p i q u e r e z .

Spencer Reid’s earliest memories were not linear.

They didn’t arrive in neat timelines or clearly defined years the way most people’s did. Instead, they came in fragments, sensory impressions stacked on top of one another like transparencies. The smell of old books and pencil shavings. The squeak of sneakers on linoleum floors. The grounding weight of silence that followed him everywhere like a shadow.

And you.

You were always there.

Not as a single moment he could point to, but as a presence threaded through everything else. A constant variable in a life that otherwise felt too fast and loud. When he tried to trace the beginning of you, his mind failed him. You simply existed, already seated beside him at a small desk that was too short for his legs, already tugging at his sleeve because he’d drifted too far into his thoughts.

He remembered the way classrooms felt before you. So overwhelming in their chaos, filled with scraping chairs and overlapping voices that made his chest tighten. And then he remembered how that sensation softened once you started sitting next to him. How the noise blurred at the edges when your knee pressed lightly against his under the desk, a small, unconscious anchor that told his body it was safe to stay.

You learned early that he startled easily.

Not from fear, exactly, but from intrusion. From the suddenness of touch that didn’t announce itself, from hands that appeared without warning. So you announced yourself in a language only the two of you seemed to share. A gentle brush of fingers against his arm before leaning closer. A whisper of his name before tugging on his sleeve. Your touch was never sharp. It was slow. Predictable. Kind.

He remembered your hands most vividly.

They were always warm, even in winter, even when you’d come inside from the cold with pink cheeks and a runny nose, fingers immediately seeking his like they had a homing instinct. You held onto him the way children hold onto railings, not because they’re afraid of falling, but because it feels wrong not to. During assemblies, when hundreds of bodies packed together and the air grew thick and stale, you would lace your fingers through his and squeeze in quiet reassurance, counting his breaths with your thumb like you were teaching him how to exist in the world without it hurting.

No one ever told you not to touch him.

Maybe the teachers saw how he calmed when you did. How his foot stopped bouncing. How his gaze returned to the room instead of disappearing somewhere far away. Or maybe they simply didn’t notice, because you were small and bright and harmless, and he was the strange, gifted boy everyone had already decided was fragile.

Spencer never thought of it as touch.

It was just you.

You leaning against him during silent reading, your head resting briefly on his shoulder as if it were the most natural thing in the world. You sitting on the floor beside him during recess instead of running with the other kids, tracing shapes into the carpet while he explained things he was too young to have words for yet. You pressing your forehead to his when he cried quietly in the nurse’s office after another kid called him a freak.

You were there when the world became too much.

You were there when he forgot how to be small.

By the time Spencer realized most people didn’t live their lives with someone’s hand wrapped around their sleeve, it was already too late. The habit had settled into his bones. Your presence had become synonymous with safety, with warmth, with the idea that closeness didn’t always have to hurt.

And so, years later, when Spencer Reid invited you to a BAU Christmas party, he didn’t consider it an anomaly.

He didn’t stop to question the decision or examine the possible outcomes the way he usually did. Inviting you felt less like a choice and more like a continuation, like picking up a sentence he’d started years ago and never quite finished. He didn’t think about the way your hand would inevitably find his arm when you arrived, or how your fingers would curl around his sleeve with the same quiet certainty they always had. He didn’t think about how his body would recognize yours before his mind ever could, adjusting instinctively, shifting just enough to make space for you.

He only knew that where you were, he could breathe.

“Spencer!”

Your voice reached him before you did, cutting through the low murmur of conversation and soft instrumental Christmas music drifting through the bullpen. Spencer turned just in time to see you weaving through the room, eyes alight, cardigan slightly crooked like you’d put it on in a hurry. You crossed the distance between you quickly, as if drawn by gravity, and slipped into his space without hesitation.

Your hand landed on his arm and squeezed once, affectionate and grounding.

“Oh my god,” you said, glancing around with wide eyes. “Everyone’s so tall.”

Spencer smiled immediately.

It happened before he could stop it, before his brain could catch up and assess or analyze. The tension he hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying all evening loosened, his shoulders dropping a fraction as your warmth settled in beside him. The room felt quieter suddenly, smaller, more manageable.

“They are?” he asked, blinking. His gaze followed yours as he took in the room properly for the first time: Morgan towering near the refreshment table, Emily leaning casually against a desk, Hotch standing straight as ever near the tree. “I mean—yes, I suppose they are. The average height here is probably above the national—”

“Spence,” you interrupted gently, laughter soft and fond as you leaned into his side. Your shoulder brushed his chest, your head tipping toward him in a way that was so unconscious it felt rehearsed. “I’m not asking for data.”

“Oh,” he said, equally gentle. “Right. Sorry.”

You tilted your head against his shoulder for half a second, just long enough for the contact to register, just long enough to remind his body of something old and steady. It was the same motion you’d made as a child when you were tired or excited or simply content to be near him.

“I think I’ve just spent too much time with little humans,” you continued thoughtfully, eyes still scanning the room. “Adults feel…elongated.”

“Elongated,” he repeated, testing the word like it was a new puzzle piece. “That’s a good descriptor.”

You straightened slightly, pleased. “Thank you. I pride myself on my vocabulary.”

Then you looked up at him, your expression softening in a way only he ever seemed to notice. “You okay?”

“Yes,” he answered immediately, the truth spilling out before he could overthink it. Then, after a beat, quieter and more honest: “Better now.”

Your thumb brushed absently over the fabric of his sleeve, tracing a small, unconscious arc. “Good.”

The BAU around you hummed with quiet holiday energy. Paper cups clinking, someone laughing near the coffee station, the faint smell of pine and sugar cookies lingering in the air. White lights blinked lazily along the edge of desks, reflecting off computer screens and tinsel. It was festive in a restrained, slightly awkward way. Very on brand.

You took it all in with open curiosity.

“So,” you said, gesturing vaguely with your free hand, never letting go of him. “This is where you disappear to all day.”

“Disappear is…not inaccurate,” he said. “Although I do technically remain in the same physical location.”

You grinned. “Good to know. And these,” you added, nodding toward the team, “are your work people?”

He nodded. “They’re…important to me.”

Something softened in your expression at that. Your grip on his arm tightened just a little. Not possessive, just protective. “Okay,” you said quietly. “I’ll be good.”

He frowned, confused in the way only Spencer Reid could be. “You’re always good.”

“I mean,” you clarified, smiling, “I’ll try not to embarrass you.”

“You don’t,” he said quickly, the words tumbling out with quiet urgency. Then he hesitated, searching for the right phrasing. “I mean…you’ve never been a source of embarrassment.”

You laughed, warm and delighted, and leaned closer again. “That might be the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

Across the room, the team watched.

JJ’s eyebrows lifted. Emily’s lips parted slightly. Morgan’s grin grew slow and incredulous. Because it was like watching a celestial event. So rare, impossible, beautiful in a way you couldn’t quite explain.

Spencer Reid, fully relaxed.

Spencer Reid, smiling without restraint.

Spencer Reid, being touched without recoiling.

It was like seeing Halley’s Comet.

And neither of you even noticed.

It was crazy.

The moment Spencer finished introducing you—barely managing to get your name out before you were already smiling at everyone—you launched into a story like the words had been waiting just beneath your tongue all night. You stayed tucked into his side, your hand still looped comfortably around his arm, fingers absentmindedly gripping his sleeve as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Your free hand moved constantly as you spoke, expressive and animated, tracing invisible shapes in the air. You talked with your whole body, voice bright with wonder and enthusiasm, the kind that pulled people in without effort.

“So my class is doing this thing where they write letters to Santa,” you said, eyes darting between the team members as if you were letting them in on something important. “Which is adorable, obviously. Like, painfully adorable. But then one of my kids raises his hand and asks if Santa has an email because,” you paused, lips twitching, “‘writing is too slow.’”

You laughed, breathless and delighted, and without thinking leaned your head briefly against Spencer’s shoulder, the motion unconscious and practiced.

Spencer felt it before he processed it.

His hand twitched at his side before lifting and settling gently at your elbow. His fingers barely pressed, just enough to keep you steady, to anchor you where you were.

No tension. No hesitation.

Just instinct.

“Statistically,” Spencer added calmly, slipping into the conversation like he’d always been part of it, his voice low and thoughtful, “children are adapting to digital communication at increasingly younger ages. Their frustration tolerance for slower methods is decreasing.”

You turned to him like he’d just solved a mystery.

“See?” you said triumphantly, pointing at him before looking back at the team, still clinging to his arm. “This is why I keep him around. He makes my classroom chaos sound academic.”

“I think it already is,” Spencer said softly, glancing down at you. “You’re shaping cognitive development during a critical stage.”

You blinked, caught for half a second, then smiled and leaned a little closer. “That’s because you’re sweet.”

Across the room, JJ’s chest tightened a little at the way Spencer looked at you. Completely unguarded, eyes warm, attention wholly yours. There was something deeply familiar in the way he stood with you, like this version of him had always existed and the rest of the world just didn’t get to see it.

There was history there.

Emily tilted her head, studying you with open curiosity. “Kindergarten?” she asked, impressed. “That takes a special kind of patience.”

You nodded solemnly. “And an acceptance that glitter is now a permanent lifestyle.”

Morgan laughed, arms crossing. “You seem… surprisingly cheerful about that.”

You shrugged, squeezing Spencer’s arm again like it was second nature. “They’re good kids. Loud. Sticky. But good.”

Spencer watched you as you talked, the way your nose scrunched when you laughed, the way you rocked slightly on your feet when you got excited. Heel to toe, like you always had. He remembered you doing that in the school library, whispering about wanting a classroom full of color while he folded paper into perfect stars, sliding the prettiest ones toward you without saying a word.

Back then, you’d leaned against him too.

He remembered thinking, even then, that it was easier to breathe when you did. That the world felt quieter when you were close.

“So anyway,” you continued, still glowing, squeezing Spencer’s arm again as if the story itself needed anchoring, “they decided glitter was a necessary addition.”

You nodded decisively, brows knitting in mock seriousness. “Which it is. Artistically speaking. But now I’m finding glitter in my shoes. In my bag. I’m ninety percent sure it followed me here. Like a parasite.”

Spencer hummed thoughtfully, his grip at your elbow adjusting just slightly, protective without being possessive, familiar without being conscious. “That’s consistent with craft-related contamination,” he said, utterly serious. “Glitter has a high persistence rate once introduced into an environment. It’s extremely difficult to eliminate completely.”

Your eyes widened like he’d just confirmed a conspiracy. “I knew it.”

A quiet laugh escaped him before he could stop it.

Morgan finally couldn’t help himself. “Reid.”

Spencer glanced over, distracted but polite. “Yes?”

“You okay there, man?”

“Yes,” Spencer replied without hesitation. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Emily exchanged a look with JJ.

When you eventually stepped away to grab a drink, you did it reluctantly. Like you were peeling yourself out of a place you belonged. Your fingers brushed along Spencer’s wrist as you went, the contact light but intentional, a familiar goodbye that wasn’t really a goodbye at all.

“I’ll be right back,” you said, already half-smiling like you knew you would be.

Spencer nodded, though the words didn’t quite register.

He didn’t track your movement analytically. Didn’t follow the angles of your path or note the number of steps between desks the way he usually did with everything else. His mind didn’t reach for data or probability or pattern.

He just…watched.

Watched the way the room seemed to expand the second you left his side, noise rushing back in where you’d been like air filling a vacuum. Watched the lights feel harsher, the music louder, the conversations less distinct. The warmth at his arm faded too quickly, leaving behind something hollow and unfamiliar, an absence he couldn’t immediately name but felt acutely.

His hand lingered where you’d been, fingers curling slightly, unconsciously, like they were waiting for the shape of you to return.

And the second you were out of earshot—

“You let her touch you,” JJ said gently.

Spencer blinked, still looking in your direction. “She’s always touched me,” he replied, confused by the implication.

“For your entire life,” Morgan added, voice softer than his usual teasing, like he was stating a fact rather than a joke.

Spencer finally looked away from you.

He paused.

Not because he disagreed, but because something in his chest shifted, slow and seismic, like a realization settling into place after years of being ignored.

He thought of scraped knees on hot pavement and you pressing Band-Aids on crooked because you were too young to care about precision. Of science fairs where you’d sat cross-legged beside him, handing him pencils while he talked too fast and too much. Of long nights on the phone after his mom had bad days, your voice low, telling him it was okay to be tired.

He thought of thunderstorms, of you padding down the hallway in socked feet, climbing into his bed without asking, curling into his side like you’d always known you were allowed. Of how you’d held onto him then, too. Like he was solid ground. Like he wouldn’t disappear.

“Oh,” he said softly.

The word barely made a sound.

Across the room, you turned just then, drink in hand, eyes searching until they found him. Your face lit up immediately, the same unguarded smile you’d worn when you were seven years old and had decided that Spencer Reid was your friend.

You walked back without hesitation.

Your hand slipped into the crook of his arm again, familiar as breathing.

“Miss me?” you asked lightly.

Spencer didn’t even notice the moment his hand closed over yours.

But the team did.

The BAU bullpen looked exactly the same the next morning, down to the smallest, most mundane details that Spencer Reid usually found comfort in. The fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead, an unchanging mechanical sound that blended seamlessly with the quiet tapping of keyboards and the low murmur of early-morning voices. Computer screens glowed in muted blues and grays, some already filled with case files, others blinking patiently as they waited to be logged into. A printer whirred somewhere near the back, followed by the faint thump of paper landing in a tray. The ever-present smell of burnt coffee hung in the air, bitter and sharp, curling around the cleaner scent of paper, toner, and industrial disinfectant. Everything was familiar. Structured. Predictable in a way that usually steadied him.

And yet Spencer Reid felt…exposed.

It wasn’t the kind of exposure he could quantify or explain with statistics or probability. It wasn’t logical. It was the subtle, unnerving awareness that something about him had shifted, had been seen, and that the room, unchanged as it was, somehow knew. As he stepped inside, he adjusted the strap of his messenger bag on instinct, fingers tightening briefly around the worn canvas. He could feel it then: the way attention moved toward him, quiet and understated. No one was staring outright. No one needed to. It was in the pauses, the half-glances, the way conversations seemed to soften and bend in his direction. Enough to make his skin prickle, a faint tension humming just beneath the surface.

He reached his desk and set his bag down carefully, aligning it with the edge the way he always did. He nudged it a fraction of an inch to the left. Straightened the strap. Sat down. The ritual mattered. His hands hovered over the keyboard longer than usual before he powered on the monitor, as if delaying might give him time to recalibrate, time to return to the version of himself that fit more neatly into this space.

“So,” Morgan said.

The single syllable cracked through the air like a starting gun.

Spencer looked up, heart giving an unhelpful, traitorous skip. Morgan was leaning casually against the edge of his desk, arms crossed over his chest, posture loose and confident. There was already a grin pulling at his mouth, the kind that told Spencer this was not a neutral observation. Emily had turned fully in her chair, one leg hooked over the armrest, her gaze sharp and assessing in that familiar, almost profiling way. JJ stood nearby with a stack of files pressed to her chest, eyes bright, expression far too gentle to be innocent. No one else in the bullpen appeared to be paying attention, but Spencer knew better. This was a controlled environment. An audience existed whether he acknowledged it or not.

“Yes?” He said, straightening, shoulders pulling back automatically.

“Big night,” Morgan said lightly.

“It was a Christmas party,” Spencer replied. “That’s not statistically significant.”

JJ’s smile widened just a little, like she was trying not to laugh. “You brought someone.”

“Yes.”

Emily tilted her head, studying him. “Someone you’ve known since you were…what, eight?”

“Seven,” Spencer corrected without thinking.

Morgan’s grin deepened, pleased. “And yet none of us have ever met her.”

Spencer frowned, brow furrowing as he processed the implication. “That doesn’t mean—”

“It means,” Emily interrupted smoothly, “that when we did meet her, she was wrapped around your arm like she’d been there a thousand times before.”

Spencer opened his mouth, then stopped.

He paused, visibly recalibrating. This was a question that required precision. Language mattered. Context mattered. He searched carefully for the right explanation, the kind that could translate something deeply intuitive into something reasonable.

“She was comfortable,” he said finally. “We have a long-standing familiarity with physical proximity.”

Morgan let out a low, impressed whistle. “Listen to him.”

JJ laughed quietly. “You don’t even let me touch you.”

Spencer blinked, genuinely confused. “You touch me frequently.”

“On the shoulder,” JJ clarified gently. “For about half a second.”

Emily leaned forward, elbows resting on her knees. “She leaned her entire body on you.”

Spencer felt heat creep up the back of his neck, ears warming in a way he absolutely did not appreciate. “That’s…different.”

Morgan raised an eyebrow. “How?”

Spencer hesitated.

He did what he always did—searched his mental catalogue for the correct word, the right classification—but came up empty. The truth hovered just beyond his reach, too large, too amorphous to pin down with language. It wasn’t about touch alone. It wasn’t about habit. It was something quieter. Older. Something that lived in muscle memory and breath.

“I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “It just is.”

The silence that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. It was knowing.

Then Garcia’s voice burst cheerfully from her office, bright and theatrical. “Oh my god. Are we talking about the girl?”

Spencer winced. “Garcia—”

“She was adorable,” Penelope continued, rolling herself halfway out of her chair, eyes sparkling. “Sunshine in human form. And you looked—” she paused theatrically, one hand pressed to her chest, “—unreasonably happy.”

Spencer dropped his gaze to his desk, suddenly very invested in the pattern of the wood grain. “I am happy regularly.”

Morgan snorted. “Reid, you smiled without being prompted.”

“That happens,” Spencer said, voice weaker than he liked.

Emily smiled, kind and knowing. “You held her hand.”

Spencer froze.

“I—” He stopped short, memory rushing in with startling clarity: your fingers sliding into his, warm and sure, the way his thumb had moved without permission, tracing the back of your hand as if it had always known where to go. “That was…not intentional.”

JJ’s expression softened completely. “But you didn’t pull away.”

“No,” he admitted, voice barely above a murmur.

Hotch chose that moment to step out of his office, coffee in hand, gaze sweeping over the bullpen with practiced efficiency. His eyes lingered on the loose semicircle, the half-smiles, Spencer’s unmistakably pink ears.

“Is there a reason work hasn’t started yet?” Hotch asked.

“No reason,” JJ said quickly. “Just…team bonding.”

Hotch’s eyes lingered on Spencer for a fraction longer than necessary, then he nodded. “Reid. Briefing in ten.”

“Yes, sir.”

As the team dispersed, Spencer sat back down, heart beating just a little faster than usual. The bullpen slowly returned to its normal rhythm, the noise settling into something familiar again.

His phone buzzed against the desk.

He glanced down.

Good morning! <3

Did your work people survive me?

Something warm unfurled in his chest, slow and undeniable, spreading outward until it softened the tightness he hadn’t realized he was carrying.

His lips curved upward before he could stop them.

Emily noticed immediately. Morgan did too.

“Oh,” Morgan said softly. “He’s smiling again.”

Spencer straightened abruptly. “That’s irrelevant.”

He typed back carefully.

Yes. They found you memorable.

The reply came almost instantly.

That sounds ominous >:(

A quiet huff of laughter escaped him, softer than he meant it to be. His fingers hovered over the keyboard as he debated his response, eventually attempting one of the strange combinations of symbols you’d taught him.

Around him, the BAU kept moving.

standing just outside the white chalk lines. shaggy raven hair that never looks styled, stubble he clearly forgot—or chose not—to shave that morning. his infamous scar pulling at his lips as he shouts. he wears the same black team jacket unzipped, sleeves rolled up his thick forearms. when he folds his arms or gestures sharply toward the field, you always catch his muscles shifting beneath the fabric, veins flexing making it so impossible to ignore.

it’s just a photographer’s eye for striking subjects. for sure….

he beautifully contrasts against the chaos of the game…even if he’s shouting, or breaking his clipboard…. still, you capture him mid-shout, mid-thought, jaw clenched as he’s holding the entire team together.

and then later, when the photos run, and his photos dominate the highlights more than the actual goal, well, you pretend not to notice how often your name sits beneath them in a small, neat printed font.

he doesn’t know you. you’re just another person with a camera on the sidelines. you’re just another face in a sea of professional press badges, not just one of the universities many photographers. but you know him. you know the way his brows pinch when one of his players gets injured, the way his mouth twitches when his team scores, and the way he exhales with relief when the game ends.

and you keep clicking the shutter button—

“again?!” the head editor exclaims. “you didn’t get the goal?”

“I did!” you huff, glaring at the senior grad student who basically runs the entire school newspaper.

“not the first one, the final goal! the one scored by the universities ace! sukuna—“

“god forbid i missed a shot, I basically got everything else, plus I’m not the only one taking photos on the pitch. don’t you have other photographers?” you tsk, arms crossed.

he glares at you behind his desk, clicking through the photos you’d uploaded. “you got every single expression of the damn coach,” he mutters under his breath, clicking through one of toji shouting, then another of him spitting on the grass, then another of him scratching his jaw—

you nibble on your cheek, slouching slightly in the seat.

“you hate when we use someone else’s photos,” he adds, licking his teeth as he finally gets to your photos of the actual players. and they were spectacular. the action shots were perfect, you can see the sweat dribbling down their foreheads.

“because it’s my job,” you mutter, glancing at your editor who frowns when the photos return back to the head coach.

“unbelievable,” he mumbles, exhaling slowly as he sits back in his seat. “you’re killing me.”

your heel kicks the floor. this wasn’t a first. this happens almost every time. your lens just happens to drift away from the ball and fall on the head coach.

even with fans shouting in the stands, and the other cameras flashing in the other direction. your camera can’t help but find coach toji in the chaos. he was just as important as the team. he’s acting like toji isn’t mentioned a million times in the articles! god forbid you want him getting his flowers. but your editor wasn’t very appreciative of your sympathies.

“we’re going with these three, and taking one from the other photographers for the final goal you didn’t get,” he sighs, showing you your three photos, one of the team celebrating, another of satoru gojo sprinting across the field with the ball, and of course, the final — and in your opinion the best — of head coach toji standing with his muscular arms crossed at the start of the second half.

your editor rolls his eyes turning his screen back to him. “if you bring another folder and it’s seventy percent of this damn coach, I’ll drop you and pull noah up.”

the threat has you lowering your head and muttering a hesitate okay, because at the end of the day, you were the only photographer that worked full time for the paper, and you go to every single match. the rest are focused on other stories, or working their way to become editors.

while you liked photo-journalism more. it helped, that on weekends, you got someone to admire. and your editor was not the only one that’s noticed.

“what the hell, you’ve got to be kidding me,” geto huffs, snatching the paper from gojo as he sits on the pitch. “why am I never in these damn fucking articles??” he huffs with anger

“score more goals,” gojo sticks his tongue out, just to get kicked harshly by his friend.

“I fucking scored this game,” geto snaps, grumbling even more as he flips through the paper, seeing the team celebrating.

sukuna chugs his water behind them, “my picture sucks ass,” he grumbles, spitting the water right beside their goalie making him jerk back in annoyance. “you didn’t score, but I get the shit picture?” he snaps lowly at gojo.

geto frowns, “I scored, and at least you get a picture.”

gojo chuckles, pointing at the next photo, making the entire team roll their eyes simultaneously.

“some things never change,” one teammate, yuno, mutters. his hands are on his hips as him and the rest of the team glare at the immaculate, pristine, jaw-dropping photo captured of their strict, grumpy, nicotine addicted head coach, toji.

sukuna snarls as geto looks like he’s going to fucking tear out his luscious black hair. “fucking unbelievable.”

gojo snorts even louder, snatching the paper just to wave it from his place on the ground towards toji, who’d just gotten off the phone. “coach! you’re mogging the cameras again!”

toji’s brows pinch until he notices the photo. and it’s always the same reaction from the head coach. his eyes scan over the photo, then they fall down to the same printed name underneath. “not bad,” he casually says, handing back the newspaper like it’s nothing.

but the entire team is seething, with the exception of gojo laughing his ass off.

“I finally figured out who your secret admirer is,” gojo announces, “it’s definitely the cutie with the charm on her camera and stickers on her flashlight.”

geto raises a brow “how d’ya know that?” the rest of the team immediately huddle in.

gojo clears his throat.

“for the last few games I’ve been purposely fixing my shoes or drinking water on the sidelines where they’re all huddled up. obviously I ruled out all the old farts, then I narrowed it down to the ladies. then i crossed out the outside press, but it’s hard since I can’t see all their press badges—but then i noticed,” gojo holds up the newspaper, slapping his index finger on your name beneath the photo. the entire team have basically memorized your full name by now. “she was the only one still photographing the field, BUT it was pointed at coach,” gojo points to toji.

