

Then he pushed inside.

The stretch made you cry out, his cock sliding deep, filling you until you trembled beneath him. He groaned, the sound guttural, his head falling to your shoulder.

“Fuck,” he gasped, voice raw.

You wrapped your legs around his waist, nails raking down his back. “That’s it. You’re doing so well.”

His rhythm faltered, hips stuttering at your words. He buried his face against your neck, moaning openly now, body jerking with every thrust. He was usually so composed, so measured—but under your praise, he was undone, needy, desperate.

You whispered it again and again, between gasps and moans, letting the words seep into his skin like fire. “Good boy. So clever. So perfect inside me.”

His thrusts grew erratic, rougher, his breath ragged. His hand slid down to your clit, rubbing furiously, needing you to come with him.

The pressure built sharp and fast, coiling deep in your belly until you broke, crying out his name as your orgasm tore through you. Your body convulsed around him, walls squeezing tight.

That was enough to drag him over the edge.

“F-fuck—” he groaned, his hips slamming into you one last time before he came, cock pulsing, spilling hot inside you. His whole body shuddered, breath catching on a moan muffled against your skin.

For a long moment, the room was silent except for your breathing—yours fast and uneven, his low and shaky. He collapsed against you, trembling faintly, sweat dampening his hair.

When he finally lifted his head, his smirk had returned—but it was weaker now, softened. “You talk too much.”

You brushed his damp hair back from his forehead, smiling. “And you love it.”

He chuckled under his breath, collapsing beside you, arm draping lazily over your stomach. His eyes slid shut, but not before you caught it—the faintest ghost of vulnerability still flickering there.

You leaned in, whispered softly against his temple: “Good boy.”

And this time, he didn’t tell you to shut up.

The music from the off-campus party still rattled faintly through the walls, muffled bass vibrations crawling along the floor like an afterthought. Keisuke Baji didn’t even notice—he was too busy watching you.

You’d been sprawled on his dorm bed for the last half hour, legs crossed, laughter spilling from your lips as you teased him about his shitty homework habits. The lamplight caught on your thighs, smooth and sheer under the thin layer of pantyhose you’d thrown on with your skirt tonight.

It had been driving him insane.

Baji was reckless in a fight, reckless with his mouth, reckless with the way he lived. But right now? He was trying hard—too hard—not to lunge across the mattress and bury his face between your legs. His knuckles were white where his fists clenched against his knees, and his jaw ached from grinding his teeth.

You shifted again, casual, not even thinking about it—the nylon pulled tight over your skin, catching the glow. His cock twitched violently in his jeans. He bit back a curse.

“Keisuke? You even listening?” you asked, tilting your head, smirking at the distracted look on his face.

“...Not a fucking word,” he admitted with a low laugh, eyes dropping instantly back to your thighs, brazen. “Can you blame me? You’re sittin’ there dressed like that. Teasin’ me without even tryin’.”

Your eyebrows arched, playful. “Like what? A skirt and tights? This is normal.”

“Normal, my ass,” Baji growled, shifting closer, his voice dropping to something darker. “You have no idea what that shit does to me.” His fingers reached out, grazing the inside of your knee over the pantyhose, and you shivered.

“Pantyhose? Really?” you teased, but your voice wasn’t steady.

Baji grinned, feral. “Fuck yes, pantyhose. Wanna know how many times I’ve imagined ripping these off you? Or better—keeping them on while I ruin you?”

Your breath hitched, and that was all the permission he needed.

Baji pushed you back onto the mattress, his weight heavy and commanding over yours. His hands were rough, sliding up your thighs, nails catching lightly on the sheer nylon. His mouth crashed down against yours—wild, hungry, biting at your bottom lip until you moaned into him.

“Keisuke—”

“Shut up and let me play,” he muttered against your lips, grinding his hard cock against your clothed core. You felt the drag of denim, the sheer friction of pantyhose between. It was obscene, dirty, and perfect.

He broke the kiss just to look down, chest heaving, eyes fixed on the way the nylon stretched over your thighs. His hand slid up, cupping your cunt through the pantyhose, pressing hard until you gasped.