“AND,” gojo continues, “she had this cute little charm on her camera, and this sticker. and it’s definitely your secret admirer,” gojo confidently smiles.

however, geto scratches his jaw, glancing at gojo then the newspaper. “so which one was her instagram?”

oh right, gojo rubs his neck in disappointment.

your name under a majority of the game’s photos started catching the teams attention a couple months ago. your credentials at the bottom of the article was always signed with your first and last name. however, when the team caught on to your not-so secret admiration for their coach, and neglect of the rest of team, they tried stalking you.

yet, they couldn’t find a single social media handle. not your instagram, twitter, tiktok — even your linkedIn was just the default linkedIn pfp. and the school paper website didn’t have a photo for you. either way, the team was on a mission.

“I don’t think her socials are even under her name,” gojo admits, making the team groan.

toji, silently watching the ordeal transpire, claps his hands, breaking the gossip. “enough, continue your drills unless ya wanna stay till sunset!”

once the team finally finishes practice and began packing their gear. neither one of them notices the students enjoying the nice weather on campus, or the girl that take a detours to walk past the field.

your eyes easily fall on your perfect subject. his hand cracks his neck as he stifles a yawn, kicking the soccer ball towards one of the players as they kick it up, tucking it under their arm.

it was a routine….one that you found yourself subconsciously doing on practice days. you would follow the path down from the quad, until you reach the second soccer field on campus, mainly used for practice and training.

your bag hangs off your shoulder along with your camera — the lens was downsized to your fixed 24mm and the flash wasn’t on — that’s usually how your camera is when you aren’t at events, or games.

it isn’t uncommon to watch the schools infamous soccer team practice. especially when half of them are also part of a fraternity. hell, on the other side of the field were a few girls fawning over the sweaty players.

in other words, you don’t stand out. and you’re unbothered by the hot players that glance your way as they pack their bags. well, until a certain white haired player is squinting across the field, before muttering a quiet “no way…”

geto gives his friend a look, lifting his duffle over his shoulder as sukuna wipes his face with the hem of his jersey, “what?” he grumbles.

gojo’s bag hit the grass. he locks eyes with you. then he does the worst thing imaginable. he shouts your name.

the entire team snap their necks in your direction. gojo suddenly leads the pack of six foot whatever college men across the field — their bags drop, cleats half untied, some bare foot. but all on one mission.

you.

the color immediately drains from your face. your body freezes like a deer in headlights. and when the entire team of sweaty, built, hot men crowd the waist-high fence that separate them from you. you’re ultimately stuck.

“you’re-you’re—“ slightly out of breath and pumped full of adrenaline, gojo heaves out your name. not just a first name, no—your full government name. “right!?”

you eyes lazily drag between the men, fixing the strap of your bag, your camera clinking against the side, drawing every man’s attention to the little charm gojo had just described less than an hour ago.

“yeah,” you manage to exhale, shifting your balance. “did you need something?”

“yeah,” the low voice of the hot headed team captain interrupts. he hadn’t ran with rest of the players, instead he walked up, casual and full of loud confidence. finally making his way across the field, energy drink in hand, glaring right through you as he continues. “why the fuck was my picture the only one not taken by you? it looks like shit.”

you exhale, about to answer when another one cuts in.

“why haven’t you taken one of me? the game last month was my debut and you didn’t get me going on the pitch—“

“I liked that shot you got of me when—“

“can you get my good side next time—“

“why did you—“

“can you—“

“you didn’t get my goal!” geto manages to dogpile. all the men yell complaints and compliments, overwhelming you with critiques. until you’re frowning, glaring harshly at the group of men you’d watched from a distance since your freshman year.

“I don’t work for you guys,” you finally snap. your words are cold making the men frown. “I work for the schools paper, and they choose the photos, not me.”

“and yet coach is in every single one of em?” geto bites back, and that’s when they all catch the slight surprise that crosses your face.

gojo smirks, leaning over the fence, getting close as he tilts his head. “seems like a majority of your photos have our coach. it’s like your editor can’t help but be forced to put him in.”

you feel your stomach churn, glancing between the sharp sapphire eyes. “that’s not how it works,” you mutter.

you did not expect your first interaction with the soccer team to be this. accusing you of favoritism. you can practically feel all their eyes on you, like they knew exactly who you are, even if this is your first time speaking to them.

“sure looks like it,” sukuna drawls, smirking wide when he sees you shift uncomfortably. “you like our coach or somethin?”

“of course she does,” geto’s smooth voice cuts in. “do you get all hot lookin at coach toji?”

you swallow thickly, pushing down the heat crawling up your neck to glare at the men. “you guys are disgusting,” you spit, but the men don’t falter, instead they continue gloating and poking.

“we just wanna get to know you. you’ve been takin’ our pics for months, we can’t have a chat now?” geto cuts.

they were quietly impressed with your composure. your poker face would’ve been perfect if not for the slight fidgeting you’re doing with your bag and camera strap. either way, your glare was mean, unwavering until—

“cut it out.”

the sharp voice slices through the team. then, one strong palm shoves gojo into geto, and the rest of the team topple on each other like dominos. the head coach plants himself between the fence, his team, and you.

“i forget you’re all a couple children,” toji tsks, his arms are crossed standing like a lone knight keeping a pack a wolves from a poor princess.

your heart slams against your rib cage. all your composure evaporates into thin air, struggling to catch your breath. this was the closest you’ve gotten to the head coach. you can practically smell the mixture of his cologne and natural musk. your cheeks grow hotter by the second, completely dazed and loosing all other senses, unaware that practically half the team noticed your sudden shift.

gojo elbows geto eyeing the way your pupils basically turn into bright pink hearts. even your lips look more glossy from the drool collecting in your mouth.

they’d never seen anything like it, and for their coach of all people?!

you’re caught up in gawking at the huge man, eyeing his wide shoulders, the veins straining from his compression shirt, his shirt clinging to every muscle that could break you in a blink of an eye — that you miss his short lecture towards his boys to quit scaring off a young woman, all to end with him shouting—

“ten more laps!”

the team’s eyes bulge, jaws dropping in shock, and quickly follow up with a spew of complaints.

“ya heard coach!” sukuna, the hot-headed captain, interrupts. and if the team wasn’t scared of their coach, they definitely had a reason to be with their captain. they ultimately drop their things and start their laps. however, sukuna hangs back at bit, “I didn’t even say sh—“

“you were late to practice, so you were gonna do the laps anyways,” toji cuts, earning a loud tsk from the tattooed captain. his duffle drops on the floor dramatically, eyes flicking towards yours, which — no surprise — haven’t left the coach’s profile, and with his own groan, his cleats hit the grass starting his lap.

with the entire team running laps….you’re left alone.

coach toji doesn’t move.

instead, he leans against the fence, strong arms crossing. you’re barely a foot behind him, close enough that the scent of grass and dizzy cologne reaches you when he shifts his weight. close enough that your brain short-circuits again.

then he looks over his shoulder.

it’s not rushed or sharp. it was an easy turn of his head, his dark emerald eyes flick to you with calm, assessing. and up close, he’s worse. he’s broader than he looks from the sidelines, his stubble shadowing his jaw feels unfair for a sunday morning. sunlight catches the edge of his cheekbone, and the curve of his mouth makes you stare shamelessly especially when it lifts just slightly. he’s amused by something you’re not aware of yet and you don’t even notice.

your heart stutters.

you practically forget how to stand or how to function like a grown ass adult, instead you feel like someone who’s just had their fantasy materialize directly in front of them.

heat rushes to your face, your chest tightens, and you pray, desperately, that your expression isn’t as transparent as it feels. you focus on keeping your hands still, even as your pulse flutters wildly under your skin.

and toji’s gaze lingers. he takes you in like the way someone experienced does, without staring, without shame, just a brief glance that drifts. from your fidgeting fingers, to your necklace trapped between your pretty cleavage, to the tank top that hugs your chest, to the zip up hoodie falling off your soft shoulder. to your lips, wet from the amount of times you’d lick and bit them.

and you still don’t notice it! you’re too busy trying not to melt into the grass beneath your feet. all you register is how hot the space suddenly feels, how solid he seems standing there.

from the field, a player snickers mid-lap. a majority watching the entire interaction, waiting for someone to make a move. gojo snickers as geto analyzes.

you don’t hear any of it, all you know is that the knights are real, and he’s right in front of you, and your carefully maintained composure never stood a chance. especially when his eyes meet yours and his deep, husky, voice sinks into your bones.

“been wondering who was seein’ me like that, sweetheart.”

you were gone.

s-s-s-sweetheart!?

your heart bursts, veins burning through your skin as your lips part, words falling into the void as your brain struggles to reply.

and he finds it adorable.

college girls are cute, but you, you’re a little pervert. how many photos have you taken of him? and for the past year too? he’s wondered just like his team had, who was behind all those photos. who was oogling him while the best team in the nation was playing right before their eyes?

at first, he was bothered, confused even, how big of a stalker did you have to be to take his photos for months and not introduce yourself?

but now he sees it. the way you’re struggling to find words. the way your eyes flick between his — surprised even that you’re not shying away from eye contact, but instead, struggling to just respond. like the words are right there, but your dumb brain is getting fried just by his presence. cute.

“I’ll try an’ wink next time.”

he just hammers the nail straight into your heart. your face bursts into flames as you let out a strangled hum like whine, face burning even more. unfortunately, your audience isn’t as silent. instead a few had caught your reaction and were bursting with laughter. a few whistling at their coach.

“she’s too young for ya, coach!”

“get someone y’er own age!”

“coach, the shy ones are the freakiest!”

the last one — somehow — snapped you back to reality. your glare cut through the field, immediately hitting one of the players making him burst out laughing along with the others around him. your face pulls into a scowl, heart hammering at the teasing you’re receiving from the team. who even are they? they don’t know anything about you!

shy?! you?!!! you scowl in annoyance, eyes rollin—

“ignore em, sweetheart. they’re just being dicks.”

fuck.

your face burns hot again, heart hammering against your ribs as you stutter out another nod, fingers gripping your bag as you glance at the head coach again. his green eyes were unbelievably dark, just staring at them, you felt like you were getting dizzy.

the scar on his lip twitches up, leaning an elbow on the fence, his eyes flick down to your camera. “what kinda camera is that?”

your eyes widen, looking down like you’re surprised it’s there. but it seems like he flicks a switch in your brain with that question, because now you’re fumbling to hold the delicate thing in your hands. then you hold it out for him.

a small puff of air leaves his nose in amusement. you’re cute. he turns, reaching his hand out, just for your small ones to place the expensive camera in his. the same one you’d deny your friends from even holding, afraid they’ll drop it.

b-but if coach toji holds it…if he wants to hold it…who…who are you to stop him!!!

your blush only breaks out across your body once you feel your hands brush his, eyes so bright and big even he can see the hearts explode from your irises, fuzzy pink flowers glowing around your head like a cartoon.

“looks expensive,” he finally takes his eyes away from you to momentarily examine the camera. it was nice, sony. “bought it yourself?”

you nod, smiling as you rock on your heels. “it was…” oh first words, toji’s eyes flick to you, eyeing your glossy lips as they part. “my first big purchase,” you glance at the camera then back up at toji as you point with your manicured index finger, towards the camera. “it’s nice…right?”

well fuck me.

toji chuckles internally. he really can’t read you. from rude (to the team), to shy, to snappy (to the team), to demure, to charming—all while looking up at him like he’s some shinning knight and not a coach, albeit for the best team in the nation, but still.

his lips curl up, his internal switch already flipped when he shooed the team away, and the smooth voice of his poured out like second nature. “very nice, sweetheart.”

you nod, enthusiastically.

god, you were a cutie.

“and you take such good pictures with it too, you’re a natural,” the sweet words just keep pouring from his mouth like honey, and you’re eating up every drop. your feet manage to carry you closer to the fence…closer to him.

you wet your glossy lips, leaning close to point at the camera, “it also takes video here…I initially wanted to do more videography, but I stuck with photos. but it’s a nice perk with the camera…and I can shoot in raw and jpeg, so I can edit them afterwards if I want, and uh and I have other lenses too. this one is a fixed one, so it can’t zoom, but I have two other ones that zoom, I usually use those ones for work…like during your….games.”

your rambling was one of, if not, the most attractively adorable things you could’ve done at this moment. especially when you’re oblivious to the light flush that settles in the coach’s stomach as he eyes you down.

his gaze flicks between your fingers on the camera, and your profile from his height. your hair lightly brush’s back from the wind exposing your neck, your perfume reaching his nose.

“can I try takin’ a pic?”

your face bursts hot, you feel like it’ll melt off as you gawk up at the head coach, before nodding your head frantically, a wide smile pulling at your lips. you try to clear your throat as you turn the camera on for him and take the lens cap off.

“good?” he asks.

you just nod again, biting your cheek feeling how wide you’re smiling it almost hurts, but you can’t take your eyes off the way his big hands handle your camera. your biggest crush ever is using your camera!

you contain a squeal as he stands straight. he brings the camera to his eye, before lowering it again, confused. your eyes widen momentarily before realizing he’s struggling and quickly stepping up again.

you lean over the fence. and toji purposely avoids coming down to your height. instead, he watches you hold the fence to stand on your tippy toes, the other gently holds his wrist to ask him to lower the camera just a bit from his eye so you can instruct him. fuck, the confidence to touch him when you were just a jittery mess a second ago.

“the shutter button is here. if you half press it, it’ll auto-focus for you—“ you move to the front of the camera flipping some switch, “jus’ turned it on. but just press down all the way and it’ll take the picture,” you say, mistakenly glancing up from where you are, just to realize that coach toji’s face is inches from yours. his warm breath fans against your cheek, his scar so close, his lips right there and his eyes….

you were beyond gone. the steam immediately comes off your face as your eyes turn into big giant hearts. you’re so easy to read it should be illegal.

you fall back on your heels, allowing toji to attempt again. what you weren’t expecting was for him to point the camera at you.

well considering the wider lens, I guess he wants to shoot something closer for more satisfaction. but it caught you slightly off guard, your cheeks flame once more, heart stuttering, but your face immediately lights up.

his lips curve up behind the camera, watching you give him a cute smile, angling your head to tip to the side a bit. people that automatically smile when a camera is pointed at them is definitely a cute trait.

he takes a few quick photos, before pulling the camera back. “how do I see ‘em?”

this time he lowers the camera for you, but keeps it close to his body so you’re still leaning over and up beside him, albeit with the fence between you both.

“ah the sun was behind me,” you realize now looking at the photos. toji hums like he knows what that means (he doesn’t) but he clicks the button to go to the next picture and same thing.

“let’s do it again,” he says, already pulling the camera back, but your finger quickly reaches out, easily flipping it back to view mode before moving back. toji watches you glance up at the sky, before moving yourself in front of the sun. “smile f’er me, sweetheart.”

you were smiling, but now—toji chuckles through his nose at your reaction. he knows exactly what he’s doing. he takes one photo, than another.

your smile turns more pose worthy, not so big, but just as beautiful. “you’re a natural,” he comments, with full honesty.

your cheeks flush, waving your hand in front of you, “don’t glaze me.”

toji snorts, “jus’ saying what I see, not my fault you pose like a model.”

a model?!

toji notices the way you bite your cheek and the way your hands fidget with your bag. “put the bag down, sweetheart.”

your heart skips again, the nickname electing a response from you every time. but you oblige, setting your bag on the ground. now without anything to fidget with, your hands carefully clasp behind your back, your navy hoodie completely off your shoulder, exposing the casual white tank top. his eyes glance at the swell of your tits that your bra pushes up. and the sliver of skin that peaks at the bottom.

the wind was like a perfect accessory, blowing a warm spring breeze in your direction brushing your hair again.

you do your best to pose casually, smiling at the camera, eyes low as you stare into the lens, heart beating erratically as you wait for coach toji to finish.

your breath catches momentarily. cheeks stinging and lips parting like a deer in headlights, because you notice it. just briefly, the way toji lowers the camera from his eye, gaze tracking down your figure, eyeing your thighs, then your hips, then your tits.

he’s definitely checking you out.

you glance away, flustered, unaware that toji was now clicking the library to view the photos he’d just taken.

“I think I’m a pretty good shot,” he compliments his nonexistent skills, but the light hits you so well.

you smile watching him look at the photos. eyes glued to his lazy smirk, stomach hot and heart fluttering at his short comments. he’s so handsome, you glance at the curve of his nose, the stubble on his cheek. he’s so so pretty.

your mind was getting dizzy, all because coach toji is in front of you, but it made you completely forgetful that if he keeps clicking next, it’ll eventually reach—

“oh.”

you first notice the slight raise of his brows, then the scar on his lip twitching wider, then the greens of his eyes darkening.

“did ya’ submit these too, sweetheart?”

your brows furrow for half a second, then it clicks. you lunge forward.

this can’t be happening!

you immediately cover the screen and take the camera as you hear the coach chuckle. of course you’d forgotten that you had these on your sd card.

staring back at you is a photo of toji’s fat bulge from the game. you managed to catch the moment he reached down to itch himself, grabbing it. if he saw this one he definitely saw the three before this of the closeups of his lips, his big biceps, his ass when he was fixing his shoes.

your heart is beating in your ears, skin sizzling with embarrassment as your vision starts to narrow. your eyes flick up to the coach in horror, flustered beyond speech. “it’s not—“ you struggle to explain, “you weren’t supposed to see that. I was just taking one—then I someone bumped so like, the camera went down—“

the rambling was unlike the one before, this one was much more uncoordinated, fueled by your humiliation, anxiety, and desperate attempt at defending yourself to him, so that he doesn’t think you’re some creep.

“I wore that shirt from the match two weeks ago. not this one….” his head tilts, arms folded across his beefy chest. “why do you still have ‘em?”

the older man is quite unbothered. instead, his chest grew hot, and his mind wandered off imagining this hot college girl laying in her bed, staring at pictures of his crotch with her small fingers playing with her wet little pussy. his eyes flick to your chest again.

your eyes are wide, glancing at your camera.

“I just forgot to format the card,” you quickly reply, pretty chest rising and falling. “I always forget, and I realize after when I’m exporting the photos or run out of storage—I delete them, i-i swear!”

he snorts, head tilting, “you swear?”

you nod frantically.

his emerald eyes narrow, tongue poking out to wet his lips, touching his scar. his eyes flick to the camera in your hands. you’re quite the actor…

“okay, I’ll take your word then. you wouldn’t lie to me…?” his gaze was intimidating, the darkness of his pupils felt like a black hole pulling you in. but somehow you manage to shake your head.

“no, sir.”

toji holds eye contact, before tearing it away to reach for his phone, “good girl.”

your heart beats in your throat, threatening to tear out, but you step forward, eyes big and sad. “sorry, coach.” there’s a slight waver in your voice, the man’s eyes widen briefly, chuckling under his breath as he brings a hand up to the crown of your head.

“don’t worry about it, keep taking photos of me. ya’ make me feel important,” his comment is punctuated with a flirtatious wink, shooting another arrow straight into your heart.

you were lovestruck the entire trip home. and so unbelievably grateful.

you talked your way out of such incriminating evidence. because how could coach toji know that in truth, you have an entire album of photos just like the ones he saw, that you pull out almost every night to help you cum.

you really should be an actor, you think, blushing at the way he called you good girl. the way he looked at you, the way his fingers brushed yours on the camera —ahhhh, you bury your hot face in your hands.

you were in shock for days, heart slamming against your chest and face heating up every time you thought back to the moment.

you were so in your head that you hadn’t even noticed the two athletes walking up behind you on your way out of class, crossing the quad.

it’s like that thing that happens. when you’re finally introduced to someone for the first time, then you’re suddenly seeing them everywhere. that’s how geto and gojo felt. you’d been under their noses the entire time.

with a lecture of over two hundred students, of course they’d spot you when you entered today. gojo elbowed his friend, nodding in your direction. geto’s eyes nearly popped.

“what the hell?” geto leans forward, the two men closely watch you enter the lecture hall, walking a few rows down before slipping in. geto’s eyes narrow at the camera you carefully place in your lap as you take out your ipad.

it was like the cards were being dealt out for him perfectly.

“wait, I don’t get it,” gojo huffs catching up to his friend as the lecture hall empties.

geto tsks, “what’s not to get? I’m gonna bribe her into taking photos of me next game. I’m fucking tired of being some fucking blur—“

“you’ve gotten some photos man—“

“well i want more. ones where I’m actually scoring,” geto huffs, brushing his bang back in frustration.

once the two men hit the pavement outside, they spot you. gojo is tagging along for the fun, while geto is set on a mission. one he conjured up mid-lecture the second he saw you. it was perfect. genius—

“what?” your face scrunches in mild disgust. the two men baffle at your reaction, especially at the way you’re looking up at them with narrow, and irritated eyes. your expression isn’t hard to decipher, it’s basically screaming, why tf are you talking to me?

geto licks his teeth, exhaling through his nose, “you heard me fine, sweetheart—“

“don’t call me that.”

his jaw clenches, repeating his line without the pet name. “the next two games are the semifinals and then the finals, so I’ll give you access through our manager to join press during the media window two days before the matches—“

“I already have access to that through the school paper,” you give him a look, immediately ticking him off.

“let me fucking finish will you—“

“you’re taking forever and I’m being cornered,” you snap back, rolling your eyes at the pretentious athlete. geto bites his tongue, as gojo gasps.

“you’re not being cornered!” he states, just to exchange a look with geto as they both see that they’ve steered you off the pavement and against a tree. “no—we’re just talking.”

you exhale, glancing back at geto, “whatever, just finish.”

geto licks his lips, continuing, “you’ll also get access to our locker room strategy meeting or whatever, and behind the scenes access — you only do photos, no video or interviews?”

you shake your head, heart beating just a little quicker because now you’re starting to see the perks. bts access is the one thing university teams can deny since they don’t like any outsiders butting into their strategies or taking them out of “the zone.”

that also means you can see….coach toji.

gojo and geto both notice the realization crossing your face, especially when your lips part, much more glossy than before. unbelievable.

“but,” geto snaps you back, your eyes darting up to meet his, “you better take some good fucking shots of me during the game. if I’m not in the fucking paper and insta page, then no deal.”

you gasp, “dude, you’re literally acting like I’m the one in charge of that?? it’s my editor that picks the photos to put in the articles.”

geto tsks, “yet somehow coach is in every single one.” your jaw clenches, stomach heating up. “take more photos of me so it’s inevitable. got it?”

your lip curls in annoyance, eyeing geto, just for gojo to suddenly but in—

“but also take some of me, i look so hot in them and i like reposting them on my insta,” gojo flashes you a smile.

your frown deepens, “there’s other photographers. you guys know that right?”

“yours are the only ones they choose and they look better than whoever took sukuna’s,” gojo snorts, remembering their captains complaints.

nevertheless, geto and gojo wait for you to agree, both men standing with their arms crossed, blocking the spring sun from hitting you.

then a certain captain happens to pass by, noticing his two teammates, and frat brothers.

“the fuck are you guys doing?”

the men whip their heads as sukuna steps up, bag slung over his shoulder wearing a backwards baseball cap. and with a quick explanation from his friends, sukuna tsks glancing at you and adding.

“coach always showers before or after our games.”

and it was that one bit of information that automatically has you saying: “deal.”

—

you don’t rush setting up. you check your flash, bouncing it once off the ceiling to make sure it won’t wash anyone out. your fingers move with muscle memory, standing in these rooms plenty of times for the school paper, along with other journalists from the school paper especially for media days, post-game scrums, pre-season press.

so this isn’t new territory.

the room is packed, though. there’s national outlets mingling with campus press, and clusters of journalists already talking. you hear familiar phrases float past as you move, many talking about the teams unbeaten streak, their goal differentials, their historic season.

familiar names are easily getting tossed around. captain sukuna coming up first, always, and his leadership, and the way he commands the field. gojo’s speed follows after, and his natural talent and eye for goals, then geto’s consistency, his intelligence and composure. someone mentions scouts again, plural this time, and how a few clubs have been hovering around those three all season.

you barely react because you’ve heard all of this before, and it was impressive of course, you enjoy it. however, what does get you, embarrassingly, is his name.

every time coach toji is mentioned—his tactics, his discipline, the way he rebuilt the program and incorporated new strategies —you feel heat creep up your neck. it’s a soft and traitorous blush that you’re grateful no one’s looking closely enough to notice you smiling.

you keep your eyes on your camera, pretending to fiddle with a setting you don’t actually need to adjust, reminding yourself that he’s just part of the team. a very effective, very respected part of it.

then finally, the noise dips and the conversations fade into an expectant quiet as the side door opens.

the players file in first, with sukuna at the front, expression unreadable, gojo already grinning, geto calm and observant as ever. everyone’s cameras lift, and recorders click on. and then he steps in behind them.

coach toji, in a suit.

your face breaks into a hot mess, heart skipping a beat as you eye him through your lens. it fits him too well. dark, sharp, shoulders filling it out like it was tailored perfectly. no team jacket today, no morning stumble. no, he looked clean, with polished shoes, and authority. he guides the team forward eyes sweeping the room calmly.

your flash fires once, professionalism wavering again. how can it not when your knight is walking into the room and reminding you exactly how out of reach he is.

the entire team easily spots you in the front row for the first time. your charm hangs from your camera strap, along with the little sticker on your godox flash. they all know who you are now, so their wasn’t any hiding the way they’d purposely glance at your camera lens, giving you their best shots.

many of the questions are being directed towards the coach, your eyes focus on his reaction, lens zooming close as he rolls his dress shirt over his forearms. your camera flashes and your cheeks warm. you do this every time. acting like it’s your first time seeing the coach in a suit even though he wears one every semifinals press. but you can’t help it!

journalists throw questions without breath, firing rounds until the set time is up.

“photographers only, please.”

the room clears out fast. chairs scrape back, and laptops snap shut. you step forward instinctively, already lifting your camera. the players shift back into place. sukuna straightens, his expression resetting into something stoic. gojo cracks a joke under his breath that earns him a look. geto adjusts his sleeves, calm as ever.

toji moves standing just off to the side at first, arms crossed, smooth dress shirt crinkling over his taut muscles, and unforgiving across his shoulders.

the manager gestures. “let’s get the team all together first.”

cameras flash as the team pose, all in their uniform. you move easily getting their shots, unaware of the emerald eyes watching your every move.

coach toji noticed you the minute he stepped into the room. however, he remained composed, knowing how many eyes were on him. but now, his eyes sweep over your figure.

your grey dress pants hugging that right ass, and those hips. the tight dress shirt hugged your frame, with the top buttons undone allowing some of your cleavage to be revealed along with your necklace stack. business casual, but he’s sure half the team is looking at your tits. your pretty anklet catching the light as you move in your kitten heels.

“coach with sukuna,” the manager says.

toji steps forward.

you track him without thinking, framing the shot as he places a hand lightly at sukuna’s back, guiding him a half-step to the left. your shutter clicks, noticing how easily he steps into your frame, how naturally he fills it. his height just a hair taller than the hot headed captain, at least in your eyes.

“alright, another group photo,” the manager says.

toji turns, motioning the players in with two fingers. his eyes briefly catch yours making your eyes widen. the team clusters around their coach, heads bowed slightly, listening even though there’s nothing to hear. he speaks low anyway. you circle to the side, careful, capturing the curve of his shoulder, the way his jaw tightens when he focuses.

toji’s gaze lifts again, slow and deliberate, landing on you.

why does he keep doing that?!

it’s brief. just a glance that lingers a fraction longer, his eyes flick from your face to the camera in your hands and back again, like he’s remembering the photos he saw on your camera.

you feel heat blooming under your skin, pulse kicking hard enough to throw you off guard. you steady your hands, inhaling subtly, pretending you don’t feel the way the air shifts when he turns slightly…when he ends up closer than before, just at the edge of your frame.

“okay, we’re good,” the manager calls.

the team breaks, the players disperse, but toji stays put for a beat longer, adjusting his sleeve, posture relaxed again, unreadable.

you lower your camera only when it’s over, breath leaving you in a quiet rush you didn’t realize you were holding. you don’t see him glance at you when you step back to check your photos. you also don’t notice the small, satisfied curve of his mouth.

not until you’re feeling a gentle, firm, hand on your waist, and a low voice right against your ear, “say hi next time. you’re not a stranger anymore.”

your body immediately catches on fire, eyes snapping to the man like a magnet, heart slamming against your ribs as you watch him pull back, emerald eyes meeting yours.

“right, sweetheart?”

your face stings, as you nod quickly, heat pooling deep in your stomach, feeling his thumb caress your hip over your shirt. your lips part, mind dizzy as you glance as his strong forearms, he’s towering over you, slightly leaning down to speak to you in quiet whispers.

“I’ll see c’ya tomorrow, yeah,” he gives your waist a squeeze as he greets you with a kiss to your cheek like some gentleman. then he walks away. and if you weren’t a mess before, the casual glance he shoots over his shoulder has a third arrow piercing your heart.

you couldn’t contain it anymore. you were consumed by this man. every waking thought was spent daydreaming about him— his voice, his eyes, his hands, his demeanor. it was intoxicating.

all for you to show up in the lockerroom, the next day, hours before the match. the team is either dressed in their uniforms, or still shirtless, huddling around the white board as they prep for the game.

geto was the second to notice you, after gojo. both their eyes twinkling as they walk up to you. “they gave you the pass,” geto nods to the press badge around your neck.

you nod, glancing around the lockerroom. it felt tense, the aura suspenseful as the time ticks closer to when they walk onto the pitch.

“get your vip shots, but you better get my photo,” geto hushes in your ear.

“and mine!” gojo blurts, just as a certain coach is stepping out of the steam.

and you feel it. the towel wrapped low around his waist, skin still slick with water that traces unhurried paths down his sculpted torso. his hair is darker when it’s wet, heavier, droplets slide from it and disappear along the hard lines of his shoulders.

your eyes catch his muscles moving when he walks, hard mass, that shifts beneath skin without effort. you swallow thickly, body heating up, stomach fluttering as you catch the trail of dark coarse hair leading down from his navel, and disappearing beneath the towel. your eyes follow it to the bulge you know is under there. your cheeks sting at the thought of it.

you were utterly shameless. as if the two men standing beside aren’t still talking to you. but they immediately recognize the shift in your attitude and notice the steam leaving your face. gojo stifles a laugh, as geto sighs. you’re hopeless.

your eyes follow the scars you’ve never seen before. the old pale marks catch the light, etched across his side, his pecs, and back, proof of some life before this one. then he turns just enough and your heart stutters, and your panties soak.

ink blooms along his ribs where the towel dips. the tattoos are sharp and intimate, black against his skin that’s still flushed from the heat. you’ve photographed him dozens of times, from every angle, but you’ve never seen a peak of a tattoo.

“how wet are you right now?”

the comment snaps you back, glaring straight at the crystal ocean eyes narrowed in amusement.

“don’t talk to me like that,” you huff, “I’m working.” your attitude really is night and day when it comes to anyone else and toji.

gojo blushes, “I love mean girls.”

you roll your eyes.

“what’re you two doing? get the fuck over here,” sukuna snaps.

the team huddles as the fifteen minute timer starts. and that’s what you should be photographing, but instead you glance back. toji is now pulling up his pants, wet hair still dripping down the expanse of his back. his eyes catch yours for a second, gaze flicking to your camera, taunting…

his hand subtly cups his crotch, squeezing his girth just to present you with a size, one that has your lips parting with a shaky exhale, heart pounding as you glance between his emerald eyes and the way his forearms flex when he fixes the waistband of his boxers, pulling the material down just a bit that you catch more of the thick patch of hair at his base seeing a peak of it, before he’s fixing himself again.

and once he zips his pants up, glancing at the team as they huddle for some words from the captain before coach steps in, toji walks to you. just a few feet away, your eyes widen in surprise, heart stuttering as you watch him lean down to greet you with a kiss to your cheek, again!

he’s acting like you’re familiar even though this is just your third interaction with him…but maybe you are…

“thought I told you to say hi next time,” he says against your ear, pulling away.

your face heats up, “you were….changing.”

“so?”

you gulp, eyes flicking between his, heart pounding. he’s so close. your breath catches when his scent hits your nose, sandalwood, oak and something deeper under it. his stubble is darker than yesterday, rougher along his jaw, and you realize you’ve been staring for too long when the heat creeps up your neck.

he doesn’t move away though, he stands beside you, attention forward on sukuna as he speaks. focused, and so aware of you’re attention he has to hold back a smirk. and maybe he doesn’t mind messing with you, so his hand remains at your lower back, light, almost absent, but there.

your stomach flips, attention gone. you try to listen, you do. sukuna is talking about positioning, about discipline, about not getting sloppy or something and the room is locking in around you, everyone leaning in. these would be great photos—but all you can think about is how close he is.

how his hand hasn’t moved, every small shift makes your pulse jump. you keep your eyes forward. you don’t trust yourself to look at him again.

and that gives toji the opportunity to take you in. his pupils dilate just a fraction as his gaze travels down your body. his eyes zero in on the multiple open buttons of your tight dress shirt. you’re not even hiding yourself, and the sliver of skin that peaks between your pants and shirt doesn’t help.

his hand remains over your clothes, heat settling in his stomach when you take a deeper breath and your tits push up, and his eyes shamelessly look down your shirt from his towering height. fuck, he wants a look at that pretty ass too—

“coach! you’re up!” sukuna’s voice cuts through everything, snapping toji back. your gaze whips with it, catching him off guard as you wait for his next move like anything he touches is gold.

he controls himself, giving your waist that same squeeze before his hand leaves you just like that.

you push down the feeling that hits immediately, sharp and cold. but now you can finally breathe properly when he steps away. he moves past the players without rushing — a few of the boys let their eyes roam over you— toji adjusts his sleeve ignoring the feeling bubbling up when he notices them. and then he’s at the front.

he doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t need to now, but he usually gets to that point around the halfway mark. but this was the first time you’re seeing him speak in private…and when he speaks, they all listen—every single one of them.

gojo notices, gossip second nature to him. but the quick glance your way already has a grin tugging at his mouth before he nudges geto. geto follows his gaze, then sukuna does too, just briefly—and it’s obvious. painfully obvious. the way your expression softens, the way your attention doesn’t wavers. it’s written all over you.

“she’s actually really hot,” gojo comments.

though you wish you could stand there forever, the time finally comes for the team to head to the pitch, and that’s when the chaos begins.

not just on the field…but off it.

the press box is packed, bodies press against you shoulder to shoulder. the field below is relentless. everything fast, and aggressive, and loud enough that the noise bleeds through everything. you always forget how overstimulating and exhilarating semifinal matches are. but you remember the deal you made with the three stars.

your camera moves with them, tracking their plays, snapping multiple shots of them without hesitation, and then catching the moment when things go wrong...

sukuna gets taken down hard during a penalty shot—and there’s no whistle. no call.

you’re already shooting when the other team pushes, then scores, and the stadium erupts, but sukuna is on his feet, shouting. the goal should be discounted. the captain was known to be a hot head, but even you could see that the tackle he received was completely brushed off by the ref and he was right.

everyone watches as the team moves forward in defense of sukuna, but also holding him back. the other side meets them just as hard. the crowd shouts as they watch the players shove, yell, and slam into each other—and through it all you keep shooting. you catch toji too, voice cutting through the chaos as he orders his players to pull sukuna back.

the press talk amongst themselves as halftime quickly breaks up the argument. your feet quickly carry you out of the press box, towards the locker room.

“no locker room access.”

your jaw tightens immediately irritation flaring hot and sharp.

“I have a different badge,” you show the security guard your press ID. the one geto gave you.

“no press allowed, do i need to repeat myself?” the man snaps.

your irritation ticks at your side. fine. whatever. the second you step back, your mind is already running, already circling back to geto. you scoff under your breath, shaking your head as you pace along the corridor, camera swinging lightly at your side.

seriously? all that talk, all that stupid ass convincing, and for what? you were supposed to be there. that was the whole point! you roll your eyes, heat building the longer you think about it, every step feeding into this petty irritation instead of cooling it. were you overreacting —yes, but whatever—if he’s not holding up his end, then why should you?

by the time you make it back up, you’re done. done thinking about it, done entertaining it, done with their stupid deal.

the second half starts and you fall back into rhythm. camera up, focus sharp, and attention on only one thing now, the ball….

gojo and geto drift near the press box occasionally, clearly expecting something, acknowledgment, a photo, but you don’t even bat an eye. not a look, not a flicker, hell, they might as well not exist.

it’s almost satisfying. almost.

the final whistle blows and the stadium erupts, the first leg ended in a draw, preparing for next game to see who’ll continue. cameras around you go wild, capturing every second of it. the quiet annoyance of both teams, the noise in the crowd. but you don’t. you lower yours, expression flat, already turning away. it’s petty. a little unfair, but still, you walk.

“you’re not coming to the locker room?” gojo’s voice follows you, footsteps quick behind yours as you head in the opposite direction.

“why would i?” you snap, sharp, not even slowing. “am i even allowed,” there’s an obvious clip in your tone that has gojo confused.

“what’re you talking about?”

“deal’s off.”

huh?!????

gojo barely has time to react, before you’re walking away.

baffled and utterly confused, gojo makes his way back to the locker rooms. the energy is stiff, sukuna is grumbling under his breath about how embarrassing it was to end their first leg in a draw, geto is lounged beside his bag scrolling on his phone, and toji is in the corner talking to the managers. ugh, does no one care that their personal photographer isn’t taking photos of them???

they do care.

especially when the next paper comes out and the article is filled with photos taken by other people, not you!

“WHY THE FUCK DO I LOOK LIKE THAT!??” sukuna shouts, entire body fumming as they all sit outside during practice. sukuna is not the only one pissed, geto is practically seething because there isn’t even a single photo of him or gojo.

“what is this girl’s problem?! i thought you idiots made a deal with her?!” sukuna snaps, already in a foul mood, but now it’s worse.

geto licks his teeth, jaw ticking, “we did.”

“I told you guys she was pissed that she didn’t come in during halftime,” gojo throws, as if anyone was listening to him after their shitty match.

“so she throws a tantrum because she didn’t see coach’s dick during halftime?” sukuna clips.

“she looked super hot when she was all pissed though,” gojo throws, “she’d definitely go for me after she realizes how old coach is.”

“what’s wrong with you?” geto rolls his eyes, confused how gojo can talk about your looks when you screwed them over. even if he maybe also finds you attractive, it doesn’t negate your shitty attitude.

gojo throws his hands up in defensive, “I’m just calling dibs now.”

toji, just a few feet away, strides over after noticing the group no longer doing drills. “what’s the hold up!” he grunts, also in a shit mood because of the embarrassing match and then overheating what gojo had said.

“your stalker fucked us over,” geto snaps, eyes burning into the school paper. “she didn’t even get a pic of you.”

gojo’s eyes light up, “oh shit, yeah—she’s definitely over you!”

the paper then hits toji’s chest, his brows furrowing as he holds it up. his eyes glance over the sports section, and just as geto had stated, there wasn’t a single photo of him, unless you’re counting the wide shot of the field and you see him standing in the corner, but it definitely was a starch contrast from the streak you’d created.

“so?” toji tosses the paper like it’s nothing, “you guys playing for the cameras or because you want to win?!”

the men baffled, gasp and scoff. “we want to win!”

“then get off your fucking asses! I don’t have time to be doing this shit with you all!” he snaps aggressively, uncharacteristically pissed off, whether it’s because of the teams misdirected frustrations, or something else. either way, the school paper is long forgotten beside their bags and the team is splitting into practice teams.

it doesn’t matter…

it doesn’t matter that you made a deal with suguru geto and satoru gojo. and the captain pushed you to seal that deal with the information about coach — and they broke it. none of it matters! you still should’ve taken those photos, especially when you’re receiving an earful from your editor, and then sulking through the week of classes.

“what’s your problem,” your friend, shoko, cuts in, snapping you back to the campus day festival. you were once again sulking on the picnic bench, ice cream melting in the cup as you stare off.

“you’re gonna get annoyed…” you mutter, brows pinched in agony.

for most passing by, they immediately steered clear of you, not only did you carry a lethal rbf, your words of “agony” really translates to, you’ll rip someone’s head off and if looks could kill, everyone would be dead. it was quite funny, considering how you’re pretty sweet when you want to be, shoko quietly thinks. still, most would rather avoid you, thanking the heavens that you stay behind the camera so you don’t interact directly with people.

“don’t start,” shoko groans, piecing together the not so subtle mystery.

you frown, “i didn’t even say anything!” you whine even more, glaring at your ice cream. your pretty camera sits on the table beside you, collecting dust when you should be photographing this event. “I just screwed myself over,” your tongue laps at the dripping ice cream.

“agreed.”

your glare snaps to your friend, to which she brushes off with a shrug.

“you should’ve taken those photos,” she starts.

“I know…”

“then you would’ve made your editor happy,”

“I know…”

“and then you wouldn’t have to do this event.”

“I know.”

“and you’d have more weird pictures of coach toji.”

your heart drops. eyes snapping to shoko. “what?!”

shoko goes mute. suddenly realizing what she said. “nothing.”

“pictures?” you repeat, “I have weird pictures of the coach?? I don’t—why would you even say that??“ you’re not subtle at all. and shoko feels guilty at your horrible lying skills, but still…she confesses…

“you uploaded photos to your drive, when we’d study together,” she tries to hold in her laugh as heat crawls up your neck, “like more than once.”

you glance away, eyes flicking over your camera, “that’s it?”

shoko raises a brow. “yeah…what do you mean?”

you look back, “like that’s how you know, it’s not like you heard from someone else or anything?”

shoko shakes her head, “no, who else would know?”

your cheeks are burning at this point, and it was written all over your face now. the realization hit shoko in seconds. “no…” you’re silent. “does the coach know about your photos?”

you don’t want to make eye contact.

“how?!!”

even though it happened days ago, why is it now starting to feel even more embarrassing. maybe because of your cool headed friends reaction— “it was an accident.”

“how did he find out though?” shoko pushes.

you cringe, “well…” you swallow, “when I first spoke to him, remember…” shoko nods, “I let him use my camera because he was interested.” you pause, reliving the humiliation all over again. “then he kept swiping to see the pics, and just found them…” your hands slap your face, “that’s not bad!”

shoko is getting second hand embarrassment, “dude.”

“STOP IM GONNA KILL MYSELF!!” you cry out, humiliation seeping from your pores.

shoko is trying not to laugh, but it’s quite hard not too, especially when you’re groaning like that. “what was his reaction?”

“I obviously said it was an accident, and he was like whatever and seemed fine,” you explain quickly, trying to cool the situation. “It’s not bad!”

“okay okay!!” shoko laughs, trying to calm your reaction. however, shoko knows about your huge crush, what she didn’t know is about a deal her two friends made with you. heck, she didn’t even know that you interacted with them. not until those two men are standing directly behind you, sweaty and pissed. “what the hell—“

“I guess you don’t know how to keep your word,” geto spits, bag dropping aggressively on the bench beside you.

you jump, then, your eyes flick over your shoulder, immediately rolling them when you see them. you turn back to shoko.

geto snaps. “there wasn’t a single photo of us!”

“not my problem,” you scoff, attitude returning in seconds, shoko completely used to it. but she’s shocked that you know gojo and geto. “not like you guys even played well.”

gojo’s vein bulges, “we played fucking good, we didn’t lose!”

“you didn’t win,” you shrug, cold.

that’s when gojo and geto both glance up at shoko. shock crossing their expressions. “you know her?!” they both point down at you.

shoko raises a brow, “she’s my friend.”

“she’s a bitch—“ geto spits, just to receive the worst glare of his life from you, but he just rolls his eyes. “how the fuck do you know each other?”

“I just told you she’s my friend. you’re the ones that screwed her over.” shoko takes your side.

gojo gasps, “we didn’t screw her over! she screwed us over! you saw the paper this week—not a single highlight!”

you glance at shoko, ignoring the men behind you, “how do you know them?”

“we went to high school together,” shoko throws with a bored wave.

frustrated, geto straddles the bench facing you, his hand falls on top of your camera, immediately making you snap your attention to him.

“hey—“

“listen. our deal was that you get access and then we get photos, you didn’t finish your job,” he keeps a grip on your camera. shoko frowns.

“you guys didn’t give me access—i got like ten minutes before the match, then I couldn’t even go in during halftime where everyone was pissed, so what’s the point?” you snap, getting in his face.

“the point is that has nothing to do with me!” geto shouts, your eyes pierce his in two, but neither of you back down.

“it literally does though!”

“guys,” shoko and gojo attempt at intervening, but neither of you will back down. especially when geto won’t let go of your camera.

“let go,” you seethe, hand on the camera as geto flexes, grip strengthening around it.

your heart pounds against your chest, the hot spring sun beats over the four of you, sweat building on your neck while geto scoffs. “you better take those photos of us this week—“

“or what?” you glare, “are you seriously threatening me?” you were dripping with ego and confidence, except for the fact that your eyes kept darting to your camera, your poor, expensive, beautiful camera—

“is this your first time being threatened—“

“the fuck.”

the deep, intimidating voice breaks the argument in seconds. geto’s eyes widen as he feels the gravity taken away from him and being lifted off the seat. the collar of his jersey tightens around none other than toji’s brutal grip.

your eyes break into hearts, grasping your camera before it clatters back on the table, glancing up to see geto gripping his coach’s forearm.

“since when do you fucking shout at girls. you?!” toji barks, baffled. sukuna sure, gojo maybe, but geto?!

“I wasn’t fucking shouting, we were talking,” geto tsks, neck red from embarrassment.

toji shoves him back. geto slams on the bench. you hadn’t realized it but they all looked like they just finished practice, geto and gojo both still in practice uniforms and duffle bags, and coach toji wearing his usual black cargos, and that compression shirt that left nothing to the imagination.

geto scowls, rubbing his back in pain.

“you were shouting, that’s why i came over—“

“she was shouting at me!”

“so what!?”

the table is quiet. a few passerby’s glance over before quickly walking away. it isn’t a shock to know how unbelievably hot your face is right now. especially when coach toji continues his stern lecture to geto.

“you’re defending some girl that can’t keep her word, mind you,” geto mutters, flashing you a glare—his breath catches. you’re not even looking at him!! shoko stifles another laugh along with gojo, because you really were, truly, unbelievable.

how can you look at someone like that?!? like he’s some idol?! him! a musty ass college coach?!

but none of it mattered, not when toji’s attention shifts to you!!! a warm heat floods between your legs, as your lips part. then suddenly, you glance away…

“I actually did shout too…” you confess, taking accountability. “and kinda screwed them over.”

gojo, geto, and shoko, stare at you in shock.

toji sighs, like some grown ass man (which he is), his hand settles on his hip as the other scratches his hair like he’s surrounded by immature children and figuring out what the fuck to do with you all. so he decides to confess too…

“i told security not to allow any outsiders.”

your heart drops.

“including you.”

oh shit.

the three audience members immediately glance at you, and what none of them, not a single one, expected, is to suddenly see the your eyes tear up.

toji felt a sharp twist in his gut, eyes widening for a moment, before sighing. “it wasn’t personal.”

your throat feels dry, unable to look away until now. a tear hits your camera. “how is that not personal,” you whisper, bottom lip trembling.

shoko’s brows pinch in hurt, at least out of everyone, she knows how much and how long you’ve liked this man. and then sulking and now— she knows you’re absolutely shattered.

“I needed the team to focus, and you’re press,” he states like some cold fact, and that hurt even more.

your grip tightens on the camera. “but…” your not a stranger anymore…. but you can’t get the words out…your heart pounds loudly in your ears, the heat surrounding you felt suffocating, and your head was growing dizzier by the second. and the only thing spinning in your mind was how fucking embarrassing this is.

“don’t be upset.”

you manage a small nod, though another tear falls on the camera, and your body freezes. “how can i not be upset?” your small voice catches toji off guard.

you’re standing up, eyes hot with tears, walking past the esteemed coach.

“wait,” he catches your wrist, “if you have something to say don’t just run away.”

you’re fuming, your pretty chest rises and falls, the disappointment turning into built up anger, “I don’t have anything to say right now, and it’s stupid—“ your hand twists in his grip. “let go.”

he does.

you’re practically heaving, tempted to turn away, especially when the dryness in your throat gets worse. the stinging behind your eyes burns like hell as you try to rip your gaze away from the towering man. you really are stupid…

toji wets his lip, head tilting as if disinterested, but the cooling in his chest says otherwise. why does he have a weak spot for women?

“we can talk.”

his words hang in the air. a silent, open invitation for her. it’s a clear sign of his guilt for making this cute college girl cry. he was too blunt, forgetting she isn’t one of his boys.

your hand comes up to the bridge of your nose, quietly recentering yourself as this older coach watches. your shoulders rise with a deep exhale, then inhale.

pull yourself together…

you nod. cute.

you swallow the embarrassing lump in your throat, clearing your throat. “can we talk while walking…I have to work,” your usual clipped tone used for everyone except him, comes out, but he can hear the slight shakiness.

“sure.”

gojo, geto, and shoko are left in utter shock. it’s not until you and toji completely disappear into the crowd, do they slowly exchange looks.

“what…”

“the fuck,” geto finishes shoko’s sentence.

gojo stares baffled, “did we just set them up?!”

geto’s brow jumps up, “why is he always saving her like some knight?? and he was the one that screwed us all over!!”

gojo shakes his head in agreement, “nah for real, what the hell, blaming us but it’s all him.”

geto slouches back in the picnic table, rolling his eyes. “still,” he tsks, “she didn’t have to be so bitchy and not take our pictures. isn’t it her fucking job—“

“hey!”