“Fuck, look at you,” he rasped, his voice raw with need. “So wet already—I can feel it through the fabric.”

You whined, hips rolling into his palm, chasing more friction.

That feral grin spread wider. “Good. Let’s make a mess.”

Baji tugged your skirt up roughly, bunching it around your hips, exposing the dark sheen of pantyhose stretched tight between your thighs. He pressed his mouth against your clothed cunt, hot breath soaking through, tongue dragging over nylon until you keened. The texture made every lick sharper, more desperate.

“Keisuke—ah, fuck—”

“God, I love this,” he groaned against you, nosing at the damp spot spreading between your legs. “The way it clings… the way I can see everything but still not get to touch. Makes me wanna rip it all the fuck apart.”

His teeth caught at the nylon, biting just enough to pull at it, to make the threads strain. He growled low in his throat, pulling back, pupils blown. “But not yet. Gonna fuck you through these first.”

Your heart hammered as he tugged his jeans down, cock springing free, heavy and already dripping. He stroked himself once, twice, groaning at the sight of you writhing in pantyhose under him.

He lined himself up, rutting against the thin fabric covering your soaked pussy, smearing precum over nylon until the material glistened. The drag was brutal—rough, textured, every thrust making you cry out from the friction.

“Fuck yes, that’s it,” Baji panted, grinding harder, the wet heat soaking through. “You hear that? That sloppy sound? That’s you, baby—wetting these tights up just for me.”

You whimpered, clawing at the sheets, thighs trembling as the sensation built sharp and fast.

“Beg me to rip them,” he demanded, voice harsh, sweat dripping down his temple.

“Keisuke, please—tear them, I need—”

“Say it dirtier,” he snapped, hips jerking against you.

“Rip these fucking pantyhose off me and fuck me raw!” you screamed, voice breaking.

That did it. With a growl, Baji hooked his fingers into the nylon at your crotch and yanked, the fabric tearing violently with a loud rrrriip. His cock slammed inside you in the same motion, stretching you wide, making you arch and scream his name.

“Fuck, you’re tight—shit, I should’ve known you’d squeeze me like this,” he groaned, biting at your shoulder as he bottomed out. His thrusts were brutal, unrelenting, hips slamming into yours hard enough to make the bed frame creak against the wall.

Every time he pulled out, the shredded nylon dragged against your swollen pussy, adding another layer of filthy sensation. Your body convulsed, overstimulated, the texture making every thrust unbearable in the best way.

Baji’s teeth sank into your neck, marking you, claiming you. “Mine. Fucking mine. No one else gets to see you like this.”

Your nails raked down his back, dragging welts across his skin as your orgasm tore through you, clenching down around him. You cried out his name, sobbing from the intensity.

He snarled, pace breaking as his cock twitched deep inside you. “Take it—fuck, take all of it.”

Hot cum flooded you, thick and messy, seeping through the ruined pantyhose, dripping down your thighs. He didn’t stop grinding against you until every drop spilled out, until he was smeared across your skin and the nylon both.

Baji collapsed on top of you, panting, chest heaving, laughter bubbling low in his throat. “Told you pantyhose were dangerous.”

You smacked his arm weakly, still trembling. “You’re insane.”

“Yeah,” he smirked, pressing another hard kiss to your lips. “Insane for you in these tights. Next time, don’t even bother with underwear.”

The night was too still for him. Mikey hated quiet; it pressed down on his chest like someone had a hand over his ribs, squeezing. His whole world used to be fists and bikes, the roar of engines under his skin. But here, in the dark of his cramped apartment, there was only him—and the ache he could never fight out of his own body.

He sprawled across his futon, shirt rucked up, pale belly catching the glow of the streetlight bleeding in through the blinds. His hand dragged over his chest absentmindedly, nails scratching down his ribs like he was daring himself to feel something. He could still smell smoke and gasoline clinging to his hair. His eyes half-lidded, mouth set in that lazy smirk, but there was tension in it—like a rubber band stretched too far.

His sweatpants hung low, waistband cutting into his hips, the hard outline beneath already straining. He didn’t even mean to get this wound up; it just happened. He kept replaying little pieces in his head—soft lips brushing his ear, a teasing glance, the ghost of a laugh that belonged to someone who wasn’t there. It left him restless, cock hard and throbbing.

“Shit,” he muttered under his breath, running his tongue over his bottom lip, teeth sinking in. He palmed himself through the fabric, groaning at the sharp pressure, hips twitching up like he was grinding against some phantom body. His thighs spread, lazy and spoiled, like he expected the world to just kneel between them.

The friction wasn’t enough. It never was. Mikey hooked his fingers into the waistband, tugged it down in one rough motion, cock springing free, flushed and leaking at the tip. He laughed under his breath, soft and dangerous, like he was amused at himself. “Look at me… fucking pathetic.” But he wrapped his hand around himself anyway, thumb swiping through the slick head, hissing at the sharp jolt of pleasure.

His strokes were slow at first, almost cruel in how he denied himself speed. Veins stood out along the shaft, skin hot, his hand working in a tight fist. He tilted his head back, throat exposed, the line of his jaw sharp in the light. His breath came heavier, ragged little pants that turned into broken moans when he twisted his wrist just right.

He imagined someone else’s hand—smaller, tighter, nails biting into his skin. Imagined their voice, that soft gasp when they saw just how needy he got. His hips bucked into his own fist, sweat beading at his temples. He wanted to hear his name dragged out, whined like a prayer. Wanted someone watching him unravel, not just the silence.

“F-fuck…” His voice cracked, and that only made him squeeze harder, faster, precum smearing down his shaft in a slick mess. He was ruthless with himself, strokes pumping loud, wet sounds filling the empty room. His thighs trembled, the muscles twitching, his toes curling against the sheets.

He bit his knuckle to keep the noises from spilling too loud, but it didn’t help; every gasp was choked, filthy, needy. The more he tried to suppress, the dirtier it sounded, and he couldn’t stop, couldn’t slow down. His eyes rolled back, lashes wet, chest heaving like he’d just gone rounds in a fight.

The pressure built sharp and fast, pleasure coiling deep in his gut, fire licking up his spine. His balls drew tight, hips jerking into his hand like he couldn’t control himself anymore. He pictured it—someone kneeling, mouth open, begging for it. The image snapped something in him.

“Ahh—fuck, fuck!” he gasped, voice breaking as his body seized. Hot ropes of cum spurted over his stomach, dripping down his abs, pooling in the dip of his navel. His hand kept moving through it, messy, milking every drop out of himself while his whole body shook with aftershocks.

He collapsed back into the mattress, chest shining with sweat, cock twitching against his fist, cum sticky across his skin. His breathing slowed, ragged chuckles spilling out of him. “Damn… I’m a mess.” He dragged his cum-slick hand through his hair, leaving it matted, not giving a fuck.

And still, even after all that, the ache lingered—the hollow, hungry part of him nothing but louder in the silence.

Caitlyn’s office smelled of ink, brass polish, and her faint perfume. Papers lay stacked in perfect order across her desk, every quill stroke measured, her posture immaculate as always. But beneath that rigid surface, she sat with her legs parted, stockings brushing against your flushed cheeks as you knelt beneath her.

Your tongue lapped at her cunt, lips closing over her clit with wet, obscene slurps, the sound hidden under the steady scratch of her quill. She hadn’t so much as glanced down at you, the picture of composure, though her thigh twitched whenever you sucked just right.

“Don’t stop,” she murmured, voice smooth as cream, though her fingers threaded into your hair, holding you against her heat. “Keep your tongue steady.”

The door knocked. Boots followed—heavy, confident. The latch clicked open without permission.

Vi.

“Hey, Cupcake,” she greeted, voice husky with that easy swagger. She carried a report tucked under her arm, grin tugging at her lips. “Brought you what you asked for.”

Caitlyn’s spine straightened, her tone flawless, hiding the tremor of your tongue flicking her clit. “Set it there, Vi. Thank you.”