“ow!” geto feels a slap upside the head from brunette, her eyes harsh. “what the hell!”

“don’t call girls bitches what’s wrong with you?!” shoko huffs, baffled by geto’s attitude.

gojo snickers beside the man, “he’s been like this since he met her.”

“I haven’t,” he grits, rolling his eyes at the thought of you. “she’s just a—she just gets on my nerves.”

“really because she reminds me of you,” shoko cuts him off. geto’s eyes widen, as gojo breaks into a loud laugh.

“WHAT?!”

“oh god BAHAHA she does!” gojo’s obnoxious laugh sounds like knives stabbing his ears.

shoko hums, “she has that rbf look, intimidating, very blunt, but also so cute with her friends.”

“cute?” geto frowns.

gojo smiles, “it comes out when you’re hanging out with ussss.” gojo and shoko dramatically strike a cute pose. geto tsks.

the campus was packed with students and faculty roaming to booths and small events. it was the university’s 102nd anniversary, and as memorable as it is for the students to enjoy the activities during this nice spring day, you couldn’t bring yourself to give a shit.

not only did your editor scream at you all week, still pissed about the shit photos you took during the match, he also threatened removal if you didn’t take good photos during this event. and now, after sulking with shoko, then procrastinating some more, you decided you’d be able to take such fanatic pictures while your idol and crush trails beside you….sure.

toji lets out another sigh, hands in his pockets as he stands to your left watching you snap some shots of laughing students beside a booth.

“it’s not a big deal,” you mutter, behind the camera. toji notices the twitch in your fingers. “I overreacted, so it’s whatever.”

toji wets his lip, “sukuna and a couple others jus’ get jumpy with cameras.”

you hum, looking at the photos you just took. “I understand.”

“I didn’t know about this deal you did with geto,” toji admits, hand instinctively coming to your waist and guiding you away from some unaware boys shouting and laughing. your cheeks flush, stepping away from his hand. toji notices. “we didn’t have a good game anyways.”

“I know, so it whatever. not a big deal,” you sigh, heat crawling up your neck. this is so embarrassing, so embarrassing! ugh you really don’t know how to keep a cool head at all when it comes to this coach. you overreacted during the match, then blamed geto for screwing you over, then almost cried because the coach locked you out on purpose, and now—

“I feel bad.”

your heart stops.

toji glances at your manicured nails holding your camera, your cute necklaces dangling on your exposed chest, cleavage glistening from the heat. but then his eyes flick up, and you’re staring at him like he’s holding the entire world.

“I didn’t mean to make you upset,” his voice is softer, gentler, nothing like how you’ve heard him for months, shouting, harsh. your stomach heats up, face stinging.

his hand, unexpectedly, comes up, feeling your hair between his fingers. “you work hard, and all your pictures come out so nice…” the compliment hits your heart. “but I couldn’t risk the boys getting distracted.”

your face suddenly twists, lips pursing and jutting out just a bit, your brows pinch. your dewy makeup makes you look like a fucking doll, he thinks. “I was jus’ gonna take photos in the corner, not interview them,” you reply harshly.

“you saw how they are when they talk to you,” he cuts in. your brow quirks, noticing his sharp inhale. “sweetheart, you’re hot.”

your face bursts into flames, pupils turning to literal swirls, and brain getting fried in seconds.

what?!

your reaction was priceless. toji controls his smirk, thumb brushing your adorable cheek, glancing at your glossy lips then your eyes. “I know you’re a professional, but most of those boys aren’t, y’ understand?”

you nod, cheeks sizzling, you’re surprised his thumb isn’t burning.

“so you see why I couldn’t allow you in the locker room then, and i won’t next time,” he watches you nod again. god, you’re fucking precious.

then, your tongue wets your bottom lip before speaking… “are they the only ones that would’ve been distracted?”

shit. can a grown man really pop a boner that fast?

toji’s chest heats up, glancing between your pretty eyes filled with hope. this isn’t the first time a younger girl has crushed on him, and it also isn’t the first time he’s nice to one. but what really got him, is the way you’re maintaining eye contact, almost afraid to look away, and you’re holding your ground against him.

“no,” he admits, “they’re not the only ones.”

oh. your lips curve into a smile toji hasn’t seen before, and his hand flexes in response. you look like you’re going to eat him alive right there, and he’d let you, no questions asked—

“that’s good to hear,” you pull away. you touch your heated cheek with the back of your hand, wetting your lip as you glance over the coach’s flushed face. “your cheeks are red.”

what?! his eyes bulge, catching you off guard as you break into a loud laugh.

“tch,” he looks away, his own hand rubbing down his face. it really is burning out here. but even so, his emerald eyes look through his fingers at this pretty college girl laughing at him and he doesn’t know why his chest warms at the sight.

“I can buy you ice cream. I feel bad now that you had to explain yourself when I was just being the unprofessional one,” you start, already leading him to the nearest ice cream booth.

your camera hangs over your shoulder as you point to your favorite flavor than glance up at him, he points at the cookies n cream. “oh! I love cookies n cream,” you say, reaching for your phone to pay.

ding.

your eyes widen as toji pays instead.

“wha—it was supposed to be my treat, man,” you huff, accepting the cone he gives you, hand on your lower back as he guides you away from the booth. neither of you batting an eye to the multiple people gawking at the renowned coach of their soccer team, walking around with the hot, rude, student photographer.

“as if I’d let you pay,” he snorts.

your brows pinch as you take a lick of your ice cream, the cool sensation leveling your body temperature. your eyes narrow at him as he enjoys his ice cream, grateful to have something that cools the heat building up under his skin. “so not fair,” you mutter.

“how come?”

the two of you walk across the quad, sun still beating down.

“I wanted to use it as an apology,” you say, “I said that.”

“you don’t need to apologize,” he shrugs, casual, unbothered. you huff again. this time toji smiles, scar twitching up. “you can pay next time.”

your heart skips a beat, stomach doing a stupid flip.

“….next time.”

toji catches the smile behind your cone, his eyes trailing over the ice cream coating your tongue, your pretty hand wrapped around the waffle as your bracelets clank around your wrists.

“there’s other things you need to apologize for,” he coolly says, finding a bench and dropping his weight, eyeing you as you sit close beside him. unashamed.

your brow quirks, eyes narrowing, full body facing him, “what other things?”

toji shrugs, “we can talk about it next time.”

“but I can’t just be left in suspense, that’ll give me anxiety?!”

toji snorts, loud. his big tongue is finishing the ice cream so quick he’s already eating the cone. “don’t be anxious,” he says with his mouth full.

you tsk, rolling your eyes, and you don’t notice the twinkle in the older coach’s eyes. he can definitely see geto’s point about your attitude, but if he leans over—

your eyes go wide. stomach flipping.

he takes a bold bite of your ice cream, emerald eyes shut, and thick lashes kissing his flushed cheeks. your heart feels like it’ll break from your ribs, then, he opens his eyes. he doesn’t pull away yet, instead his tongue cleans his lips, humming in low delight. the heat around you wasn’t helping your own body temperature as it skyrockets.

“taste’s sweeter than mine,” his voice his huskier than before, catching you by surprise, and the heat pools between your legs.

“i—“ you can’t even form words! your eyes won’t tear away from his lips, and your chest is moving erratically because he’s so close.

“do you want a taste of mine. I took a bite without asking yo—“

his words cut the minute your lips press against his.

shock prevents him from reacting, eyes going wide. you gave in so quick, sure he was teasing, but still. he could feel the certainty in your kiss, along with the warmth, and anxiety. after a long ten seconds you pull away—

you pant against his lips, chest rising and falling, brain scrambled. “i jus’…” your heart is beating loudly in your ears. mind trying to keep up with what your body just did. you kissed him. you kissed the coach. the one you’ve been idolizing and photographing for months—

“we can do it again.” his free hand tilts your chin up, lips hovering over yours again. his breath is warm. “kiss me.”

you do.

this time you’re a little bolder. your lips connect with his, soft again, sucking his bottom lip, skillfully. slowly. he brushes your jaw with his thumb, humming in delight just like he did with the ice cream. but the sound goes straight to your core. completely unbothered by the rowdiness of the uni day activities around you. your free hand rests on his thigh, leaning more into the kiss.

“open,” you murmur against his lips. you can feel the the shit-eating smirk that breaks his face, groaning just low enough to make the heat furiously spread under your skin.

then, his lips part.

his tongue immediately connects with yours. caressing the wet muscle. he tastes the ice cream, delving a little more. it was just so easy taking control, and your little whines are too sweet for him to stop. his jaw opens wider, taking the lead as you follow. his hand cups the side of your face, unexpectedly possessive, ignoring the alarms sounding off in his head.

you had a crush, you’re fucking adorable, and you kissed him. plus, you make these cute sounds when he shoves his tongue against yours, thumb pressing into your cheek. how could he resist?

your grip against his thigh tightens, his back is pressed fully against the bench, while you were practically leaning over him, trying to swallow him whole.

“breathe,” he mutters, lips hovering close, waiting for you to inhale. his scar quirks up, you’re so cute. his thumb brushes your cheekbone again, eyes glancing between your fluttering lashes. “if we keep kissing, I’ll have a problem.”

your face burns, eyes darting down to the tent pressing up near your hand. and unlike toji, you let your second ice cream of the day melt and fall to the ground. you were a mess. you carefully lean back in your seat, the sudden space between you allowing you to take another deep breath. being near coach toji is intoxicating. it’s not that you didn’t feel like yourself, but you definitely throw all common sense out the door when he’s in front of you.

“are you staying to see the booths and stuff?” you clear your throat, trying to ease your erratic heartbeat.

toji finds it cute. his hand once cupping your face, slides down to brush the hair off your shoulder, fingers brushing the multiple earrings that dangle from your piercings. you’re much more stylish than he is…your accessories, the cute tank top that hugs your breasts, and embroidered low rise flared jeans.

“nah, gotta drive back home so i can take my son to practice.”

toji eases, not a single thing can bother him. it was a routine, the subtle throw away line about having a son that scared off many young women, or had them wanting a one night stand with the older dilf. so his eyes flick over you, the second he finishes his sentence.

your freeze.

your blood runs cold, eyes flicking down to his ring finger.

even if you’re looking, you know he isn’t married. you know. you’ve been photographing him for months, and not a single time have you ever seen him daunt a ring on his finger.

“there’s no one waiting for him at home?” you question, wetting your lip.

toji’s fingers slide from your earrings to the dried ice cream on your chin. “nah, if I’m late he’ll go to his friends house.”

you nod, anxiety slowly dissipating. “how old is he?”

“ten.”

your eyes light up, “my nephew is just a year older, that’s when they get really fun to hang out with,” your voice is so light and sweet, toji has to shove down the weird somersault his stomach does.

“really?” toji is not convinced. “all my son does is give me attitude and bully everything i do.”

you laugh, waving your hand, “yeah they get super opinionated, but it’s funny—trust trust he’s just doing it because you’re an easy target.”

“I’m an easy target.”

you nod, waving a hand again, “your his dad, my brothers and i were the same to our parents.”

brothers? toji doesn’t comment how that peaks his interest, but he naturally asks, “how many siblings do you have?”

“three older brothers,” you nod.

damn….toji hums, that explains your attitude and how you can handle geto’s bitchy moods. what also quietly settles in his mind is how your oldest brother would probably be around his age, considering your nephew is a year older than megumi. is that why you’re easily holding a conversation this long…maybe the age gap isn’t that big then…

“they were so freakin bossy, definitely why i pushed to dorm away from them,” you huff, toji zoning back into your rambling. it was cute watching you talk mindlessly, hands waving making your bracelets clank against each other. the sweat glistened across your skin, making you look eternal, which is amusing since you’re just talking.

but still, toji is the one to lean up this time. his hand settling on your waist as a anchor and he presses a firm kiss to your warm cheek.

your glossy lips part in shock, heart stuttering again. unbothered, toji casually stands up, towering over you as his hand gently settles atop your head. “i have’ta get going, but I’ll see you next week for the match. I’ll also let em know you can come in before and after the game, but not during halftime. okay?”

you nod.

“I’ll see ya’ sweetheart.”

and with a wink, he solidifies the fourth arrow straight through your heart.

—

it was very likely that your entire week looked like sunshine and rainbows, all because you had a full on make out session with your idol on a park bench. you couldn’t bring yourself to care much about anything else—well except for your job. you had to scramble to get photos after toji left, afraid of staying on your editor’s bad side.

luckily you pulled through, and convinced him to keep you on for the semi final match this coming weekend.

which leads you to your current blissful state. watching toji speak to the team in the locker rooms. unlike last time, you grabbed different shots, smiling every time toji glanced at the camera, but frowning any time any of the other boys looked.

“surprise surprise, couldn’t stay away too long,” gojo coo’s after the team breaks to finish changing.

“don’t bother me or I won’t take photos of you,” you throw, eyes flicking up at the tall man.

gojo pouts, “but I’m just talking to you,” his words drag.

geto is scowling a few feet away, jaw tightening and relaxing, until he finally comes up to you. your attitude shifts, eyes narrowing up. geto holds eye contact, chest rising with a subtle inhale. but once he exhales, his shoulders ease, and his eyes close, the fakest smile you’ve ever seen graces his naturally attractive features.

“I’m looking forward to seeing your photos after the game.”

your lips purse, brow quirking. “yeah…”

geto leaves. shortly after, the team gets called out. gojo utters the same line geto had just said, but much more cheerfully, all while toji walks up to you. brow furrowing at the two athletes as they walk towards the exit.

“they still bothering you?”

your eyes light up the moment you see him. “s’ fine,” your pretty lips pull into an easy smile, unexpectedly warming the coach’s heart. is it that easy to smile because of him?

“I’ll tell them to fuck off again,” his voice is naturally deep, hand subconsciously roaming up to the strap of your camera.

you smile, “okay.”

god, you’re really cute. his hand cups your cheek, leaning down and easily locking lips with you.

you’re immediately caught off guard, but his hand is so firm on your cheek, you just melt. your lashes flutter shut, leaning in more. he’s so big and tall. your cheeks sting, humming against his lips, trying to fight off the butterflies in your stomach. but it’s worse when he pulls away, and your heart leaps into your throat as he brushes his rough thumb against your lip, dragging the spit across the plumpness.

“I’ll c’ya after.” he winks.

you barely feel your feet when you step back out onto the field. your camera in hand, strap tight around your neck, everything exactly where it should be, and still, your entire body is giddy.

toji….toji toji toji—

you press your lips together, trying to fight it down, but it’s useless. your mouth keeps twitching, threatening to break into a smile and you can’t help it! he kissed you. twice now! like it was nothing—

you snap a shot.

sukuna’s first goal. the team and stadium erupts, and you’re already capturing it, body moving before your thoughts can catch up. you don’t need your editor screaming at you this time, so you shift angles, crouch lower, shoot through. geto lines up for a penalty shot, and you catch that too. the strike, the follow-through, and the way the net snaps back as the ball hits. you don’t miss a second of it.

but…inevitably…your lens drifts…to him. you can’t help it!

toji’s on the sidelines, where he always is. his sleeves are pushed up again, pacing, shouting, running a hand through his hair. you catch the flex of his arm, his biceps bulge and you feel heat pooling between your legs. you catch the drag of his palm across his broad huge chest, the set of his jaw when gojo almost tackles into another player.

you shouldn’t be taking this many photos of him. you know that, but you take them anyway. your chest feels tight with every picture, cheeks still burning, and your smile impossible to get rid of.

halftime comes and goes, and you don’t even try to get into the locker room this time. instead, you linger with the rest of the press, nodding along to conversations, camera hanging loose in your hands. you don’t care. not really. not when your mind keeps replaying it—his hand on your face, the way he looked at you after, the wink.

the second half starts and you’re back in position immediately. getting more action shots of the players—ugh but you keep stealing other moments too…small unnecessary ones. his biceps when he folds his arms. the scratch of his chest. the tilt of his head as he watches the field.

your thoughts don’t stop. why did he kiss you? why did he kiss you again? what is that supposed to mean? is he going to kiss you again??

the spiral doesn’t fully come to an end until the pitch breaks out into celebration. the team is off to the finals!

managers and the rest of the team flood the pitch as the stadium breaks out. you do your best to get the best shots of the team together, and you stay after to capture them talking to journalists, and press. unaware of the coach that slips away.

you follow the team and a couple managers back to the locker room as they continue celebrating. you can’t help the smile about how happy they are, they played well.

“how was the match?” geto corners you quickly.

“good,” you nod casually, fixing your flash. “you guys played really well.”

geto’s brow quirks. that’s nice….his lips purse. “I scored.” he mutters, glancing at the multiple piercings on your ear as you tuck a hair behind it.

“yeah, it was a nice shot,” your eyes flick over your camera before glancing up to meet his eyes, testing, “you wanna see?”

his eyes narrow again, “no.”

he’s quick to ignore your eye roll, as he points over his shoulder. “coach is calling for you.”

you can’t control the way your head whips to geto, then following the direction he’s pointing at. you don’t hesitate, your legs carry you across the locker room, and into the steamed shower room.

your heart hammers against your chest, putting the lens cap back on your camera and carefully sliding it off your shoulder, afraid to step further in until you put it back in your bag.

a single curtain is closed. shower running.

“coach toji?” your voice echos.

there a beat of silence, then…

“that you, sweetheart?”

you flush. controlling the smile that breaks your face as you hum, “yeah.”

the shower is still running, steam collecting in the room. your heart is beating erratically, you barely register anything aside from the fact that coach toji is definitely one hundred percent fully nude just a few feet away. his clothes are laid on his duffle on the bench beside the door.

“sweetheart?”

you jump. “yeah?”

“you gonna come in?”

you blink. again, then once more. then— “WHAT?”

your screech bounces off the tile floors, making you shrink at how loud you are. but it was a normal reaction. he just asked you if you wanted to come in? how else would you react—

“leave your things by my bag,” he doesn’t even react, like what he’s saying is the most casual kind of flirting. the kissing was one thing, but this…

your camera is zipped back in your bag, and in seconds, you’re peeling your panties off standing completely naked in the middle of a shower room. goosebumps break out, necklace and bracelets still on as your nipples harden.

what’re you doing, seriously?

one, this is highly unprofessional (whatever). two, you haven’t even gone a date with this man. and three, w-why would he even ask you to come in?!?! does he like you?! he does—he has too—

your bare feet pad against the steamed tiles until you reach the curtains. your hands won’t stop shaking, face burning hot, and lips parting as you let out a shaky exhale. then, you slowly pull back the curtains—

“come in before someone sees you,” is what you hear just as you’re being dragged into the steaming water, curtain pulled closed behind you.

the steam wraps around your skin instantly, thick and suffocating. your pretty nipples perk up in seconds. and standing right in front of you is the 6’5 two hundred pound man. water cascading down his body in slow, steady streams. you don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing until your chest tightens, and your hands hover close to his forearm.

you’re so close.

your gaze is eye level with his broad solid chest, rising and falling slow and controlled like none of this affects him. like you standing in front of him naked is something he expected. but your too dazed to care. especially when you follow the droplets sliding over his muscles, catching the shallow lines as you continue going lower, and lower. the heat pools more obviously between your legs as you see the thick patch of dark coarse hair…then you see it.

your face burns hotter, stomach flipping hard making you even dizzier.

his cock twitches under your gaze. your knees almost buckle just at the sight. it’s huge. you have to suppress a whine, lashes fluttering as you feel a strong hand cup your chin.

“say hi first,” his voice is unbelievably deep, tearing your gaze away from the monster between his legs. his dark forest green eyes sink into you.

“hi.”

shit. he bites back a groan, eyes trailing down your naked body. nipples already perky and standing all pretty for him. his hand comes up, cupping the side of your face as he leans down, lips colliding with yours.

you whine immediately. your lips move together, tongues colliding as your hands slide up his muscular chest, feeling the deep ridges of his abs as he holds the side of your face, dominating the kiss.

it was overwhelming, the shower box, his body heat, his cock touching your thigh, it was all making you dizzy in the best ways possible. he pulls away, letting you catch your breath, but he stays close, brushing his lips over yours like it’s not enough. because it isn’t.

“did anyone see you come in?” he husks, hand still cradling your face as the other brushes your naked waist, pulling you closer. your skin is so soft under his palm.

“no,” you shake your head adorably, tongue poking out to wet your lip, “I don’t think so.”

the older coach hums, his hands freely roaming your side as he nudges your nose with his. “good,” is all he adds before he resumes the heated make out.

your tongues collide and caress, jaw falling slack as you moan a little louder when he grips your ass. groaning into your lip when your arms lock around his shoulders, wet chest pressing against his. you were such a sweet tasting girl.

his hand nudges your thigh. “jump.”

you gasp when he easily picks you up, back already pressed against the tiled wall. the hot water cascades down his back as he continues kissing you. “were you mad at me?”

you pull away, breath hot as you glance at his features. he’s so handsome, your hand cups his face, pushing his drenched raven hair back. “why would I mad?”

“because I kept ya out during halftime.”

you shake your head, lips curving as you trace his wet eyebrows, chest rising and falling. “no,” you drawl, wetting your glossy lips again. “I was jus’ confused about how much you kiss me.”

his scar tugs up, biting back a smirk threatening to break free. “you kissed me first.”

“that one time.”

“you started it,” he leans close, lips brushing yours, “so you can’t blame me for getting hooked.” his eyes are lidded. “it’s really hard for me to break bad habits.”

this time you kiss me.

you’re so unbelievably hungry for this man’s affection, you can ignore all the blaring red light going off in your head. he’s so hot, he’s so big, and he’s so fucking sexy! your mind has been completely and utterly fried and you don’t care.

“fuck, you’re dripping,” toji husks, his finger collecting your juices from your pussy, groaning at how turned you are. “kissing me makes ya feel that good? your cunt always dripping like a fountain?”

“yeah-aah—“ your lips part as he shoves a finger inside. he groans against you, chuckling at the choked whines leaving your pretty lips, your nails dig crescents along his shoulder.

his lips trail down your neck, tongue flattening against the wet skin and licking until you squirm a cute whimper. his smirk is impossible to hold back. he sucks a dark bruise as another finger pushes in your fluttering hole.

“c-coach—“ you gasp, lips so wet from spit. you try to look down at his fingers pistoning inside you. every muscle on his body flexing, keeping you up like you weigh nothing, while fingering you against the little shower wall. “fu-fuck, I’m gonna—cu-uhm—“

it really is too much for your obsessed brain.

coach toji’s fingers are inside you. he’s kissing you like he’s hasn’t pleasured a woman in years. and his groans are going straight to your pussy—

“I wan’…coach—“ your whine drawls a little longer, thighs shaking, and arms locking around him, head falling to neck.

the older man chuckles close to your ear, voice deep and husky as you fall apart, in his arms. hugging him like he’s your savior. his fingers curl, slowly pumping you through your orgasm. “that was quick. my baby hasn’t cum in awhile?” he says as a matter of a fact, but you just hug him closer, lips pulling away to trail kisses up his neck. your fingers coarse through the back of his head, grasping them as you kiss the corner of his mouth.

“it’s b’cause of you, toji.” you kiss his scar, panting as he pulls his fingers out and lifts you up suddenly, hooking his arm under your knee.

“you want a good fucking princess?”

you nod frantically, cheeks dewy and stinging, as you glance over his face then his chest, then you feel his cock between your slick folds.

“it’s a big stretch,” he mutters against your lips. “you saw.”

you nod, nervous stirring at the way he’s preparing you. but you don’t break away. you doubt you physically can, when your mind is only screaming his name over and over.

“I can take it, coach,” you nod, determined.

“you’re so fucking cute,” he snorts, a light blush dusting his cheeks as he kisses your lips in quiet reassurance. “ever take a cock this big?”

you shake your head, water droplets falling from the tips of your hair. your pretty necklaces still wrapped around your neck, all wet and glistening between your perky breasts.

“it’ll hurt,” he strokes himself underneath you, thumb running over his tip multiple times before lining it with your pretty clit and teasing you. “then you’re gonna cry.” you gulp, nodding along. “then you’re gonna tell me to stop—“

“I won’t!”

he snorts. “it’s okay if you do.”

you shake your head, “I won’t I’ll be okay. okay coach? I can take it, I wan’ you inside me. please.”

the tug to his heart is immediate. how can it not be when this cute hot girl is begging him to fuck her? but he can’t even formulate this emotional string that’s tying him to you. the only physical response coming out is this fucking erection that feels like the most painful shit he’s experienced, twitching after he first spoke to you and then again when you kissed him. surely it’s disgusting….an older man like him getting that quickly turned on…

but maybe it was the way he’s only felt this tug in his chest one other time in his life, and even if it didn’t end the way he wanted, he never regretted pursuing his baby mama.

so he’s all in right now.

“deep breath, sweetheart.”

you inhale sharply, just as toji pushes his engorged tip past the tight rim of your pussy, and you suddenly clench—

“shit!—“

your eyes widen, “I don’t feel anything,” you mutter, glancing down to see his ears burning a deep shade of red.

“your cunt squeezed me too early and shoved me out,” he wets his lips, as he crashes his lips against you. “relax, baby,” he husks.

you whine against his dominating mouth, lower body relaxing as he lines up again and the moment you ease up, he snaps his hips in.

“angh!—“

your jaw slacks, and he continues kissing, groaning at the unbelievable tightness that’s squeezing every corner of his tip.

“Mmm so warm, took me in good,” he groans, rocking his hips and grabbing a handle of your ass. “you’re gonna make me feel good?”

you nod, lips connecting with his, it’s messy, teeth clashing, spit mixing.

toji’s guttural groan echos through the shower, bouncing off the tiles as he rocks his hips, going in inch by inch, until he’s finally shoving his entire length deep inside your cunt with one mean thrust.

“fhuck—“ he chokes, jaw slacking as you clamp around him again. “full?”

you nod, brain scrambled as you glance at your tummy, cheeks stinging at the obvious bulge. “keep going,” you pant, securing yourself better as he grunts, pulling out and snapping his hips back.

it was mind numbing, toji holding you up with his strong arms hooked under your knees, hands gripping each ass cheek as he ruts into you like a beast in heat. the squelch and clapping was deafening as it bounced off the walls, the steam enveloping you closer as your whines flow right into his ear.

“nghhh—gettin’ me worked up,” thrust. “when you squeeze me,” thrust. “with this tight.” thrust. “fucking.” thrust. “cunt!”

his massive cock is stretching you in ways you never could’ve imagined. his blunt tip slams into your cervix with every thrust. your thighs shake, eyes filling with unshed tears as your nails dig into his tough skin.

“m’ s-sorry—haah ah coa—ahh! it feels s’ fuhh—fuh’me ple-easee—ahh!” your pretty lips were so glossy, drool coming down as water droplets fall from your pretty breasts with each vicious slam of his hips.

he was unforgiving. and his laugh like groan didn’t help your pussy from fluttering and tightening around his chubby cock. you can feel every thick pulsing vein and ridge. it was numbing your brain to mush. your fingers curled into his hair, tugging as he gives your ass a mean, violent, spank!

“angh!” your eyes bulge, a wave of heat crashing into you.

toji laughs, gripping your ass as he quickens his pace. “admit it,” he husks, voice condensing, and eyes dark with lust. “this is what ya’ wanted.” you’re falling apart around his cock, and he’s not slowing down, even as the tears finally break, making you look even more irresistible. you’re gasping like you can’t breathe. “you always wanted the coach to fuck you. taking those dirty photos of my bulge—nghh!” thrust. “imagining how big my dick is.” thrust. “how big is it baby, tell me.” thrust!

you were fucked dumb.

your face is flushed, eyes glossed over, as you whine like a full blown slut. and even with your two orgasms in a matter of minutes. your mind was still screaming one thing: toji.

“c’mon baby, I know you’re still with me,” he snorts, ears red, and body flushed with sweat as he feels his climax edge closer. “tell me—fuck—how big is it?”

your stupid brain catches his words, and your fingers dig into his neck as you gasp and moan, the stimulation of his massive cock slamming into you was ruining you. mentally and physically. it was humiliating. but still…

“haah—fuh its’ it’s so big— i wan’ you to cum in me! please —wan’ your cum so bad, wanna feel your big fat cock cum inside my pussy toji—ahh!”

anothet sharp spank takes your breath away.

toji is at a loss.

his grunts grew louder and thrusts sloppier, until finally, he gave you one final thrust, and stilled. his ass tightens, body pressing you into the tiled walls, face buried in your neck, and teeth sinking into your shoulder. toji completely unravels in the shower, holding up a pretty college girl that whines so beautifully in his ear he thinks he’d never cum this hard again, but sure enough—

your adorable whine has him rutting shallow thrusts into your pussy, like a fucking dog. his cum pumping out as he continued stuffing you full, purposely milking out ever drop as his dark wet pubes rubbed against your puffy clit.

you both catch your breath. your lashes wet from tears, as the water from the shower head fills the silence. after a moment, toji pulls away from your neck, his lidded eyes, hypnotizing as he stares up at yours.

you don’t know why you suddenly feel shy. your cheeks burn as the emerald irises bore into your own. lips parting, and a gentle hand coming up to his cheek. you brush back the raven hair flattening against his features, smiling softly when his full face comes into view.

and he could’ve sworn you looked like an actual angel at this moment.

your eyes twinkled above, face illuminating in the dark shower, and body glistening like you’re an eternal being.

“toji…” the soft call has his heart doing something it hasn’t done in years. and that has his soft cock twitching inside you. “I’m,” you lean closer, arms wrapping around his shoulder, lips hovering near his, breasts smushed against his chest. your confidence comes back the moment you feel the man lean closer..but you continue. “I hope you don’t think…i wanted to have sex…just because i thought your dick was really big.”

toji blinks.

then he does the worst thing ever.

he laughs.

your cheeks sting, watching his head fall back in loud laughter. your hand flys to your face, embarrassed. “I’m being serious!” you yell.

toji laughs louder, body shaking as he lifts you up, his cock slipping out. he carefully sets your shaky feet down on the wet tile. the height difference returns, making you even more ticked off, your little attitude was oozing out, and his slick cock couldn’t help but twitch against his thigh at your pouting.

god, you’re fucking hot.

he brings your attention back to him. hands cupping your face, tilting your head to look up at him. your brows are pinched together, and lips pulled in a subtle scowl.

toji smirks. “don’t worry, I know you also took pictures of my face.”

you flush, rolling your eyes. “those were accidents.”

“so you just wanted pictures of my dick?”

your eyes widen, “no! i told you they were all accidents.”

toji clicks his tongue, leaning down to your level, making your tummy flip “you’re fucking cute, but let’s not lie to adults.”

“I’m an adult though,” you raise a brow, pushing back, and god if that wasn’t the hottest thing ever.

but still, toji’s easygoing smile remains on his playful lips, “it’s embarrassing. i understand,” he softens the blow as your face heats. it was humiliating when he found those pictures, “taking photos of the coach like that. but now’s the time to take some accountability.”

you lick your teeth, eyes boring into him, narrowing. but it’s toji. toji is asking. and you can’t hold back any longer…

you exhale, glancing away, even though he’s still cupping your face. “yeah, obviously I took those photos on purpose,” your eyes meet. “happy?”

water is still running down his shoulders as he keeps your face tucked carefully in his hands like you’re something precious despite the grin threatening to split across his face again.

but then toji smirks. “ecstatic.”

your eyes narrow immediately, “you’re so annoying.”

he huffs another laugh under his breath, quieter this time, thumbs brushing over your heated cheeks. standing this close to him is ridiculous now that the adrenaline’s settling. he’s huge. his broad chest still damp against yours, muscles flexing every time he shifts, towering over you while you stand there completely naked except for the necklaces you’re wearing. the little gold chains glisten under the shower head, delicate against flushed skin, and toji’s eyes flick down to them for a second before returning to your face.

that look in his eyes makes your stomach tighten all over again. he knows he’s not trying to be mocking, or casual like before. it’s fondness.

“those shots were real creative, sweetheart,” he says, voice rougher now. “nice and close too.”

you groan, immediately trying to shove his chest, but he barely moves. “oh my god, can you let it go already?”

“can’t,” he answers easily. “been thinkin’ about it for weeks.”

your face burns hotter. weeks?!

toji watches it happen in real time, watches the attitude crack just enough for embarrassment to slip through, again. and it does something terrible to him. you’re sharp with everyone else—cool, hard to impress. he’s seen it. seen the way you brush off gojo and geto without a second thought. but with him? you melt.

even now, glaring up at him with your brows pulled tight, lips still swollen from kissing, legs trembling from the multiple orgasms, trying so hard to stay irritated while your body keeps betraying you. it’s fucking adorable.

“don’t look at me like that,” you mutter weakly.

“like what?”

“like you know things.”

his grin widens instantly. “but i do know things now.”

what proceeded after was the thirty something year old coach, dropping to his knee and lifting your leg up, burying his face between your legs like a starving man. your lips part in shock.

but still, as toji works your pretty body to another orgasm, tongue shoved inside, cleaning this little pussy up, jaw slack as he gulps down his own cum. your fingers thread through his hair, tugging whenever he’d give your clit a mean rough suck, cheeks hollowing. his hand, grips your ass from behind, squeezing and slapping as he pleased, until you were falling apart.

afterwards, he cleaned you up. this time with some soap. his big hands roamed your body, every crevice and curve, hands massaging your breasts as he had your back pressed to his chest, chuckling when you’d whine. thumbs tugging playfully. hand rubbing between your legs, head tucked in your shoulder as he watches your smaller hands hold his forehead, face hot.

“toji,” you whine, embarrassed, as he teasing a finger against your hole again.

“what,” he smirks, watching your reactions, “I’m jus’ cleaning you up.”

he’s a fucking perv. but still, he teases you through the whole shower, keeping you close to his body and even letting you wash his back, admiring the muscles and ink that decorate his skin.

eventually, he steps out first, keeping you inside so he can grab an extra towel. his own wrapped around his waist.

that was the start of all of it.

three months later….

you and shoko are sitting out in the quad. table covered in assignments and forgotten laptops. all while you explained to shoko how your weekend went.

“no, we definitely got along. megumi is so cute!” you gush about the ten year old, describing how your first meeting went. toji had spoken about you enough to prepare megumi, waiting until the right time to introduce you both.

and now, you’re going to every single one of their soccer games, toji and megumi’s.

and eventually, after another hour passes by. a group of athletes comes walking down the path. covered in sweat, holding their duffles, and behind them is a very hot coach, already breaking into a smile when you jump up.

“toji!”

it was a routine. your arms thrown around his shoulders, as he lifts you up with one hand. zero regard for any pda, as he kisses you deeply. smiling as you hum, pecking him over and over.

“why do you guys look like that?” shoko grimaces, looking at gojo and geto who look far worse than the rest of the team that leave.

geto scowls, glaring at his best friend, “fucking coach overhead him again.”

shoko shakes her head, rolling her eyes, at the white haired idiot. “you need to stop—“

“it’s been three months and she’s not over that old man?!”

“he’s not even that old!” shoko defends.

but gojo scowls harder, glancing over his shoulder at you laughing and talking, hands animated, like the man in front of you was holding the world. “it’s always the mean girls.”

shoko frowns, “you’re messed up in the head.”

but even geto narrows his eyes when toji wraps a possessive arm around you, glaring up at the two players.

it was clear as day.

you’re his.

a/n: this was LOONG overdue, mb guys!!! but i hope you all enjoyed it!!! ahhhh i love coach toji sososososo much—like its a serious problem, i cant make reader behave normally when its toji, like she has to be obsessed with himmm

Armin, who sat down at the little table across from Eren with his muffin, fruit, and eggs, could tell that his best friend was upset by the way he stirred his own scrambled eggs around on his plate, but not actually eating them.

“Don’t worry,” Armin looked up at his friend after taking a sip of his orange juice—Armin loved hotel orange juice, and Eren hated it—and the blue-eyed boy flashed a reassuring smile. “We’re going home tomorrow, so you’ll get to see her soon.”

“Yeah,” Eren mumbled.

“Maybe you could FaceTime her before we leave for the day,” Armin suggested. After all, jet skiing and scuba diving were on the agenda, and he truly wanted Eren to enjoy it.

“I already talked to her twenty minutes ago,” Eren sighed, slouching back in his chair. “It only made me miss her even more. She has a new hairstyle and everything.”

“Eren,” Armin slowly chewed on a strawberry as he blinked. “It’s only been a few days.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever,” Eren pinched the bridge of his nose, and that’s when Connie and Jean joined them at their table.

“Guess what,” Connie grinned, placing two packed plates of food on the table. “They said we can sit here and eat as long as we want even after they stop serving breakfast, but we just can’t go back for seconds.”

“Connie grabbed every fucking thing he saw,” Jean frowned, grabbing a seat next to Armin.

“Hell yeah,” Connie picked up a grape, tossing it at Jean’s head. “So don’t be shy, grab whatever you want and eat up!”

“Don’t throw the grapes,” Armin said. “They’re delicious, so try not to waste them.”

“Loosen up, will you?” Jean frowned, breaking his hash brown into pieces before diving right in.

“I’ll loosen up once I know everything’s going according to plan,” Armin paused. “I mean, someone has to make sure we’re on schedule. It’s our last day here, so if we miss something, we won’t get another chance to do it.”

“The hell does that have to do with throwing grapes?” Connie said, earning a laugh from Jean.

Jean ruffled Armin’s blonde hair. “Don’t worry, we know you love the beach. We’re not gonna miss anything, alright? So just relax.”

“Right,” Armin smiled softly, “sorry.”

For a moment, everyone ate their food and engaged in somewhat polite chatter about today’s planned events.

“Alright, so we have our entire morning and afternoon planned,” Jean paused. “What are we doing tonight?”

Armin took that opportunity to bring the one silent member at their table into the conversation.

“Eren, is there anything you wanna do?”

“Yeah. Pack.”

And with that, Eren left the table, tossing his uneaten food in the garbage before heading back to the hotel room.

“Damn it, Connie,” Jean frowned. “I told you to let the guy bring his girlfriend.”

Connie tossed his arms up defensively, swallowing his food before he said, “go to Hell.”

—

As the day went on, Eren managed to have a bit of fun with his friends. Even so, as he swam with colorful fish and zoomed across the sea, a tingle of pain would shoot through his heart whenever he remembered that you weren’t with him, experiencing all of the bucket-list worthy adventures by his side.

As the group headed home in Jean’s SUV, Eren sat in the backseat besides Connie. He pressed his head against the foggy window, looking out at the orange streetlights passing by.

“Eren,” Connie fought back a laugh, pulling his phone out to record the pouting man. “Why are you acting like you’re in a R&B music video right now?”

“Shut up, Constance.” Eren effortlessly tossed his hand out and smacked Connie’s tattooed arm.

Connie quickly ended the recording.

“I’m gonna drop Eren off first,” Jean said, gripping the steering wheel as he made a left turn, “I really think he might die if he doesn’t get to Y/N soon.”

“Turn left again,” Armin said, directing Jean from the passenger seat. “But guys, leave him alone. Y/N’s lovely. None of us can understand what he’s going through because the three of us are single.”

“Thank you, Armin,” Eren said.

Eren folded his arms across his chest, continuing to sulk like a kid who just had their favorite toy taken away.

But, once Jean turned down a familiar street, the depressed man instantly perked up.

“You’re grinning like a toddler, dude,” Connie teased, but Eren ignored him, gripping the door handle tightly.

Jean tugged on his hat, slowing down as he pulled up in front of your home. However, before Jean could come to a complete stop, Eren started to jump out of the car.

“Eren! Be careful!” Armin warned as Jean slammed on the brakes. His warning was utterly useless, as Eren was already halfway through your front yard by the time the words fell from Armin’s lips.

“You forgot your bags!” Jean shouted, rolling down his window. “Didn’t shut my damn door, either.”

Suddenly, you opened your front door, having heard all of the commotion outside. And when you smiled, all of Eren’s friends could easily see why he was so in love with you.

Eren nearly knocked you over once he finally made it into your arms, a big smile spreading across that beautiful face of his. He showered your forehead and cheek with kisses as he inhaled your comforting scent.

“I missed you so much,” he said.

“I can tell,” you teased, hugging the tall man back. “I missed you too.”

He pulled away from the hug only to cup your face with his large hands. He kissed your lips softly, melting over the touch he had craved for days.

“I’m not going anywhere without you ever again. I don’t care if it’s the grocery store or to the living room,” Eren mumbled against your lips, and you giggled softly.

“Hey!” Jean suddenly honked his horn. “You’ve seen her, now come get your stuff!”

“In a minute,” Eren shouted back, flipping the driver off.

He just had to stare at that gorgeous face of yours for a few more minutes, and who could blame him? He was madly in love with you.

He wanted to be with you — you, you, you. Not sitting in his kitchen, trying to boost his sales to an audience who, for the most part, cared more about his face and body rather than the chords he strung on his electric guitar.

A familiar username caught Eren’s eye. In an instant, it vanished as a wave of fresh comments rolled in, but he reached for his phone and scrolled up until his eyes landed on Connie’s username.

conmanspringer: booooo where’s your girl? we don’t wanna see you booooo

“Damn it, Connie, I could kick your ass. Please go lay down in traffic.” Eren grinned playfully at his phone. “Does anyone know how to make Connie vanish?”

Truth be told, he was happy someone asked about you no matter the reason. In fact, it sparked a new hot topic for his viewers, who all left comments asking about your whereabouts.

“She’s upstairs. She’s watching the new season of that Netflix show . . . damn, what’s it called?” Eren thought about it for a second, but when you were telling him about the show several weeks ago, well, you were coming out of the bathroom after a hot shower, and he was a little distracted.

He'd never forgive himself for forgetting the name of the show you were watching. Why would he? He was supposed to know everything about you, and he truly did, everything from your grandmother's middle name to which shoe you preferred to put on first. Some details you shared with him, but most of what he knew about you, his sweet lover, came from months of thorough "research," as he'd call it. So how . . . just how . . . could he let himself forget the show you were watching?

conmanspringer: me personally? i would’ve remembered the show if she told me

“Go to hell, Connie. She’s mine,” Eren snapped. He grabbed his phone, taking it — and, thus, his viewers — with him as he made his way to the bedroom.

Eren opened the door, his tone softening as he addressed you. “Baby? Wanna say hi to everyone?”

Oh, his fans would certainly run to social media to talk about the way Eren’s eyes were glossed over with pure love as he looked at you; the way his lips were slightly upturned from merely being in your presence.

“Sure,” you said, grabbing the remote and pausing your show.

Eren approached the side of the bed. He placed his hand on your back, indicating for you to scoot away from the headboard, and when you did, he positioned himself behind you, in between the headboard and your back. With you now lying against his chest and right in between his legs, he gave you his phone.

“Hi everyone,” you waved.

The comments were a mixture of compliments and questions from Eren’s fans, but his friends as well.

arminarlert: You look beautiful today :)

“Thank you, Armin,” you said with a grin.

Eren didn’t know if his best friend was up to something, or if he was simply being nice. Eren rubbed his hand along your thigh, grateful that his camera could only capture you and him from the chest up. That realization? Well, he was going to take advantage of it.

If you accidentally flipped the camera around, you both would have been screwed. But as he read the complimentary comments flooding in over your appearance, he couldn’t help himself, as if he was a man possessed by his raging feelings rather than logic.

conmanspringer: if you and eren don’t work out, im richer and taller than him btw

jeankirsteinmusic: Connie’s a liar, but funnily enough I actually AM taller haha

Eren moved his hand down your shorts. He pushed the soft fabric of your panties to the side. He couldn’t express his true anger. Not while he was on camera. All he could do was remind himself that you belonged to him.

Eren’s fingers found your clit. He toyed with it, all the while repeating in his head: “She’s mine. She belongs to me. This body belongs to me.”

You started to squirm. Eren was quick to move one of his legs on top of yours, holding you still.

“You’re all mine,” he thought. “All fucking mine.”

“Guys, um, I-I think I’m gonna end this live for Eren,” you stammered out, fighting to hold back a moan.

“Don’t you dare,” Eren said darkly. “Hasn’t been long enough, and everyone wanted to see you, baby.”

He swirled his finger around your clit. His dick was starting to harden. Pressing his lips against your ear, he whispered low enough for only you to hear, “I’m gonna have to eat you out later.”

The phone was starting to tremble in your grasp. You were close. He could feel your body tense up, and he quickened the pace in which he rubbed your clit.

The majority of the comments wanted to know just what Eren had whispered. At least, that was what you gathered from Eren’s little responses as he proceeded to engage with his audience as if you weren’t on the brink of an orgasm.

A comment from a fan caught Eren’s attention:

I want Eren’s girlfriend so fucking bad

That was his final straw. He snatched the phone from you with the hand that wasn’t rubbing your pussy.

“On second thought, I’m ending the live. I gotta fuck my girlfriend now, so bye.”

If your orgasm didn’t wash over you the very second he finished speaking, you would have shouted in shock. Just what was he thinking?

But, as Eren ended the livestream and tossed his phone to the other end of the bed, he clasped his hand around your neck and jaw, raising your head slightly as he sucked on your neck. He rubbed your clit more ferociously as you thrashed around from your orgasm.

Eren released your neck. He brought his lips to your ear once again. “You belong to me, don’t you? Say it.”

“I belong to- ah!”

You suddenly jumped as Eren ran his tongue across your ear.

“Couldn’t bring yourself to say it?” He mumbled. “You must really want one of those other damn fools, then huh?”

“No!” You inhaled sharply as Eren pushed two fingers into your hole.

“All the songs I’ve written about you . . . all the times I’ve made you cum over and over again . . . all the money I’ve spent spoiling you, and this is how you repay me? Can’t even tell me you belong to me? Can’t tell me you’ll stay with me forever? Do I gotta lock you up or something?”

“I’m yours, Eren. I’m yours. Please don’t stop.”

Despite your desperate plea, Eren pulled his fingers out of your pants. He moved away from his previous position behind you, walked toward the end of the bed, grabbed your ankle, and yanked you down.

“You don’t tell me what to do. Besides, I’m not convinced you believe your own words.” He stared down at you with a dark gaze as he unbuckled his belt. “I’ll make you believe it, though. I’ll show you that you’re mine, baby. Hell, I’ll show everyone. I don’t care if I have to fuck you right on stage during my next show . . . you’re mine, and everyone needs to know that. You’re mine.”

He couldn’t help but wonder why you were, for lack of a better word, like that. Cold. Standoffish. Withdrawn. He had a few theories in mind—only because lectures were that boring—the most probable being that you were just shy. That would make the most sense, wouldn’t it?

Perhaps you were the type of student who took her classes way too seriously. He guessed you to be in your third year, like him. Maybe you were trying to get into a competitive graduate program. Or maybe you just really liked anatomy. Eren supposed that’d make sense. You seemed to like the textbook an awful lot, always reading far too closely in the way nerds do in cartoons. But there were other times when it was almost as if you were avoiding looking him in the eye.

There were days—usually when Eren was feeling particularly disgruntled—that your quietness irked him. He knew it was irrational to care so much, but damn it, why were you like that? And all the time, too. You must be stuck up. What else could he blame your perpetually cold shoulder on? He wasn’t proud of it, but sometimes he believed you were a bitch. Simple as that.

Eren’s theories could go on and on, but none of them were true. Well, you didn’t think you were a bitch. No, the reason behind your reserved attitude was much more straightforward than that.

You had a stupid crush on Eren. 

A girlish, twirling-your-hair-around-your-finger crush. The kind that made your stomach somehow feel both hollow and full, and had you gushing to your roommate even though you knew you’d never act on any of this.

You’d felt this way since last semester, in another class you had together. You didn’t think Eren remembered that; you still weren’t sure he even knew of your existence until your professor partnered up the two of you. 

God. Thinking about that day made you prickle with anxiety all over again. When it happened, you swore you were going to die. Like, actually keel over from a heart attack in the middle of class and die.

You liked to think there was another universe out there in which you’d feel thrilled to have such forced proximity to your crush. Maybe he’d even give you his number to text him about homework, and in that other universe, you’d be absolutely giddy over it. 

But that was not the case, because in this universe, anatomy was far from your strong suit. Very, very far. 

You drove yourself mad over all the ways you’d inevitably embarrass yourself in front of Eren, lab after lab. It terrified you, even to the point where you wouldn’t dare ask a question out of fear of sounding dumb. So you made do with what you had, pressed on without asking him to repeat himself, and scribbled down what little you could manage. 

It was despicable. Truly despicable, and you knew it, and still you pretended like Eren wasn’t there because that felt easier. Even if it meant you started seeing your grade slip.

You hoped to keep that—and your crush—a secret from him, but one day, he got a little too nosy for your liking. 

The professor handed back your lab report face down, like always. You knew professors did that for everyone, no matter the grade, but you couldn’t help but feel it was done specifically for you. 

You didn’t want to, but you forced yourself to peel back the corner and take a peek. Unsurprisingly, a lousy grade met you on the other side. Again.

For someone wanting to hide their score, you weren’t as careful as you should have been when sliding the paper into your folder. Eren leaned back in his seat, just far enough to steal a glimpse over your shoulder. For research, obviously. If you liked anatomy so much, then you must be pretty good at the subject. That would fit in well with your stuffy attitude, wouldn’t it? 