You tried to still your breathing, but Caitlyn’s grip in your hair pressed you harder, forcing you to drink her scent, her taste, smothered in her thighs. You obeyed, tongue circling, and her hips betrayed her—one tiny shiver.

Vi dropped the folder on her desk, leaned against it with folded arms. “You work too much. Can’t remember the last time you just… let loose.”

Caitlyn’s lips curved in polite dismissal. “I’ll take that under advisement.”

Vi smirked, eyes narrowing with that piercing sharpness she used in the ring. She lingered, suspicion flickering, but finally pushed off, stretching her shoulders. “Alright. Don’t stay up all night, Sheriff.” Her boots thudded against the floor, door clicking shut.

The mask cracked instantly. Caitlyn exhaled sharp, tugging your face tighter between her thighs. “Finish it,” she hissed, voice trembling with steel. “Now.”

Your tongue lashed, lips sucking, her taste slicking your chin until she shattered—back arching, hat tipping, the softest gasp spilling from her aristocratic lips as her cunt clenched hard against your mouth.

When she came down, she smoothed her blouse, regained her composure with only flushed cheeks betraying her. She stroked your jaw with long fingers, tilting your face up.

“Good girl,” she murmured, eyes sharp, glittering. Then her lips curved in a sly, dangerous smirk. “Now. Go to Vi. Service her properly. Don’t you dare return until she’s screaming my name.”

-

Vi’s quarters were chaos—weights on the floor, gloves discarded, bottle of liquor perched precariously on the sill. She sat sprawled on the edge of her cot, sweat still shining on her body, tank top sticking to her tits, hair mussed from training.

When her eyes caught you, her grin curled slow and knowing. “Well, well. Cupcake send you?”

Your silence answered. Her laugh rasped through the room, low and smug. “Figures. She wants me to play with her little toy, huh? Lucky me.”

She leaned back, legs spreading wider, hand gesturing. “On your knees, sweetheart. Let’s see what you’re good for.”

You dropped instantly, the cold floor biting your knees, the sharp tang of her sweat filling your nose as you pushed her shorts aside. She grabbed your hair before you could tease, shoving your mouth to her cunt.

“Don’t fuck around,” she growled. “Lick.”

You obeyed, tongue dragging flat against her clit, sliding into her wet heat, tasting her raw. Vi groaned, hips grinding against your mouth with no hesitation, no restraint. Her thighs closed around your ears, her grip cruel, forcing you to keep pace with her.

“Fuck yeah,” she panted, grinding harder, moaning deep. “Cait’s probably sittin’ all proper behind her desk, picturing this—her prim little lapdog face-first in my cunt.”

You moaned against her, the vibration making her buck harder. She slapped your cheek lightly, laughing ragged. “Open wider. That’s it. Cait’s prim pet, drooling all over me.”

Her orgasm came fast, raw. She rocked against your tongue, cunt flooding your mouth as she cursed, voice guttural. She rode your face until her taste smeared your lips and chin, thighs trembling, chest heaving.

But she didn’t stop there. She pushed you back onto the cot, climbing over you, straddling your hips with a feral grin. “Think Cait just wanted you to lick me?” she taunted, yanking your clothes down with impatient hands. “Nah. She knows I like to break things in properly.”

She sank onto you rough, her cunt swallowing you whole, and the scream that tore from her throat was pure hunger. She slammed her hips down again and again, tits bouncing under her tank top, sweat dripping down her abs as she rode you mercilessly.

“Fuck—so tight—” she groaned, grinding her clit against you with every thrust. Her nails dug into your chest, scratching, marking, her head thrown back as she used you with abandon.

“Cait sent you here for me,” she gasped, hips pounding faster. “Then you’re gonna take it ‘til I’m empty, got it?”

You could only moan, cunt clenching helplessly around her, thighs shaking as she fucked you into the mattress. She came hard, screaming, nails raking your skin as her cunt spasmed tight, drenching you in her slick. She collapsed against you, panting, sweaty and grinning wild.

After a long pause, she licked the sweat from your neck, laughing low. “Better crawl back to Cupcake, sweetheart. Tell her I ruined you.”