But what Eren saw surprised him, especially when he considered his own soaring grade. On his chuckle, he let slip, “Wow. Are you even writing anything down?”

You startled, slamming your folder shut. “Huh?”

You couldn’t tell if he was joking or not. He was, but it didn’t come across nearly as lighthearted as he hoped. Eren often let his thoughts spew into words he shouldn’t say, but you didn’t know about that nasty habit of his. All you were thinking was shit, shit, shit. He had finally figured out that you had no clue what you were doing. 

Eren saw the panic as it spread across your face. He cracked a small smile at you, perhaps for the first time, as if it would help. Still, his eyebrows furrowed with a sort of pity he couldn’t hold back. 

“The lab.” He pointed to the crumpled paper, half in the folder, half poking out. You tucked it away entirely to hide the grade for the rest of eternity. “We do them together every week. How are you screwing them up that badly?”

What kind of question was that? You gave him a hard frown and regretted thinking he’d be anything more than curt toward you. Even with the pity brows, you weren’t feeling much sympathy from him. 

You replied with a blank stare, imagining how horribly this moment would torment you the second your head hit your pillow tonight—and for all nights to come, probably. 

You only snapped out of it when you heard his chair drag against the tile. He sighed, a little too loudly to consider it natural, and started packing his things into his book bag. 

“Look,” Eren started to say. He glanced up at you once he’d zipped his bag shut, and it made you flighty. “You don’t have to be stuck with a shitty grade. There’s still time left in the semester. I bet I can help.”

His voice was flat, and you didn’t care for his delivery much, but beneath that, there was a glint of sincerity. You weren’t sure where it came from, and frankly, neither did Eren. He regretted being so thoughtless with his words. It was hard not to after seeing the way your face—always so stoic he’d think you were made of marble—turned so sullen. He didn’t like how it made him feel, less so knowing you could pull such a visceral reaction from him.

“You still have my number, yeah?” Eren asked.

You nodded. You did, in fact, still have his phone number, scratched into the first page of your notebook. He wrote it down after your first class together, just like you hoped he would. You decided not to do anything with it. You didn’t even save it to your phone to prevent any possibility of a stupid, drunken text.

“Good,” he said. “We can meet up sometime to study together.”

“Okay, yeah. Thanks,” you said, quietly at first, but your confidence grew with each word when you realized this might not have to go down as one of your top ten most humiliating memories.

“Sure.” Eren stood and swung his bag over his shoulder. He smiled at you again, real this time, big enough to make your stomach flop. “I can’t let my lab partner flunk out on me.”

So, that was where it began—‘it’ referring to you and Eren occasionally studying together. Nothing more. Definitely not the fun sort of studying—you know, like having him study your anatomy rather than the pictures in his textbook. Oh, well. You could still dream.

It took about two study sessions before you didn’t feel you were on the edge of your seat around Eren. As lame as it sounded, he made you incredibly nervous—much more nervous than you felt around him in class, and you didn’t even think that was possible. 

Just like in class, you tried your very hardest to keep your eyes on your text. But as shameful as it was to admit, you occasionally snuck a glance. Only when you were certain he wouldn’t notice, because if he did, you knew you’d turn into a pile of goo before you could even look away. 

You’d catch him while he was jotting something down because you liked how he looked when he was pensive. His dark brows would sit low over his eyes, and his bottom lip would jut out ever so slightly. And sometimes, only when he was completely stumped, he’d run his fingers through his hair in thought. You liked that a lot, too. 

By the time midterms had come and gone, you were seeing Eren more and more—at least twice a week outside of class, maybe a third time if you had a lab report due. By then, it was impossible to let your heart continue to flutter every time you looked him in the eyes. Otherwise, it was bound to give out. 

What you wanted to be study dates (emphasis on ‘dates’) quickly became what felt like tutoring lessons—and just to be clear, you were not the tutor. After Eren convinced you his willingness to help was genuine, you didn’t worry as much about sounding dumb. He never seemed bothered when he had to explain a topic, even if you went overboard with the questions.

Though he did like to poke fun at you for your frequent mix-ups and mispronunciations. But you made sure to never let him live down spelling ‘brain’ as ‘brian.’ 

“It was one time,” he’d always complain back. 

After being scolded one too many times for goofing off in the library, you had to make do with other spots around campus, like in a cafe or even out on the green. Other times, especially as the weather began to cool, you’d meet Eren at his place, just a five-minute jaunt from campus. 

He lived in a house with three other boys: Armin, Jean, and Connie. You found Jean and Connie to be nice enough based on the handful of conversations you had with them. Despite that, Eren blamed them for the reason you didn’t study at his house often, accusing them of being too distracting to think straight. You didn’t necessarily agree, but hey, you weren’t the one who had to live with them.

Eren would never tell you this—hell, he couldn’t think of a single person he’d say this aloud to—but the real reason he didn’t like to study at his place was Armin. 

Eren’s blonde best friend for the last ten years. His roommate, whom you would describe as cute as a button and sharp as a tack. Armin knew much more about anatomy than you and Eren (maybe even combined) and liked to join in when he was bored, answering the questions that Eren couldn’t. 

Eren couldn’t pinpoint exactly why this bothered him so much. He always knew Armin was smarter than him; that had never been a problem before. Now, it bothered him to no end. But rather than deal with it head-on, Eren decided studying at your apartment was the better solution. Your roommate, Hitch, was tolerable enough. 

It was around finals week when it happened. A healthy dose of reality, served as a smack straight across your face. A reminder that you still had a big fat crush on Eren. When your frequent study dates became less of a one-on-one thing and more like a group hangout. 

You were cordial, something between classmates and acquaintances, with the few classmates sitting near you. One girl, Mina, said that she, Thomas, and Samuel planned to get together to prepare for the upcoming exam. She insisted that you and Eren should join. 

You didn’t respond right away. You couldn’t, not with the way your heart sank into your stomach when Eren answered for you. 

“She needs all the help she can get,” Eren replied with a playful pat on your shoulder. He was only joking, but you wished he didn’t sound so eager. You especially wished his hand, so innocently placed on your back, didn’t make your cheeks burn. 

You did your best to get over it quickly. It was hard to stay bitter at people you got along with, so much so that you’d accomplish more chatting than studying. Luckily for the rest of you, Eren and Thomas knew enough to help you skate by. 

But when Eren started texting in the new group chat more than he’d text you, you couldn’t ignore the sting. It felt as though you’d let your chances with him slip by because next semester he wouldn’t be your lab partner anymore. He might not even talk to you again; he’d have no reason to. 

You left the final exam feeling okay at best. You walked out with your head down, not paying attention as Mina caught up from behind. She invited you to come by her apartment that Friday—something about your classmates getting together to celebrate the end of Anatomy pop quizzes. You didn’t give it a second thought when you agreed. 

You were at the get-together for maybe an hour, maybe longer, when someone was drunk enough to suggest a game of Never Have I Ever. You’d just thrown away your second beer and felt just adventurous enough to play. 

Mina’s living room was too small for hosting, but most of your places were. That didn’t stop her from decorating for the holiday season. With everyone crowded around, the strings of lights cast a colorful but warm glow against everyone’s faces. In the center of the ragged circle, some people sat on the floor, some on the sofa, was an old beer. According to Samuel, it was left out overnight chugging it would serve as punishment for putting the last of your fingers down. 

You didn’t know it then, but that beer had your name written all over it.

You sat on the floor, legs folded to your chest, with your hand growing tired in the air. Only your index finger remained standing when Mina shouted it was her turn. 

“Never have I ever had a body count higher than five,” she announced.

A few people put a finger down, but you knew it didn’t matter. You dropped your forehead to your knees in defeat and let your hand slump to your side. Everyone was laughing, hounding you to drink the beer, when you whined, “Do I have to?”

If you hadn’t been so busy downing that lukewarm can, pouting as you went—if your audience wasn’t so loud as they heckled you, maybe you would have noticed how Eren went quiet. How a firm crease formed between his brows the longer he watched. 

Eren didn’t know what he was feeling. Something sour. Something like the feeling he got when he saw you laugh with Armin. It made him not want to look at you because the sight alone made his stomach tight, but he couldn’t stop. 

Your body count didn’t offend him. After all, he had to put a finger down for the same reason. Though he had to admit, you surprised him (it was always the quiet ones, wasn’t it?) but that wasn’t new. The more he learned about you, the more he realized his assumptions about you couldn’t have been more wrong—especially the ones about you being a bitch and good at anatomy. 

Eren studied you from across the cramped room. Your nose crinkled, giggles spilling from you as you tried, for the second time, to finish the beer. He’d heard your laugh before. Many times, actually. But tonight, he found the sound captivatingly warm. Like a moth drawn to a flame, he felt his chest flutter. 

His thoughts drifted further and further, recklessly so, until he found himself wondering if you’d crinkle your nose just the same if he made you come. 

Right then, he could see you underneath him. Naked. Your face twisted in pleasure, brows pinched cutely as your teeth dipped into your swollen bottom lip. He swore he could feel your thighs under his palms, soft and giving beneath them as he pulled down your—

It was so wrong of him. Wrong to be in a room full of people and pretend as if you were the only two people to exist. 

That swarming in his gut grew hotter. He took another sip of his beer as if it would dull the burn.

Eren doubted himself into a downward spiral. Almost like a hangnail, he picked and picked at the thought until he created an open wound of his own making. What was so wrong with him that you weren’t interested?

He could deny naming the sick feeling as much as he wanted, but Eren knew what it was: insecurity. Jealous of people he didn’t even know, for no other reason than he had the chance to be with you in the ways he so desperately craved, to where he felt doubled over sick.

He felt fucking pathetic for it.

Eren didn’t stay at the party long after that. You left just before midnight and didn’t think of that game, or Eren, for the rest of the weekend. And on Monday, you were up bright and early to check your final grade for anatomy. By some miracle, you passed the class.

It was well into winter break when you saw Eren again. You bumped into him at a house party, when there was about a week left until classes started and everyone was trickling back to campus to celebrate the new year.

You didn’t expect to see him again this soon, but then again, you weren’t so sure you’d ever see him again. Anatomy class was the glue that held you together. You wished you could say you had more confidence in your budding friendship, in Eren, but he hadn’t talked to you since Mina’s party. You thought he at least felt some sort of stake in knowing if you passed the class. 

You told yourself it was better off this way, considering you nearly failed your lab because of him. Well, technically speaking, you passed because of him, but you wouldn’t have been in this mess in the first place if he wasn’t your lab partner. 

All that bullshit for a silly crush. 

You stumbled into Eren toward the end of the night, when parties start feeling spacey and liminal, between night and day. A couple of lights were on now, and whoever was in charge of the music had clearly given up long ago. It was all pointing to a not-so-subtle hint to get out. 

And you wanted nothing more than to get out. You would have been out of there thirty minutes ago if it weren’t for Hitch. Your loveable, yet self-admittedly ditzy roommate had disappeared into thin air. 

By the time you began searching for her, you’d already drunk well past your limit. You were left dizzy, starving, and having poked your head into every room and around every corner. No Hitch, but you did find lots of dry humping.

The last time you saw Hitch, she was one of those dry humpers. She was on top of some guy who you figured was the reason she even wanted to come to this party. You were sure you’d catch his name tomorrow morning. 

You were too distracted, too bubbly from the leftover New Year’s champagne to see what was right in front of you—even if he was rather tall, broad, and hard to miss. You didn’t even look twice as you walked past him. He only grabbed your attention after calling your name, but you only felt disappointed that the voice was too deep to belong to Hitch.

You spun around and the floor tilted with you. It took you a step or two to straighten back out, and when you did, your vision settled on Eren. 

He gave you a lop-sided smile, serving as nothing more than a hesitant greeting. He only made it more awkward by throwing in a cheeky, “Long time, no see.”

You returned the gesture by offering a chuckle that was only half-forced. The other half was genuine simply because it was easy to impress anyone after a night spent drinking. 

And since you had spent the night drinking, you felt all weird when you looked at Eren. It wasn’t that you were upset with him—maybe disappointed, but it wasn’t exactly with him. Eren never owed you his kindness, and going out of his way to help you study was more than you could have asked for. You’d say you were disappointed with what could have been. 

But now that he was here, getting shoved closer and closer with every passerby, you didn’t know what to think other than you should have skipped out on that last drink. You hoped you’d feel more put together the next time you saw Eren so you wouldn’t get tangled up in again. You weren’t confident you’d be able to unravel yourself a second time. 

Eren took a willing step toward you and recognized the familiar haze of booze in your eyes. He realized you weren’t going to say anything, so he’d have to do the heavy-lifting.

“Were you looking for someone?”

“Hitch,” you said. There was a pause where you weren’t sure he remembered he knew her. “My roommate.”

“I know.” 

“We were supposed to get food, but I think she took a guy home,” you told him for no reason in particular. “The last time this happened, I walked in on them doing it on the kitchen counter.”

Eren laughed, harder once your face winced at the memory, a sight seared into your brain, for sure. “You should really consider finding a new roommate.”

“And in the meantime?” 

“You come back to my place,” he said, so casually that you were positive you didn’t hear him right. Your face must have given you away, and he tried to brush it off with a shrug. “What’s the big deal? You’ve slept on my couch before.”

He was right. You’d fallen asleep on his couch while studying once. He teased you about it—said you got drool everywhere.

“That’s different,” you sheepishly said. “That was an accident.”

“Well, maybe you shouldn’t have fallen asleep in the first place,” he teased.

“Maybe you shouldn’t make your flashcards so boring!”

Eren liked his simple flashcards. He preferred them. Not everyone needed to spend more time highlighting and color-coding flashcards than actually studying them. 

He tilted his head in a look that said Quit being so stubborn for once but relented. “Fine. Then how about you tell me how to make them look nicer on the way back to my house. I was just about to leave, anyway.”

He took a daring step backward. Then another, until he turned on one foot and headed toward the door. He knew you’d follow him, and so thoughtlessly, you did. You stayed just behind as you meandered through the house and out the front door. 

You called out after him, “You don’t really need them now, do you? The class is over.”

“I just thought you might need ‘em.” Eren bounded down the porch steps and tossed a glance over his shoulder, just to catch the look on your face when he said, “Since you’re going to be retaking the class.”

You wished you’d shoved him down the steps, but he was already across the lawn, you trailing him. He walked with longer strides and didn’t seem concerned about whether you could keep up.

“Thanks for that,” you grumbled. 

“Anytime.”

It didn’t take long before the two of you were close to campus. You walked along the main drag, lined with various bars and late-night bites that thrived in the college town’s nightlife. The liveliness made it difficult to tell time; it could be ten p.m. or two a.m., and you wouldn’t know the difference. Every bar kept its music loud enough to thrum in your chest, beating perfectly in tempo with each of your steps—those of which were still fighting to keep up with Eren. 

He didn’t even bother looking back at you when he asked, “Do you still want to get food?”

“Hm?” You couldn’t hear him over your shuffling along the sidewalk. Your feet had already started aching hours ago, and this certainly wasn’t helping. You really shouldn’t have worn your new shoes without breaking them in. 

“You never listen, do you?” Eren didn’t say it with annoyance but with a laugh. “I’m surprised you’ve made it this far.”

“I listen just fine. You just mumble a lot,” you defended. “And for your information, I am not retaking Anatomy. I passed with a C.”

“C plus or C minus?” 

“Plus,” you said with inflated, drunken confidence. 

“I’ll alert the media,” Eren deadpanned. You stuck your tongue out at him even though he wouldn’t see it. “Now tell me, did you still want to get food or not?”

“I didn’t think it was still an option.”

“‘Course it is.” He finally looked back at you, nearly skipping to keep up with him now, just in time to catch your trip over a sidewalk crack. “I think you could probably use something to eat.”

When you were about to round the corner onto his street, Eren stopped short a few doors down at an unassuming 24-hour diner. You weren’t expecting to stop and sit down but to flag down a street vendor. Though you had to admit, breakfast sounded wonderful. 

Eren picked the booth in the back after you were instructed to seat yourselves. The place was small and smelt of pancake batter and stale coffee—just as any diner should at this hour. And stale or not, you knew you needed a few mugs to sober up. 

The waitress flipped your ceramic mug upright and filled it to the brim. If it were nine in the morning, steam would pour out, and it would look like a movie. But it was not nine in the morning, and you did not want to know how long this coffee had sat out. 

You took it with cream, then dumped some sugar in, too. Reaching for a second packet, you caught Eren staring as you tore it open, his hands folded around his mug. 

“Is something the matter?” you asked.

“Want any coffee with your sugar?”

“Ha-ha.” You added the sugar, now out of spite. When you took your first sip, it tasted as bitter as you’d imagined. 

Now that you were off your feet, the pain gnawed at you. You wiggled your shoes down, just enough for your heels to slip free from the backs. But it wasn’t enough. You couldn’t bear to keep them for another second—the diner was empty, anyway. Once they were off, your feet pulsed as if they had their own heartbeat. 

The waitress took your order before disappearing again, only making rounds to offer a warm-up here or there, which you gladly accepted. Eren didn’t make a peep when you added another packet of sugar this time. During the lapse in conversation, you kept your head low and fiddled with the loose scraps of paper. You didn’t even remember what you were thinking about when Eren eventually spoke. 

“You know,” he started to say. You peered up from the wadded paper you’d been rolling between your fingers. He leaned back in the booth and looked out the frosted window with a quiet chuckle. “I thought you hated me when we first met.”

You matched his laugh, yours more disbelieving. “Hated you? I don’t think I knew you well enough to hate you.”

As if he were thinking out loud, he said, “You were always so quiet.”

“Being quiet doesn’t mean you hate someone,” you explained. 

His eyes flicked from the window to you. “Then what does it mean?”

It was easier to talk to him when he wasn’t looking directly at you. His gaze felt smothering. You retreated your gaze down to the spool you swirled around your coffee. The soft banging against the ceramic was the only sound between you and Eren because you still didn’t know how to answer him.

“I don’t know,” you said, hoping you would have come up with a more profound answer by now. “It just means you’re quiet, I guess.”

A short stack of pancakes interrupted Eren, slid right between the two of you, decorated with a gooey scoop of butter. Eren only ordered coffee even after you said you’d pay. And once the server dropped off the syrup and scurried away again, Eren was quick to jump back into the conversation, much to your dismay. 

“But you’re not quiet, and you’re not shy either,” he said like he’d caught you in a lie. You urged him on with a raised eyebrow. He scoffed. “Don’t give me that. I know that’s not you. I saw you dancing tonight with Hitch.” 

Your hand stalled as you reached for the syrup. “You watched me dance?” 

His eyes widened, but he played it off well enough when he said, “I mean, yeah. My so-called quiet lab partner actually knows how to dance? It just surprised me, that’s all.”

“If you saw me earlier, why didn’t you come and say hi?”

Strike that. Eren almost played it off. He tensed up, noticeably so, and it took him longer than he would have liked to come up with his pathetic excuse of, “Oh, I think someone grabbed me for a game of beer pong or something. I couldn’t find you after.”

That never happened. Eren knew it, and he was pretty sure you knew it, too. The truth was that Eren didn’t go up and talk to you because he’d spent the last few weeks convincing himself he wasn’t into you. 

He went as far as reinstalling his dating apps, all of which he had long sworn off. He naively assumed that if he just went on a date, maybe even brought a girl home, then he would be in the clear; he wouldn’t think of you anymore. Easy-peasy. But by the time dinner was through, Eren could hardly remember a single thing his date had said. He was too busy comparing her to you, even when he didn’t mean to, and felt disappointed every time she laughed because it sounded nothing like yours. 

Then he saw you tonight. Of course, he had to see you tonight. And out of everything you could have been doing, you were dancing. Having fun, enjoying yourself. He favored you like that, when you were carefree. You were nothing like the girl he thought he’d met in lecture. 

And when he heard your laugh—more remarkable than all the others, like he’d strangely gone deaf to anything and anyone but you—he couldn’t remember why he was trying so hard to stay away from you. 

Now you were here, seated across the booth from him, cheeks stuffed with pancakes, and he had no idea what he was supposed to do next. He had spent the entire walk here wrangling with himself, scared that if he had you, even in the most innocent of ways, he wouldn’t be able to get enough.

Eren knew he shouldn’t be thinking like this because—fuck, what if you still didn’t want him in return?

He only lied about beer pong because he couldn’t outrightly confess to needing a drink before talking to you. He was so close to getting away with it, too. If you’d gone for another bite a second earlier, if he’d thought to take a sip of coffee to hide his face, maybe you wouldn’t have spotted the flushed bridge of his nose. So subtle, yet telling enough that you had to bite your inner lip to prevent a smile.

You held your fork before your face, inspecting the pancake as syrup dripped back onto the plate, purposefully flippant about it as you finally said to Eren, “It’s because I had a crush on you.”

“Huh?”

You plopped the pancake into your mouth, chewing so thoughtfully that it nearly killed Eren. After you swallowed, you said, “I had a crush on you. That’s why I was so quiet.”

He didn’t say another word, even with you staring him square in the face, expectant. It obviously flustered him. You laughed softly, just through your nose, then said, “That, and you always got better grades than me. I didn’t want you to think I was dumb.”

Eren didn’t hear the second half of what you said; he was still fixed on the first. “Do you still?”

You knew what he was asking, but you played obtuse. “Still what?”

“Have a crush on me.”  

You mulled it over while you went for another bite, eyes on him like he already had the answer. He did. You both did. Still, you let the question hang heavy between you. You weren’t quite ready to lay your cards on the table just yet. 

You tossed him a flick of a smile when you answered, “To be determined.”

He nodded once, lips folded in a similar sort of smile. “Got it.”

You were satisfied with that, but Eren wasn’t. He watched while you took another sip of coffee before reaching for another packet of sugar. Before you could dump it in, he shielded your mug with his hand. 

“But you better figure out an answer before all that sugar kills you,” he said.

You swatted him away. “Yeah, it’ll definitely be the sugar that kills me and not the keg stand I started the night with.”

“You did a keg stand?” 

He said it as if he didn’t believe you. You giggled, “Only because Hitch talked me into it.”

Eren laughed with you despite the shaking of his head. “See, what did I say? You surprise me.”

You had only hobbled a few feet out of the diner before your heels started hurting again. You sucked your teeth in pain, only made worse by another step. You had noted two fresh blisters on your heels when you slid your shoes back on, but you hoped they wouldn’t be a hassle since the walk to Eren’s was short. Now, all you wanted was to still be drunk enough to feel numb.

“Everything okay back there?” Eren asked.

You were behind him again, but not because of his pace. 

“Yeah,” you said. Eren thought it unconvincing, and you confirmed his hunch when he noticed you stumbling in the corner of his eye. “It’s my shoes. I’m sorry.”

He stopped walking and turned to you. “Why are you apologizing?”

“I don’t know.”

“Just take ‘em off.”

“I’m not just going to walk barefoot.”

“Didn’t say you had to.”

You didn’t seem to understand what he was implying, even less so when he gave you his back and bent slightly at the knee.

He could not be serious right now.

“My house is just a few more blocks away. I’ll carry you.”

Okay. He was actually serious. Eren was about to give you a piggyback ride.

You didn’t intend to laugh, but it was only because this situation was so ridiculous—and partly because of your own anxiety, fizzling at the thought alone.

Eren took it differently, shooting you a comically offended look when he said, “What? You think I can’t carry you?” He straightened tall, shoved his hands into his pockets, and began walking away. “Fine. Suit yourself.”

“Wait!”

You wanted to blame it on your feet or say you didn’t want to slow him down, but you had to be honest with yourself: were you really going to pass up this opportunity?

Eren flashed you a smile over his shoulder. “That’s what I thought.”

You ignored his boasting and began removing your shoes. He took them from you with one hand, then let you hop onto his back. His body didn’t give like you expected, and his arms were sturdy as they looped around your thighs. 

You hadn’t had a piggyback ride since you were probably eleven years old, but you could say with certainty that you didn’t remember it feeling like this. Eren’s neck was warm against your arms in the crisp night air. His hands were even hotter; you thought they might sear into the backs of your thighs.

Eren jostled you forward, higher onto his back. He warned, “Hold on tighter, or else you’re gonna fall off.” 

You hugged him, your chest pressing into his back. You’d never been this close to him before. His hair, only loosely tied back now, brushed against your face. His cologne was faint—warm like amber, but there was something refreshing that tickled your nose. You drew closer to him, inhaling the scent. 

Eren worried you felt the roll of his throat when your breath broke over the nape of his neck. How embarrassing that something as childish as a piggyback ride could send his heart racing. Suddenly, he was back in junior high, and it was his first time holding a girl’s hand. 