-

Back in Caitlyn’s office, you stumbled in ruined—hair mussed, skin marked red from Vi’s nails, thighs still wet. Caitlyn set her quill down, eyes raking over you with slow precision. Her smile was sharp, satisfied.

She rose from her chair, circling you like a predator, gloved fingers tilting your chin up to inspect the flush in your cheeks, the swollen lips, the raw need still written all over you.

“My poor girl,” she purred, lips brushing your ear. “So messy after Vi’s little game. And yet—you obeyed me perfectly.”

Her hand slid down your chest, possessive. “Now you’re mine again. On the desk. I’ll taste her on you myself.”

Caitlyn didn’t give you time to answer. Her hand—gloved, firm, commanding—shoved you back against her desk, scattering reports, quills, and inkpots in a messy clatter that she didn’t even glance at. Her usually perfect composure had frayed to threads the moment she saw you ruined, dripping, smelling of Vi.

“Up,” she ordered, voice low and lethal. You scrambled onto the desk, thighs trembling, cunt still wet and aching from Vi’s brutal use. Caitlyn stepped between your knees, spreading them wide with no gentleness, her pale eyes glinting as if she were inspecting contraband.

The cool leather of her gloves slid over your inner thighs, dragging up until her fingers pressed against your slick folds. She hummed, slow and satisfied, smearing Vi’s wetness across your skin. “Filthy,” she whispered, bringing her fingers to her lips, licking them clean with aristocratic delicacy. “She left you dripping with her. And you came back to me like the good little pet you are.”

Her mouth descended before you could whimper a reply. Caitlyn’s tongue was precise, deliberate, every lick a stroke of practiced elegance, the complete opposite of Vi’s feral rutting. She tasted Vi on you, mixed with your own slick, and the sound she made in her throat was almost a growl.

She pulled back just enough to murmur against your cunt, voice husky and cutting: “She may have used you, but this—” her tongue plunged deep, curling, lapping you clean, “—this belongs to me.”

Your back arched, fists tangling in her silky hair, but she pinned your hips flat to the desk with her strong hands, refusing to let you writhe away. Her tongue flicked cruelly against your clit, fast and relentless, then slowed just to make you beg, her eyes never leaving yours—cold, controlled, savoring every shiver she wrung from you.

“Louder,” she commanded, voice muffled by your cunt. “Let me hear how she left you. Let me hear how much better I make you.”

Your moans echoed against the wooden walls, wet noises of her devouring you filling the office, louder than any scandalous sound that Vi had dragged from your throat. Caitlyn’s lips sealed around your clit, sucking hard, and the orgasm tore through you—violent, uncontrollable, your body thrashing against her grip as you cried out her name like she’d demanded.

She didn’t stop. Her tongue worked ruthlessly, drinking you in until tears streaked down your cheeks, until your thighs quivered helplessly, until you were begging, “Cait—please—” in a broken voice.

Only then did she relent, pulling back with your slick shining on her lips. She wiped her mouth delicately with her glove, composed again, as if nothing scandalous had just happened.

Her fingers traced your thigh, slow and teasing, until she gripped hard, leaving another mark. “Good girl,” she whispered, leaning close, her breath warm against your ear. “You’ll remember this the next time she tries to claim you. Because no matter how rough Vi takes you, no matter how deep she fucks you—” she nipped your neck, sharp enough to sting, “—you’ll crawl back to me. Always.”

She pressed one final kiss to your trembling clit, sharp and possessive, before stepping back, straightening her hat, fixing her gloves. In one fluid motion, she was Sheriff again—prim, untouchable, perfect.

“Now,” she said, returning to her chair, as if she hadn’t just ruined you on her own desk, “go clean yourself up. And then return. I still have paperwork that requires your… assistance.”

The city blurred into streaks of neon as Chifuyu’s bike roared through the streets. You clung to him, arms tight around his waist, cheek pressed against the warm leather of his jacket. The vibration of the engine buzzed through your body, a steady hum that matched the leftover tremor in your thighs.

He didn’t speak as he drove, but you could feel him in every small movement—his back shifting under your palms, the tilt of his head when the wind whipped his hair, the way his body seemed to mold with yours even while handling the machine. It felt like belonging.

When he finally slowed, it wasn’t at your place, and it wasn’t anywhere crowded. He pulled off into an overlook above the city, where Tokyo spread out in glittering rivers of light. He killed the engine, the sudden silence wrapping around you both like a blanket.

He swung one leg over, turned to look at you, and his grin was soft this time. Not cocky, not smug—just that boyish curve of lips that always made your chest ache.

“Couldn’t take you home yet,” he admitted, voice low. “Didn’t wanna let you go.”

Your heart thudded, heat crawling up your neck. “Chifuyu…”

He reached out, tugged you forward until you were standing between his knees, your hands braced against his shoulders. “Don’t tell me you’re done already,” he teased, hands sliding up your thighs, squeezing gently. His touch wasn’t demanding, though—the kind that asked, not forced.

“I thought—”

He cut you off with a kiss. Sweet at first, then deeper, his tongue teasing until you opened for him. His hands slid under your skirt again, fingertips brushing the dampness still clinging to your thighs. He groaned into your mouth.

“Still wet for me,” he whispered, breaking the kiss. His eyes were dark now, hungry, but soft around the edges. “Fuck, baby… you’ll be the death of me.”

His fingers slid your panties aside, stroking slowly over your folds, gentle compared to the alley earlier. He traced your slit, circled your clit, coaxing a gasp out of you.

You shifted, the bike seat behind you, and his eyes flicked down with a grin. “Sit.”

Confused, you let him guide you back onto the leather seat of his bike. He sank to his knees in front of you, hands spreading your thighs. The city lights painted his hair in gold and silver, and the sight of him kneeling there made your breath catch.

“Chifuyu—someone could—”

“Don’t tell ‘em,” he said with a smirk, kissing the inside of your thigh. “Nobody’s here but us.”

And then his mouth was on you.

His tongue dragged slowly up your slit, savoring you, before latching onto your clit with a groan that vibrated through your whole body. His hands held your thighs open as he ate you, unhurried but relentless, sucking and licking until you were trembling, fingers digging into the seat.

You moaned, head tilting back, the stars blurring overhead. “Chifuyu—fuck—”

He chuckled against you, the sound sending shivers through your core. “Taste so good,” he mumbled, lips glistening. “Could do this all night.”

Your thighs tried to close around his head, but he held you steady, tongue pressing deeper, fucking into you while his nose nudged your clit. The pressure built quick, sharp, and when you cried out his name, he groaned like it was the sweetest sound he’d ever heard.

You came hard, clutching his hair, grinding against his mouth as he lapped up every drop. He didn’t stop until you pushed him back with shaky hands, panting.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, grinning up at you, cheeks flushed. “Knew you’d be loud up here.”

Your face burned. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

You didn’t get the chance. He stood, tugging his jeans open again, cock already hard and glistening. He stroked himself once, then pulled you forward, turning you on the bike so you straddled the seat facing him.

“You look so fucking sexy on my ride,” he muttered, kissing you again, lips tasting of you. “Like you belong here.”

He lined himself up, pressing the head of his cock against your entrance. This time, he slid in slow, watching your face the whole way, kissing you through the stretch.

When he bottomed out, he groaned into your mouth, gripping your hips. “Fuck—there it is. Home.”

You rode him, thighs braced against the bike, his hands guiding your hips. The leather squeaked beneath you, the city lights stretching around you like stars, and his eyes never left yours. Every thrust was deep, steady, his kisses constant—your neck, your lips, your shoulder.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, rocking up into you. “But don’t tell ‘em. They don’t need to know how good I fuck you.”

Your nails raked down his chest, pulling another groan from him. His pace quickened, hips slamming into yours, the bike rattling under you both. The sound of your bodies—wet, filthy—mixed with the rumble of his low curses.

“Gonna cum inside you again,” he panted, forehead pressed to yours. “Fill you up, keep you mine. You want that?”

“Yes,” you gasped. “God, yes.”