If this was all he’d have of you tonight, he’d be happy. Delighted. Even if it meant he’d end up waking up with a sore back. He wanted to earn back your crush, even if he wasn’t so sure it ever truly went away. 

Eren set you down on his porch and fished for his keys in his back pocket. Once inside, the house was blackout dark. You stilled in the entryway, entirely unaware of your surroundings but listening as Eren walked ahead.

Not a second later, Eren flipped on a light from the other room. It was bright enough to hurt your eyes at first, but at least you could see the floor now.

Eren stood in the doorway to the kitchen. He wore a look of trepidation, staring at you like you were some scared little puppy he’d rescued. 

“Can I get you some water?” he asked.

“Sure. Thank you.”

Eren gestured toward the sofa and offered a clunky, “Make yourself at home,” before disappearing around the corner. 

You’d hardly made yourself comfortable (if that was even possible in this situation) before he returned. You didn’t even realize how rigid your joints were until you had to uncross your arms and reach for the water bottle Eren handed you. 

You wouldn’t call the feeling anxiety. It was more like anticipation. The ‘will they or won’t they?’ moment of the night. 

Eren sat on the opposite side of the old couch, and it squeaked beneath his weight. “I imagine you wouldn’t want to sleep on the couch in a house full of guys,” he said as he settled into the cushions. “Take my room, if you want. I’m fine sleeping out here.”

You nearly choked on your water. “I’m not going to take your bed.” You couldn’t, possibly. You didn’t think you’d even seen his room before. “You didn’t even need to go through the trouble of letting me stay the night.”

“Out of all my troubles,” Eren said with a certain warmth to his face, discernible in the lowest of lights, “you staying the night is the least of them.”

You smiled at him. 

You smiled at him, and you had not the slightest inclination how deeply it tugged at his heart. The smile was shy, no greater than a curl of the corners of your mouth, yet Eren desired nothing more than to memorize the shape of it underneath his lips. 

“Okay,” you finally agreed. You could have ended it there, and you probably should have, but his unreadable gaze had you skittish and rambly. “But, really, if it’s too much—if you want me to go, I can call a—”

“I don’t want you to go.”

You stammered, pretending you had something, anything, to say. Something changed, but you couldn’t say what. There was a shift in energy, a new glint to his eyes—in the look he was giving you. 

Maybe it would be more accurate to say that everything had changed. 

There wasn’t much air in your voice when you said, “I don’t want to go, either.”

Your admission was barely a whisper. So delicate and saccharine that Eren wasn’t even sure you intended to say it aloud. Your eyes went big and genuine, as if you had revealed some secret you’d been holding onto for who knew how long. 

He had the same look on his face, like he barely clung onto what little composure you hadn’t stolen from him yet. You liked seeing him like that—such an unguarded expression on a face that was normally hardened. Eyes soft and electric, all at once. You never thought he’d look at you in such a way, and you didn’t want it to end. 

Now or never.

“Eren?”

“Yeah?” His voice sounded just as taken as yours.

Eren knew you as anything but bold, but right then, you were incredibly so. Purring your words when you asked him, “Why are you always so nice to me?” 

The distant light from the kitchen cast shadows along the angles of his jaw, highlighting how it tensed. “Am I?”

You nodded. Slowly.

“How so?”

“You know,” you said knowingly. You stretched your leg across the couch, languid, inching closer to him until you had it draped over his lap as if you’d done it a million times before. “You walk me home when I’m drunk. Carry me when my feet hurt.” You nudged your foot beneath his hand, encouraging him to place it atop your leg. “You let me spend the night and even offer me your bed.”

You felt oh so courageous now, but you knew you’d regret the shenanigans the next time you saw Eren on campus. You could already see the smug smile he’d give you from across the hall or from the far side of the green—wherever you’d inevitably run into him next. You would turn into a puddle right on the spot. 

But none of that mattered tonight. You heard him stifle the groan at the back of his throat as your foot grazed over the front of his pants, and you needed to hear it again. 

“Not to mention,” you retracted your leg, sat back onto your calves, and leaned into him, giggling, “you tutored me in anatomy for an entire semester without complaining once.”

He looked from the hand you’d rested on his leg to your face. You were so close, knees bumping against the side of his thigh. He wanted to keep you there, he thought, as his hand cupped your cheek. You tried your best not to melt into him. 

“I think I might have complained once,” Eren said with a smile in his voice. His thumb traced over your skin. “But I can’t help myself. You’re very cute when you’re drunk and when you’re proud after passing a quiz.” He unexpectedly grinned. “And when you hold your textbook too close to your face when you read.”

“I don’t do that.”

“Yes, you do.”

You pulled a face but didn’t argue any further. You couldn’t, not with how close you were to him now, the tips of your noses nearly brushing. He still held your face as he swiped his thumb along your bottom lip. You wetted them, wanting a taste. 

Yes, you’d found yourselves here, but neither of you wanted to be the first to crumble the wall you’d spend an entire semester building together. One so tall that there were times you couldn’t see over it. 

Eren caressed your face. You moved with him, tilting in until your forehead pressed against his, and you could feel his breath on your lips when you told him, “I think I still have a crush on you.”

“Yeah. I know.” He wasn’t his usual cocky self about it. He sounded soft; he was relieved. 

Your hand traveled up his thigh, and you felt the muscles twitch as you went. He wondered if you had any idea what you were doing to him—how insane you’d driven him. You had to. 

“So,” you said, long and drawn-out. Your hand palmed over the tent in his jeans. He was hard. Much harder than you’d expect from some harmless flirting. “Are you going to do something about it?”

“Fuck,” Eren muttered under his breath. “C’mere.”

His hand slipped into your hair, fingers curling around the back of your head to pull you to him. What you thought would be a crash of lips was much more affectionate. Instead of kissing you as if he believed he could make up for lost time, he kissed you like he knew he had all the time in the world with you, finally. 

Eren’s lips were soft, every movement thoughtful as he coaxed apart your lips. His tongue was hot and licking against your own and made your head spin. You snatched a fistful of his shirt in some vain attempt at grounding yourself, but the longer he made out with you, taking his time with no destination in mind, the more helpless you became. 

“Eren.”

It left you in a gasp. A moan he could swallow up before it met the air. 

Either he didn’t hear you or he ignored it. He angled your head slightly, exposing your neck for him to explore. He kissed the corner of your mouth and down your jaw until you felt his lips at the hollow below your ear. 

“Eren,” you repeated, louder this time, more needily, because he’d begun kissing at your pulse point. 

“Hm?” he hummed, unbothered. Oblivious to how desperately turned on you were, how just his teeth skimming the delicate skin of your neck had your thighs clenching. 

“That’s why you didn’t want me to leave, right?” you said between heavy breaths. You let your eyes flutter shut as you felt him suck just above your collarbone, where he’d surely leave a bruise. 

You rubbed your hand where you could feel his cock straining beneath the zipper of his jeans. When his breathing faltered, you reached to undo the button. 

“Because you’ve thought about this before,” you murmured. With his jeans opened, you snuck a hand below his boxers and wrapped your hand around his cock. “Because you were hoping this would happen.” You nuzzled your face into his neck, peppering kisses of your own, noting his quickening pulse as you began stroking him, base to tip. “Because you couldn’t help yourself.”

“Yes,” Eren groaned. He would have tried harder to hold it back, but his patience was already waning as he staved off his urge to rut into your hand. 

“I’ve thought about it, too,” you confessed. 

That broke him. Before you knew it—before he knew it—he had you pinned between him and the couch.

Your back hit the cushion with another whine from the springs, louder and more obnoxious than the one earlier. When Eren kissed you again, he was no longer taking his time. Because you were right, he couldn’t help himself. Not around you, at least, and not after hearing you wanted him in the same ways he needed you. 

It wasn’t long before the couch became too cramped for your liking, limbs slipping and spilling until you thought you might fall onto the floor. Only when your head dangling off the couch forced your lips to separate did you have a minute to catch your breath—or at least try to. 

“You said,” you panted, collecting yourself. “You said I could sleep in your room. Maybe you could show it to me now…”

Eren felt hazy, brain short-circuiting for the obvious reason, but your implication was just heavy-handed enough for him to catch on.

“Yeah. Okay.”

He helped you upright, fumbling around one another, climbing the stairs in a clumsy hurry until you were tripping over your own feet because you couldn’t imagine keeping your hands off each other for even a second. 

Behind his closed bedroom door, Eren’s hands became reckless as they pawed over your body, anywhere they could. You could feel the desperation, the firmness in his touch that made you weak in the knees and struggle to suppress your whispers. Each tiny sound encouraged him, riling him up further until he had you braced against the wall. 

His forearms, planted on either side of you, kept you caged in place, but you would have stayed there for him more than willingly. Forever, if you could. His mouth on yours was commanding enough that he could take you with him wherever he pleased. 

You hated yourself for getting more turned on at just the thought. 

Taking him by his loose, unzipped jeans, you tugged him close and hooked a leg around his waist. His cock pressed between your legs, and you ground against him because if you didn’t, you swore you might explode. You were only human, after all.

And, God, Eren wanted to give you everything you wanted—everything he had. There was a part of him that wanted to make you wait, maybe even beg for him, but like you, he was also only human. 

When he pulled back from your kiss, chest rising and falling with each labored breath, he could only tell you, “Bed.” 

With a bobble of your head, you repeated, “Bed,” and separated. 

Eren went to turn on his bedside lamp, and you figured it time to shed from your tight clothes. You didn’t think he’d be able to easily get you out of your top. After all, Hitch had to help you into it. 

The lamp cast a low, almost orange glow, but it was enough to make you feel keenly aware of his gaze on you as you peeled off your shirt. It bunched as you snaked it over your head, its slinky fabric hugging your body and revealing your bra with a subtle bounce of your tits. Every part of it, of you, was so shamefully sexy. Eren couldn’t get enough. 

As you went to take off your jeans, Eren neared you in a step. His hands closed over yours as if to tell you Let me do it. You watched silently as he opened the front of your jeans, his hands curving around your hips and shimmying the fitted denim down your legs. Once they fell and pooled at your ankles, you kicked them aside. All the while, Eren kissed down the crook of your neck, the spot he learned you liked, especially when he sucked there. 

Freed from the constraints of your night-out clothes, you pushed back from him and let yourself collapse onto his bed. You sprawled out with a stretch of your back. It felt so wonderful to lie against the billowy comforter, to finally be off your feet. You nestled around, relaxing like you could have lulled off right then—almost. 

The little sound you gave, a sweet moan of relief you didn’t even realize you’d let slip, made Eren’s cock twitch before he could even touch you. The sight of you, ready and beneath him, had him overwhelmed, to say the least. He didn’t know where to look—he didn’t even know where to start. 

His fingertips, though lightly calloused, felt exceedingly gentle as he trailed them along your bare skin. So softly that if you shut your eyes, you might not even know he was there. He started below the underwire of your bra, then down the length of your stomach. He tickled at your hipbone, and you squirmed so cutely beneath him.

How sensitive. 

Eren wanted to say something witty, but the sight of you stirring below him had him spacey and quiet. Even the chuckle he gave was hardly audible, just a huff through his nose. 

He only faltered when he reached the band of your underwear. In his fleeting lucidity, he blinked, hard, like it would clear away the fog. He stared down at you as if you’d given him a reason to be suspicious. 

Before you could ask what was wrong, he spoke first. “How are you?”

You mirrored his suspicion, eyebrows knitting together. “I’m good. Um, how are you?”

His face scrunched, and you thought he was about to say Not good. It made you nervous. You perched on your elbows, interested, waiting for him. He ran his fingers through his hair, as he always did when he was trying really hard to concentrate. 

“We’re a little past exchanging pleasantries, don’t you think?” you teased, mainly because you didn’t know what else you were supposed to say. 

“No, that’s not what I meant.” Eren brought his hand to his head as if he could capture his thoughts before they slipped away. “Like, I mean—” Coherency was out of reach, especially with you laid out in front of him, head tilted with curiosity, staring up at him through pretty, heavy lashes. Had they always been that long?

Finally, he blurted out, “Are you still drunk?” 

Oh. 

You let out the breath of air you were holding. Thinking over your answer, you took an inventory of every feeling in your body, every fiber of your being only wanting him. 

“Not really,” you said with a shrug. “Those pancakes were a real lifesaver.”

Eren still looked hesitant. You took his hand in yours and gave a small squeeze, smiling up at him. “I want this. Like, really, really want this.” 

That softened him up, and he gave a short laugh. With your assurance, his fingers began their work again, pulling lightly at your underwear. As he played with the fabric, his once-boyish expression turned more brazen as he asked, “Then is it okay if I touch you here?” 

His voice was gruff, the timbre of it still ringing in your ears even after he stopped talking.

“Yes,” you murmured, eyes fixed on him, on his fingers. They pushed past your panties despite your hope that he’d take them off entirely.

That single, breathy word gave Eren the go-ahead to crawl over you. He planted one hand into the mattress to hold himself up, the other traced the crease of your thigh teasingly—but it was more like he was teasing himself. You were still propped on your elbows, close enough to Eren that with a tilt of your head, you were kissing him again. 

He glided his fingers between you, tracing your entrance but not dipping any further. 

“You’re so wet,” he groaned, still playing with you. He’d circle your clit, just until your jaw went slack, then he’d let up. “All for me?” 

“Mhm.” You exhaled indulgently when his fingers returned to rubbing your clit. When you lifted your hips, his circles became tighter, quicker, giving you exactly what you needed. You let go then, allowing your wobbly elbows to give out. Eren chased after you, nipping down your neck and leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses along your throat. 

Eren, Eren, Eren. Thoughts of him, only him consumed you. Consumed by how good he made you feel and every place you wanted him.

And when you cried, “Ah—all for you,” you certainly weren’t thinking about how desperate you sounded for a guy who’d been nothing more than your lab partner until a couple of hours ago. 

That made him snap. In one impulsive motion, Eren stood and hooked his fingers around your underwear, tearing them off with ease. Once they were out of his way and lost amongst your other garments, his hand was rightfully back between your legs. 

He pumped his middle finger inside you first, curling it just right and putting an arch in your back. You thought he’d be arrogant about it, how he already had you (quite literally) bending to his will, but he was way past that. He was wholly lost in you, every bit of you. Your tiny gasps spilling from your kiss-swollen lips, your bra and how its straps had limply fallen past your shoulder to expose the supple skin of your chest. How pretty your cunt looked taking his finger. 

Eren’s pace ignited that delicious, familiar feeling within you. But just as quickly as it began burning in the lowest part of your stomach, you lost it just as fast. 

With a frustrated sob, your eyes snapped open to see why he’d so rudely edged you like that.

Eren tore his shirt over his head and threw it aside—another article of clothing you’d have to sort through later. “I wanna go down on you.”

You felt his words hot at the back of your neck—either that, or it was the sight of his deceivingly toned stomach. Or it was the fact that his words didn’t waver as he spoke so freely to you. Whatever it was, you couldn’t decide before Eren started stripping off his jeans. And if you were still unsure why you’d clammed up, the sight of him hard in his boxers–large and threatening to undo you—was most certainly the reason. 

You tried your best to look him in the face when you asked, “Don’t you think we should be fast? All of your roommates are home.”

That was the last thing Eren wanted. He wanted to have you, all to himself, for as long as you’d allow. 

But that was easy for him to say now; his willpower had already started waning. 

“They’re sleeping. Don’t worry about them.” Eren thumbed soothingly against your inner thigh. It made it difficult to say no to him. At least until he cracked a small, devilish smile. “I thought you said you were quiet.”

The daggers you shot him said enough. You had only started to bite back when Eren shut you up. He leaned over you, shrouded you in his warmth—even warmer was his mouth, his tongue, at your neck, running along the silky skin. 

Eren sucked at the lobe of your ear, and the airy giggle you gave traveled right to his cock. He kissed your collarbone as he dragged down the cups of your bra. The feeling of his bedroom air against your perked nipples sent goosebumps scattering across your body. His hot tongue quelled the chill, and you rewarded him with a moan—even louder when he took your nipple into his mouth.

You were so, so sensitive. All for him, too. Eren craved to learn every nook on your body he could kiss and every sound you’d make in response. He wanted to discover every last part of you, especially the ones that would have you wrecked. 

The kisses continued down your stomach, with him lowering to his knees on the carpet. Taking your legs, one in each hand, he pulled them back to make room to settle between. He placed your thighs on his shoulders and scooted you in close until your bottom half hung off the side of the bed. 

Eren palmed over the tops of your thighs and let the flesh mold to his hands. He left kisses there, too, his lips so close to where you wanted him the most. 

“Let me taste you.” His voice was a quiet plea. He pressed kiss against your inner thigh, then another, with his eyes fluttering shut like he wanted to savor you. “Please.”

You must have lost your voice somewhere in your throat. You could only nod a response, perhaps a bit too eagerly. Eren gleamed up at you. He clearly wanted to say something but was smart enough not to risk it this time. 

He kissed you first, then gave a flat lap of his tongue against you, just a taste. He licked you slowly, and even that was enough to make you suck a breath in through your clenched teeth. 

“Spread your legs wider for me.” You did as you were told and swore you felt him grin against you. “Good girl.”

You made a humiliating sound at that. One you didn’t expect, and Eren definitely didn’t expect either. It excited him, knowing how weak you were to his words. His voice. Him. 

With you fully on display for him, Eren couldn’t resist burying his face into you. His tongue darted to your clit, each flick another pulse of electricity at the base of your spine. 

You raised your hips to meet his mouth. His tongue remained steady, never letting up as he leaned into a rhythm he thought you might like—one that had you lacing your fingers in his hair. 

With a little more time, angling and guiding his tongue to just the right spot, you began seeing white behind your eyelids. 

“Eren—ah,” you frantically panted, “right there.”

He had his pointed tongue against your clip, licking in tandem with your rocking hips. When your thighs began shaking, he wrapped his arms around them and locked you into place. Even when you swore it was too much, you couldn’t slip away.

Eren continued having you feverishly, filling the bedroom with a mixture of your wispy cries and groans of his own. He was just as desperate for you to come as you felt, worshipping every squeak and squirm he could get from you.

“Eren, I—”

His eyes landed on yours. Not breaking his pace, he replaced his tongue with his thumb. “You want more?”

You swallowed hard and nodded.

“You want my fingers?” His thumb stilled. You mourned the loss only for him to dip his finger inside you. 

“Oh, fuck,” you whined. “Yes.”

He used two fingers this time, collecting his spit and your slick before pumping them in and out of you. He leaned in, gave your clit a few kitten licks, and picked up right where he had left off. 

You were getting close, so fucking close, and if time could allow for it, you would have stayed in that feeling forever, just shy of becoming entirely undone. 

Admittedly, there were many times when you imagined Eren having his way with you, wondering what it’d be like for him to finger and fuck you. But never did you think he’d want you this way, let alone beg for it. And you couldn’t have possibly imagined how the sight would absolutely ruin you.

Eren’s face, flushed in a blossomy pink that spanned his nose and cheeks, shoved between your thighs, devouring you whole as he stretched you with his fingers. You were so wet; he was wet. Soaked, actually, in a mess you might have cared more about if you weren't about to come. 

His green eyes, darkened like you’d never seen before, found yours. He moaned. He felt pathetic, unable to stop himself from shoving his boxers down his thighs. He took hold of himself, aching for the slightest bit of relief, because you were quite possibly the hottest thing he’d ever seen. He knew you’d look even better when you were coming on his tongue. 

You whimpered when you saw him fisting his cock, nice and fast. He was so hard for you, and you weren’t shy about staring. You were too curious to see how he liked it, watching him fuck his fist with quick breaks to give extra attention to his tip. You thought about how he’d fuck you, how he’d like it then, and it pushed you over the edge.

Your cries came out choppy and strained until they cut out entirely. You sobbed silently, carelessly, rolling your hips over Eren’s tongue and helping his finger dip against that spot over and over again. You wanted to drag out the feeling for as long as you could. By the end, you were trembling, exhausted, and could no longer keep your eyes open. 

Eren had to stop pumping himself, or else he would have come from that alone. He sat back on his calves, one of his hands stroking your thigh while his other gently rubbed your clit. His touch was no greater than a feather’s, just to ease you back down. You looked like you needed it, all wrecked, legs limply pulled apart, just like he hoped. 

God. He annoyed himself for ever pretending he never wanted you, because you—you were a dream. 

And the only thing that could wake him from such a dream was your voice.

“Eren?”

He loved it when you said his name.

You sat up to look at him properly. It felt like there were a ton of bricks on your chest. Eren appeared quite the opposite, entirely unfazed. He had his cheek smushed against your thigh, staring unabashedly at the finger he lazily pushed back inside you. You jolted, still sensitive, still spasming around his finger. 

Eren felt mesmerized by the feeling of you sucking him in for more. He didn’t even look up when he replied, “Hm?”

You would have normally found the situation embarrassing, but you were still so touchy from your orgasm that the winding feeling in your stomach had already returned. Coiling tighter and tighter, it begged to snap again. 

“I want you to fuck me.”

He loved hearing that even more. 

If he were a dog, you’d imagined his ears would have perked up like you said the magic words. 

“What was that?” Eren asked, more playfully than you expected. You didn’t like it, especially not when paired with his grin. “I couldn’t hear you. You were mumbling.”

“You heard me the first time.”

He ran his finger down your thigh. “Say it again.”

It tickled. You fussed, “Eren, come on—”

“No, I don’t think that was it. I think you said something else.”

“Just—” You sighed begrudgingly before giving in. “I want you to fuck me. Please fuck me, Eren.”

He positively beamed at you, proud of both you and himself. He reached for his boxers, still hanging mid-thigh, and removed them entirely. 

“That wasn’t so hard now, was it?”

Eren straightened out and didn’t give you the chance to respond before flipping you onto your stomach. You bounced against the mattress when you landed with loud, conspicuous squeaks accompanying you. 

You felt Eren’s hand on your shoulder, squeezing reassuringly. His fingers skated lower, down to your bra before undoing the clasp. When you pushed onto your hands, you felt your bra dangle loosely around your arms. 

Eren took you by your hips and raised you to your knees. 

“You look so pretty like this,” he said as he stroked himself with one hand, giving a light smack to your ass with his other. 

“Eren!” you yelped. “Roommates!”

“I thought I told you not to worry about them,” he said, punctuated with another spank. 

You could still feel the print of his hand when you heard rustling behind you. You peered over your shoulder to see Eren tearing open a condom. He rolled it onto his cock, all the while, his eyes kept you, naked and with your ass in the air, pinned to the bed. 

He flattened a hand against your lower back, then spread you with the tip of his cock aligned with your entrance. 

Eren guided himself inside more slowly than he wanted to, listening to you whimper as you adjusted to his size. It was a bit of a stretch but easy enough for him to push inside, having already prepped you with his fingers and mouth, leaving you aching for him to fill you with more. 

Once his pelvis was flush against you, he felt you flutter around him, squeezing his cock so perfectly he thought you must be made for him. A low groan bubbled in his throat, nearly a growl. The sound made your heart skip, right between your lungs, and you clenched to encourage another. 

“You’re going to make me come if you keep doing that,” Eren said in a hiss of pleasure. 

“Doing what?” you asked innocently. Then you did it again. 

Despite the warning, Eren didn’t protest it. Instead, he started thrusting into you leisurely. He was self-indulgent about it, spreading you with his hands so he could admire how well you took his cock. 

“God, you feel so fucking good,” he muttered, quiet enough that it was as if he were talking to himself. “So fucking good.”

“Eren.”

The whine in your voice drove him wild. 

His hands, large and demanding, gripped your sides. The blunt ends of his nails dug into the fat of them as he pulled you back to meet every snap of his hips. The smacking sound of skin-on-skin bounced off the bedroom walls, but you didn’t complain this time. You only let your head drop between your shoulders, eyes screwing shut as you became lost in the throes of pleasure all over again. 

You reached a hand back to grab ahold of him where you could. He didn’t stop fucking you to ask, “What is it?” 

He folded over you, hand snaking up your neck and taking hold of your chin. He turned you to look at him, to see what you wanted. But you couldn’t form anything other than wimpy chants of ah, ah, ah, sounding mangled through your squished cheeks. 

“Tell me how you want it.”

His words alone made you bite back a moan.

Finally, you managed to say, “Harder.”

Eren smiled, slack-jawed and toothy, and you would have found it irresistible, yet totally ill-fitting, if you’d have seen it. But how else was he supposed to react? 

He placed a kiss at the base of your neck, then between your shoulders. It was unexpectedly doting, until you felt his hand curve around your front. Though you knew what was coming, you still squealed when he hoisted you upright with your back sealed against his chest. 

Eren held you there, fucking up into you, harder, like you asked of him. Your flimsy bra flopped around your arms with each of his thrusts. He groped at your breast, taking your nipple between his fingers, rolling and pinching at it until you were mewling. 