He growled, kissing you hard as he thrust faster, harder, until you broke again, clenching tight around him, crying his name into his mouth. Your release dragged him with you, his cock twitching, spilling warmth deep inside you as he groaned into your kiss.

You collapsed against him, both of you panting, his arms holding you tight. He kissed your hair, your temple, your lips—soft now, almost tender.

“Don’t tell ‘em,” he whispered again, this time with a smile against your skin. “This is ours.”

The city glittered below, the bike warm beneath you, his body wrapped around yours. And for that stolen night, it felt like you were the only two people in the world.

𝘗𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘦

He’s got that natural “leader instinct,” so when you’re with him, he’s always scanning the environment without even realizing it. Not in a paranoid way, but he just can’t switch off caring about your safety.

𝘔𝘢𝘯 𝘰𝘧 𝘧𝘦𝘸 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴, 𝘣𝘪𝘨 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘰𝘯𝘴

Cobra’s not the type to shower you with constant sweet talk. Instead, he shows his affection by small but meaningful actions—walking you home, fixing something broken in your place, or making sure you eat when you’re stressed.

𝘚𝘰𝘧𝘵 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺

To everyone else he’s the calm, intimidating leader of Sannoh, but when it’s just the two of you, he lets that softness come out. He’ll relax his posture, let his guard down, and even joke around. You’re the one who gets to see his rare, genuine smile.

𝘘𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘵𝘺 𝘵𝘪𝘮𝘦 𝘨𝘶𝘺

Dates with Cobra don’t have to be fancy. He’s happiest just sitting on the bike with you, riding out of town, or hanging out in the diner after hours with the Sannoh crew. As long as you’re by his side, he’s content.

𝘈𝘤𝘵𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘩𝘦’𝘴 “𝘣𝘢𝘥” 𝘢𝘵 𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯𝘤𝘦, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘦’𝘴 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘧𝘶𝘭

He’ll pretend he doesn’t know how to be romantic, but then surprise you with things like remembering your favorite drink, or showing up at your work when he knows you’re having a rough day.

𝘖𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘬

If someone so much as raises their voice at you, Cobra’s calm tone turns sharp. He doesn’t need to throw a punch—his presence alone is enough to shut people down. But if they really push it, you better believe he’ll step in.

𝘘𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘵𝘦𝘳

When you’re upset, he doesn’t flood you with words. Instead, he’ll sit with you, hold your hand, and let you talk when you’re ready. Sometimes his steady presence alone is enough to calm you.

𝘓𝘰𝘸-𝘬𝘦𝘺 𝘫𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘯’𝘵 𝘢𝘥𝘮𝘪𝘵 𝘪𝘵

Cobra trusts you, but he does not like when other guys hover too close. He won’t make a scene, but he’ll wrap his arm around you casually or stand a little closer to make it obvious you’re his.

𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘳𝘨𝘺

He tends to fuss over you in small ways, like asking if you’ve eaten, telling you to bring a jacket, or worrying if you’re out late. He probably nags you more than he nags himself.

𝘜𝘯𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘬𝘦𝘯 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘴𝘦𝘴

When Cobra says “I’ll protect you” or “I’ll always be here,” he means it. He’s not one to break his word, especially to someone he loves.

The sound that woke you wasn’t sharp, but it wasn’t soft either. Something clinked in the kitchen, not loud enough to be alarming, but just enough to pull you from the edges of sleep. You blinked in the dark, heart steady but curious. Normally, someone being up this late wasn’t strange in this house. Nine was often awake well into the early morning hours, headphones in, editing lyrics or playing something soft through his speakers. But something about this moment felt different—like your body knew something your mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

So you pushed the blankets aside and stood, your bare feet silent against the wooden floor as you padded down the hallway. The house was dim, touched only by the faint glow of the stove light leaking from the kitchen.

When you rounded the corner, you stopped.

Sarah was sitting on the floor.

Not standing at the counter. Not pacing like she usually did when her thoughts were loud. Just... sitting. Cross-legged on the cold tile, back against the cabinets, with a mug nestled between her palms. She didn’t notice you at first. Her eyes were fixed on the cup, steam curling up from its surface. Tea, probably. She didn’t like coffee unless it was drowning in sugar.

Sarah.

She was the kind of woman who never gave too much away. The kind who skipped over childhood anecdotes like they never existed, who laughed a little too dryly when people talked about family traditions, who could go drink for drink with the toughest guys in the room and still walk out on her own two feet. Most people underestimated her. Thought she was all bark and bravado.

But you knew better. She was fire. Fierce. And yet right now, in the quiet glow of the kitchen light, she looked like someone else entirely.

Small.

You shifted slightly, and the soft creak of the floor caught her attention. Her head snapped toward you, eyes wide for a split second before they softened.

“Sorry,” you murmured, voice thick with sleep. You rubbed your arm, suddenly uncertain. “Didn’t mean to sneak up on you. Why are you awake, dear?”

Sarah looked down at her tea, swirling it slowly. “Couldn’t sleep,” she said, her voice low. “Too much in my head. Tea helps sometimes.”

You nodded and crossed the kitchen without another word, easing down beside her until your thigh brushed hers. The tile was cool beneath you, grounding. You leaned your head on her shoulder, feeling her body tense just slightly at the contact. Her breath hitched. But she didn’t pull away.

“Want to talk about it?” you asked quietly, reaching over to trace your thumb gently along the back of her hand.

She didn’t answer at first. Her body was still, her thumb twitching slightly against the mug. You could feel the faint tremble in her fingers, subtle but steady. Her pulse was fast, and for a moment, you weren’t sure if it was your closeness that caused it or the thoughts storming behind her eyes.

Then, she placed her hand over yours, stopping your motion. Her grip was firm. Grounding.

“I never told you about my dad, did I?”

You turned your head slightly but didn’t move away. “No. You didn’t.”

She let out a breath. It sounded like she’d been holding it for years.

“He was a drunk,” she said. Her voice was calm, but it wasn’t steady. “Not the kind who slurred and stumbled. The kind who got mean. Controlled everything. He’d drink until the bottle emptied and the shouting started. Sometimes it was yelling. Sometimes it was worse.”

You didn’t say anything. Just let her keep going.

“He had this rule,” she continued. “No talking during dinner. No laughing unless he laughed first. No asking questions. I learned fast. Learned how to disappear even when I was in the room.”

She stared into her tea like she was watching old memories rise with the steam.

“My mom never left him. Said it was better to stay. Said we’d be homeless if we did. I hated her for a long time. Thought she chose him over me.”

You gently squeezed her hand.

“But when I turned eighteen,” she said, “I packed a bag, took the emergency cash I’d hidden for years, and left. Didn’t even say goodbye.”

The silence that followed was heavier now. Not uncomfortable—just full. Her words hung between you like something sacred.

“Sarah,” you said softly, turning your head to look at her. She didn’t meet your eyes.

“I don’t know how to be with you,” she said suddenly, quietly.

You blinked. “What do you mean?”

She hesitated, then finally looked at you. Her eyes were raw and open in a way you rarely saw.

“I mean I don’t know how to do this.” She gestured vaguely between the two of you. “Be soft. Let someone in. Trust that you won’t turn into him. That I won’t become her. That it’s safe.”

You sat up a little straighter, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

“It is safe,” you said. “I’m not him. And you’re not her. This is different. This is us.”

She looked away again, chewing the inside of her cheek. You could see the battle in her expression—the part of her that wanted to believe, and the part that was still protecting old wounds.

You leaned in slowly and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. She froze, just for a moment, then let out a shaky breath.

“It’ll take time,” you said gently. “And that’s okay. I’m not going anywhere. When you’re ready, I’ll be ready too.”

Sarah stared at you then. Really stared. Like she was trying to memorize every inch of your face.

“You mean that?” she asked.

“With everything I have.”

For the first time in a while, she smiled. Not her smirk, not the playful grin she gave in group settings. A real smile. Small, tired, but real.

She set her tea aside and leaned her head against your shoulder this time. No flinch. No hesitation. Just quiet trust.

You sat there together on the floor, wrapped in the hush of the late night, her hand in yours, her heartbeat slowly returning to a calm rhythm.