He continued taking you as if you’d always been his, and you let him have you. You let him use you like you only existed for his pleasure, with your head feeling heavy as it lolled back against him. 

But you were so much more than that. Eren was determined to make you come again. This time, he wanted to feel it. 

“Touch yourself,” Eren breathed, right into your ear. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up. “I want to hear you when you come this time.”

Your hand slithered down between your legs. The very tips of your fingers bumped into Eren’s cock as you got yourself off. Legs quivering with the added pressure, you were practically vibrating when you came, your heart pounding in your ears. There was no double he heard you this time around. 

It was a challenge to remain upright. You fell from Eren’s hold and landed forcefully on the bed, him toppling right along with you. You were still riding out the aftershocks of your orgasm as he fucked you deep into the mattress; it had your thighs squeezing together so nicely for him. 

“I’m—ah, fuck—I’m close,” Eren grunted.

He surprised you by pulling out, but you realized it was only to roll you onto your back. He manhandled you like you weighed nothing, had your arms tossed above your head and pinned in place with a single hand around your wrists. He pushed back inside you, hard and fast, with a bead of sweat rolling down his forehead.

“I need to see you.” 

Your stomach flipped at his words as if they were poetry. Fuck. He had you so irrevocably wrapped around his finger, you thought. And perhaps you were merely lovelorn and searching for something that wasn’t there, but you swore he appeared just as ensnared as you. 

Your mouth sought out his in a sloppy kiss. It was suckling lips and colliding teeth, smothered grunts and groans as you ground against one another. But you didn’t care. You enjoyed every messy, frantic minute of it. 

You wanted to touch him. Wriggling until he released his hold on your wrists, you took his face between your hands. His eyes were moony and heavy-lidded and had you swooning. 

“Fuck, Eren—I want you to come,” you gasped.

Easy enough.

He came, hard. As perverted as it may sound, you wished you had a camera. You wanted to remember how his eyes snapped shut and to record every sound. He buried his face into the crook of your neck, his hips stuttering, grinding as if he could reach any deeper. 

Eren’s breath was hot against your already sweltering skin. It was hard to breathe, especially under his weight, but you wanted to stay there and hold him for a little while longer. 

Neither of you spoke. You didn’t realize you’d been grazing your fingers up and down the back of his neck until he lifted off you. He let his gaze linger on your face, one last look, then nudged his nose against yours before getting up. 

You laid still, only watching as Eren disposed of the condom. Your legs felt too soft and lazy to move, so you followed him with your eyes instead as he stepped into a pair of sweatpants. 

“The invitation to stay the night still stands, right?” you asked. Admittedly, with some sass. 

“No, I was actually going to call you an Uber home.” Eren rolled his eyes. “Of course it does. What kind of guy do you take me for?” 

You giggled as you finally sat up. “Where’s your bathroom?” 

“Down the hallway, last door on the right.” Eren took one look at you, then started digging around in his dresser. He tossed something at you, aiming it at your head by the looks of it. You snatched it just in time; it was one of his t-shirts. “You can wear that.”

You held it by the sleeves and gave it a once over. “Is that weird?”

“It wasn’t until you asked that.”

You pulled the tee over your head and adjusted it as you stood. Your underwear came next, but you felt more hesitant to put back on your jeans. 

“They’re sleeping, I promise,” Eren assured as he put on a shirt of his own. “Just be quick.”

“Okay.” You left but poked your head back in to say. “I’m leaving the door cracked so I know which room is yours.”

He laughed. “All right.”

You followed his instructions, trying to be quick about it. You peed, washed your hands, and only stared at the fresh hickey on your collarbone for ten seconds before rushing back down the hallway.

Eren was in bed when he saw the door swing open. “Look at you, Ms. C Plus, not getting lost.”

You made a face at him. “Whatever, Brian.”

Right on cue, he complained, “It was one time.”

For whatever reason, you didn’t join him in bed right away. You felt a bit like a deer in headlights, blinking at Eren. He looked sleepy, his hair unkempt from your fingers. Seeing him like this, with you dressed in his shirt, about to curl up under his sheets—were you supposed to go along with this as if it were normal?

When you finally thought of something to say, Eren cut in first, “Don’t you dare try to take the couch after that.” 

That was exactly what you were about to do.

He chuckled, knowing he was right by the stubborn purse of your lips. He lifted the blanket for you—once again, as if this were entirely normal for you to do—and said, “Get over here already. I’m getting cold.”

Eren was extremely difficult to say no to, but you knew that already. You crawled into his bed without contest and let him tuck the comforter over you. 

Either his pillows were really soft, or you just felt that exhausted because your eyelids went immediately heavy. Eren reached over you to turn out the light, then let his arm fall on top of you. He hugged your waist and didn’t hesitate to pull you into him.

He nuzzled into the back of your neck, stealing a giggle from you. “Are you always this clingy after sex?”

Eren hummed an affirmative sound, tickling you again. He was most definitely never this clingy after sex. But there was no way he could keep his hands to himself, not with how good you looked in his shirt, barely long enough to cover anything. Maybe his tensions in lending you his shirt weren’t entirely pure—so sue him. You wearing his clothes was a sight he could get used to. One he had a feeling he’d get to see much more often.

it’s his pet names that linger instead— sounding all soft and familiar, worn warm from use. the ones he returns to without thinking, like second nature. schatzi. simply sweet. ever so precious. the word curls from his mouth with an ease that feels almost absentminded, yet never careless. and liebling, his favorite, his darling. it’s usually spoken quieter, closer, like it belongs to you and him alone.

those are the few words you come to know. not by translation, but how they’re given. by the way his voice lowers around them, the way they brush against your skin like something tangible.

mixed by blood, eren's heritage lives in the small details about him more than anything else; his cadence, his features, his mannerisms. he doesn't necessarily talk about it. his tongues, german and turkish, live elsewhere. like in fleeting moments on the phone with his family, voice softened with a familiarity different from the kind he shows you.

it's admirable, how effortlessly he slips into the rhythm of home when catching up with his mother and father. you hear it only then, in fragments and tones, something distant. you try to glimpse into that part of him, but he leaves it unshared. 

it isn't that your boyfriend withholds any aspects of his life, or his culture, from you. rather, he lets untranslatable words fall as they come, shaped more by his feeling than intentionality. there's a certain intimacy in that. he thinks that you don't have to understand every syllable to feel the weight of it.

because with him, it's about how it lingers in the space between you long after the words have fallen away.

you know eren doesn’t make much use of deutsch in his everyday life, no. it remains tucked away as the one thing he doesn't reach for, but something that exists all the same. and maybe, that's what makes it all the more enticing, when it surfaces in the moments his control finally begins to slip.

it’s in those instances, when his breath grows uneven and composure frays at the edges, that something from deep within him begins to rise unbidden. words he doesn't consciously choose, tones he typically wouldn't shape, leaving him in a low, broken lilt. there's nothing intentional about it, just the rawness of instinct when the sensation is so overwhelming that he can't help himself any longer.

and in that unraveling, there's something disarmingly sensual. not just the act itself, or the hot slide of his hands when he touches you, but a side of him that can't be hidden away, revealed only when he's too far gone to hold it back.

"scheisse!"

it slips out of him without warning. his mind’s so muddled by the way your dewy walls squeeze his cock that he doesn’t even think to translate. he’s drawn fully into the hilt of your gushing pussy, his presence heavy both in-and-outside of you. he's got you splayed out on your back, displayed ever so beautifully, soft textured hair fanning out on the pillows, like that of a halo. how fitting, for his precious angel. 

eren has you tucked under the breadth of him and slovenly folded into missionary, your body immovably pressed beneath the heat and heaviness of his imposing frame. his attention narrows on you, you, you, until nothing else seems to exist outside of it.

your trembling leg is held in his left palm, secured at the pit of your knee as he guides it up against your shoulder as a means to fucks deeper into you. his other hand rests hot upon your waist, grip tightening whenever you react, kneading at warm brown flesh whenever you clamp down on him. he's unrelenting with how he draws out, plows in, does it again, again, again. dense clapping resounds in hollow echoes throughout the dim-lit bedroom of his paradis-city penthouse.

"e—ren! eren, erennn,” his name falls fractured from your lips, each syllable hitching as it leaves you. he hears it, and something in him shifts. a slow, unmistakable reaction that pulls at the corner of his mouth before it fully settles into a smile. it spreads wide, brazen and sharp in a way that looks as feral as he feels; all teeth, cutting sharp and boyish across his face, features drawn tight with ardor.

pleasure has already taken hold of him; face flushed, sweat gathering and rolling in narrow paths down his skin. his dark manbun sits slightly undone at the base of his head, loose strands slipping free to cling to his temples and the nape of his neck, his tattooed body damp with the same heat that coats him. his brows, thick and dark, knit tightly together, while his bright-teal eyes stay intense and wild, fixed on you with a look that doesn’t waver. you’re his maker and weakness alike, the only thing holding his focus together as he unravels for you.

"komm schon, engel," eren dips low, his large frame folding over yours, shoulders rounding as he closes the space between you, brushing the plush of your lips with his own. "hngh, wha—?" you whine against his mouth, needing of clarity. his breath is warm and close when he murmurs, earnest for a taste of your lips, "küss mich."

you don’t fully comprehend him, but eren closes the gap regardless, until there’s nowhere left for your voice to go but into him. his large hand lifts up, cups your jaw nice and steady, tilts you upwards just enough to meet him as he presses his lips to yours. firm at first, then deeper, more claiming than it is gentle. when he pulls back, it’s only by a breath’s width, enough for the curve of his smile to linger against your mouth. 

his hips take to a slow roll, grinding into yours so sweetly. the rounded end of his hard cock nudges the inner pudge of your softest spots, with the lean ridge of his pelvis brushing over the sensitive peak of your clit. the both of you hold no inhibitions, breaths pouring into each other's mouths in uneven waves, panting and moaning with not a sound refrained.

him and you, you and him, him in you. all sense becomes lost in a heated slew of sloppy strokes and the wettest kisses. he's making such a mess of you; stealing your breath, bruising your flesh, fucking stirring your insides.

for eren, countless sensations begin to merge. your velveteen walls are clamping down, tight, on his pulsing dick, dripping and sobbing all over the length of it. then there's the way you cling to him, just ferocious. the powder-white arch of your fresh nails do well at drawing fiery marks down the broad plane of his tatted back. his olive skin is warm and damp under your palms, glowing sheen with a film of sweat. 

your breath brushes against the reddening shell of his pierced ear, sounds uneven and soft in a way that makes him grow impossibly harder. eren responds in kind, groans amplified, his hold at your waist tightening just enough to keep you anchored to the you-shaped dip in his king sized mattress. you're so pretty, so perfect; behaving so well that all he wants to do is just give you more. 

so he does. 

"shh, lass mich einfach . . stillhalten." eren’s hands span down your shaking thighs, dancing around around your calf until they close around both of your ankles. his fingers wrap fully, thumbs rubbing circles while the rest of his grip adjusts you without effort. he translates what he knows you didn't catch, "don't move." 

eren shapes the physical space between you, and he continues to bend you at angles until the right silhouette is captured. he brings your knees toward your shoulders, folding the form until thighs press firmly against the core of your tummy. shifting his weight low, he transitions into a deep squat, strong thighs flexed as he assumes the position of sitting on his haunches, all without pulling out of you.

with the new vantage, he drives forward and plunges into the tightness of you with sudden, intense momentum that draws the sharpest, most involuntary cry from your lungs— a sound that brings a knowing smile to his face. eren frees self-satisfied laughter, for he always manages to pry out the very reaction he sought to provoke. he finds your body familiar. so easy to mold, too easy to play with.

"ffuuuck! p-please, papaaa, please—"

his response comes rippling out as an unintended growl, sourced from the depths of his chest, and the bass of it makes you clench helplessly around him. with every surge, every thrust forward, he loses another piece of his restraint. an especially taut squeeze of your soaked pussy is all it takes for his snark to dissolve into total surrender.

"fuck . . du bist so eng," his words grow reckless to match just how you undo him. he rambles on about just how tight you are, freeing terribly desperate praise and german incoherencies. he's too far gone to realize he'd even switched languages. frankly, eren doesn't even know what he's saying anymore, and you sure as hell don’t either. it’s hard to follow when he’s digging you out like that; hips slamming down, the fat of his balls clapping against the seam of your ass with every thrust.

more foreign words tumble from his lips— dark, guttural, yet somehow melodic, leaving you in a haze of both lust and confusion. despite it, your body understands the intent perfectly. the way you arch into him, cunt swallowing every known inch of his dick whole, slick walls clamping around him like a desperate vice, tells him everything he needs to know. 

eren finally seems to be returning to himself, eyes clearing as he grows aware; and with that, comes the teasing. another predatory smirk pulls at his mouth as he realizes just how cockdrunk he’s made you, sensitive even down to the veins that drag within you. and so, he draws out the friction, slows his pace to an agonizing crawl, buries himself into you with impossible depth.

each heavy thrust knocks at your cervix and prods at the very limit of you, blunt and demanding, as if he’s trying to leave his mark on your very soul. he's so all-consuming that the heady scent of his skin and the licking heat of his salt-slicked body fills your lungs. you’re crying, you think, unsure as to when it started. all you know is you’re breathing him in, tasting the raw, primal edge of him with every gasp and tear you choke on. 

"aww, poor baby,” he croons, tone darkened with condescend, “macht dich das an, schatzi?" he murmurs, the grunted slew of german humming against your skin. he’s asking if it turns you on— the suddenly rough shift into his mother tongue, and though the meaning of his words escape your mind, you can only nod helplessly, teeth sinking into the swell of your spit-streaked lip as a flush burns across your chest.

"feels good, yeah? i'm fucking you so deep, aren't i? mm, c'mon, angel . . . talk to me, talk to daddy." he eases more of his weight onto your pressed frame, feeding you deep, languid strokes so slow you can hear the wetness sloshing.

"yeahhh, it's good, er-en . . hnn, feelssogood, d-daddyyy," his name tears out of you in a pulled shudder, the syllables breaking over one another. it’s the type of sound that invites his wolfish grin, curled with a special kind of satisfaction. his smile is purely predatory when he gets to hitching your leg up higher, rocking into you faster. the lewdness of unfiltered noise begins to swell throughout the room.

before long, you're both trembling over the pace he’s taken; his fingers twitching along your pushed-up thighs, while you're left grappling for purchase along his bulging, corded biceps, your fingers digging into the sinuous centipede inked across his firm rounded muscle. frantically, you cling to one another as the world outside seems to fade away.

eren leans in, ink-dark strands escaping his hairtie, feathering your neck, and cascading over his shoulder to curtain your faces. overzealous, he captures your lips with his own once more, silencing your soft sounds with a deep kiss that tastes as saccharine as love itself, wettened by the salted twinge of adrenaline. his moans tumble out of him helplessly once you get to licking at his tongue. he juts it out for you to suckle on.

the tension brews to a fever pitch. you’re close, and so is he.

"komm und hol mich," he wants—no, needs you to cum for him, pleads in breathless sounds so gritty that you can feel them pass through your bones. those bright-teal eyes, glassed over with brimming tears of pleasure, desperately lock onto yours. his touch is just as urgent.

eren brings the calloused pad of his thumb to your clit, each deliberate rub a targeted press that sends fresh jolts of heat spiraling through your tummy, makes your hips buck up into the onslaught. his breath comes out in ragged puffs as his fleshy, kiss-bruised lips meet your ear, grazing the shell, words unfamiliar yet sweet all the same. “komm auf meinen schwanz, bitte.” the vulnerable rawness of his voice is a love language all in its own. something in you knows to follow his command, even if the meaning is a mystery. 

that building pressure low in your gut begins to coil, tightening into a concentrated knot that demands release. it’s a heavy, mercurial ache that pulses in sync with his movements, making your vision swim as you reach the precipice. your every nerve-ending screams for the sweet, sweet release that only his next deliberate strike can provide.

as for eren, his focus is simply fractured; hands moving with a restlessness that betrays how close he is to the edge. he lifts his free hand to knead and possess the soft weight of your right breast, his grip firm and demanding, before his fingers lift to heedlessly lace around your neck, as a means to keep you pinned in the middle of the storm of his movements. 

that same grasp trails away from pressing your artery, slinks down, and squeezes a big, greedy handful of ass into one palm alone. he delivers one smack— two, three. the fourth leaves red in its wake, blooming faint along warm-brown flesh. he merely smiles when you mewl at him. 

the combination he grants you is far too much, too fucking frantic; the stinging heat of his palm against your skin and the possessive weight of his hand at your throat leaves you feeling hazy and unmoored, your thoughts dissolving into a thoughtless, honeyed fog.

a few more of those slowed, plunging thrusts, paired with how nicely he toys with your puffy clit, is what finally shatters the dam and sends rolling waves of your orgasm to crash right through you. it washes over, heavy and thick, the feeling purely electric as it zips through the base of your spine all the way down to your tightly curled toes. your quivering legs lock around his lean waist as he fucks you through the height of it, dark-chestnut hair swinging over hunched shoulders.

"don't you let go yet— m'not done." eren rasps against your agape lips, voice a broken wreck. he taps your soft cheek in two firm pats when your eyes begin to flutter shut, peers at you through hooded eyes, forcing bitten words out through grit teeth, "look at me, schatzi," his fingers tangle into the soft, dense curls of your hair to tilt your head his way. "you came so fuckin' hard, tell me you felt that—shit! mm, p-please, baby . . tell me you’re mine."

you manage to open your mouth, try for an answer, but every brutal impact of his hips knocks the air from your chest, splintering your voice into meaningless little sounds. the rhythm of his pounding, loud and heavy, turns shaky and imprecise as he utterly loses the battle for control. you can see the strain in the way his adam’s apple bobs in his throat, his breath hitching as he teeters on the edge. 

eren frames your face with a sudden tenderness, his large hands encompassing either side of your head as if you’re the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth itself. he pulls you in until your foreheads touch, eyes locking in a feral, heavy-lidded stare that teases at his release. you babble out his name with every sloppy knock of his hips.

your inner walls clamp down in a steady, involuntary pulse around him, and the friction becomes too much for him to bear. then comes a guttural sound, ripping straight from his chest, followed by a smaller, vulnerable whimper that echoes out, almost like a plea:

"scheisse, ich komme— fffuuuck!"

he jolts forward with an almost animalistic force, burying himself to the very hilt as the first warm, heavy spurts of his release spill free from his cockhead and into your awaiting womb. you feel him throbbing deep within your silken walls, the pulsing erratic as he stuffs your cunt with thick loads of his cum; emptying himself, filling you.

a hushed stillness sets over eren's thirtieth-floor apartment. all movement drifts to a weighty pause; until, eren eventually collapses his full weight onto you with a long, shuddering sigh. the solid, unyielding mass of him drives a soft huff out from your throat, pinning you into the charcoal sheets in a way that feels strangely grounding.

his inked forearms bind around you like vines, pulling your bodies flush-tight until there’s no room left between you. in turn, you drape your arms over the broad expanse of his back, your thumbs tracing soothing circles over the angry, reddened lines of the skin you tore. 

"ugh— rennie, you're heavy."

"mmn." is his heedless response. you both lie there in a tangled, breathless heap of afterglow, your lungs working for shallow air as the adrenaline begins to recede. after threading through the dark, damp silk of his long hair, weaving and undoing braids in the same sitting, your arms finally loosen their hold around his nape. eren nuzzles his face into the soft swell of your breasts, the tip of his nose grazing the sensitive bone of your sternum as he seeks out your warmth.

a small, balmy laugh escapes you, the sound light and surreal against the dense, syrup-thick atmosphere. the air is heavy, saturated with the salt-sharp scent of skin, the musk of his cologne, the lingering sugar of your arab perfume, and the sweet, pungent tang of your collective release— a sensory memento of every orgasm you just shared.

"damn . .” the silence breaks around his voice, low and winded, “didn't think y’had a kink for that."

"hmm," you blink slow, the wisps of your curled lashes fluttering. "for what?"

"uh-uh, don't play dumb now," eren noses your jugular, tickling your neck with a nudge so fleeting you can’t help but break, a shy giggle bubbling up and out into the open. "could've just told me you wanted me to switch languages, princess."

“i didn't even know it was something i’d enjoy that much," you bite down on a drowsy laugh, manicured fingers lifting to idly twirl a stray, dark lock of his hair. you’re secretly glad his hair-tie snapped under the pressure.

"i like the way your brain just . . . shorts out when you hear it. makes you so . . ." a kiss, breaking the pattern of speech, is pressed to your upturned lips, so pink and soft.

“—much more," another, then a suckle to your jaw, "—responsive." there's a gravel-like texture to the sound of his teasing. "i don't think i've ever heard you get that loud before, baby.” eren hums aloud onto your skin, a low rumble of pure satisfaction that thrums low in his throat and vibrates against your chest.

he shifts his weight just enough to pepper wet, uncoordinated kisses along the sensitive expanse of your throat, his every movement sluggish with pleasure. 

“verdammt gut,” he murmurs against your skin, testing the effect he has over you, simply wishing to witness how tightly you’d pulse around him in response. sure enough, he smiles to himself when you do, walls clamping down where he remains stuffed inside you. a whispered moan falls from you, eyes screwed impossibly tight. 

his lips latch to your pulse as he mouths praises you don’t need to translate to understand. the meaning sounds as sweet as his kisses taste. “du bist so gut, liebling.” even though his brain's misted over with lust, and his dick is still warmly nestled deep inside you, he can’t help but nip playful marks into your flesh. you find yourself cooing at his affections, your fingers tangling in the deep-brown spill of his hair as you shallowly rock your hips onto his softening cock. 

he mumbles more foreign little nothings into the damp, sweat-slicked crook of your neck, the tone so tender it feels like a physical caress. 

“ich liebe dich so sehr, angel . . .” he breathes, the confession soft and embracing against your skin. it’s meaning is devotional, so unmistakable; he loves you, he loves you, he loves you. 

the ardency of the past hour's lovemaking seems to evaporate, leaving only the two of you sinking in the cooling sheets. from the crevice of your chest to his broadened one, your hearts beat heavy against one another in a synced tempo.

with one last, lingering kiss to your collarbone, eren lets his heavy eyelids fall shut. the silence that follows isn't empty. instead, it’s full and warm, smelling of salt, sandalwood, and the raw fragrancy of his adoration.

the darkness of the room feels like a protective veil. in the stillness, with his warmth still grounding you and his scent filling your lungs, you finally let your own eyes close, drifting into a deep, dreamless sleep cradled in the arms of the man who loves you more than he has the words to say.

© 𝒫𝐼𝑁𝐾ℳ𝐼𝑅𝑇𝐻.ᐟ ⸻ all rights reserved! do not steal, plagiarize or repost any of my works. reblogs are highly appreciated! please and thank you! ❤︎

and with the way he was fucking you, he might as well have been. 

"don’t gotta lie to me," eren grunts, his voice a low vibration against the shell of your ear. he revels in the sweet way you react to his every whim, savoring the shaky wave of your breath hitching when he stretches you wide open on his cock, thick and throbbing with need. god, it missed you. he missed you. 

"you won't take me back? hmm, baby?” his hips roll forward in that precise way that always brushes your clit enough to make your body jolt. he smiles to himself when you do, runs his tongue over the peak of his canine. “nooo, erennn— n-no . . nghhh!” “never? really? c’mon, princess . . . hurtin’ my feelings. don’t you love me?" he drives in hard, punishingly deep, until you can only gasp out broken pleas. he knows you well enough to understand you need it faster. your head sinks into the bamboo fluff of your pillow, eyes fluttering shut as his perfect, perfect name finally breaks past your lips, and you gnaw on the bottom one as though you’ve betrayed yourself by saying it. a dark, triumphant look crosses his face once you yield.

he thinks it's time you accepted it — the two of you are inevitable. and looking at the state of you, it’s hard to tell him he’s wrong. 

"fuck. you’re takin’ me so well, baby. juuust like you used to. i’ve fucked you up for anyone else, haven’t I? no wonder you came running back to me . . . i’m the only one you want. no other man can make you feel like this, can they?” 

you couldn’t argue, couldn't even find the words. all you could manage to do was cling to him, breathing in that familiar scent of amber and pine, letting the solid strength in his arms and the searing heat of his body consume you; biting your lip at the way he handles you with just the right amount of rough, consuming, and raw. 

fuck your life. fuck your ex. he’s settled back into the spaces he once occupied, and it only took cumming on him — all at the coaxing nudge of his low voice telling you to let go — for you to realize his presence was something you couldn't stand to lose again. 

© 𝒫𝐼𝑁𝐾ℳ𝐼𝑅𝑇𝐻.ᐟ ⸻ all rights reserved! do not steal, plagiarize or repost any of my works. reblogs are highly appreciated! please and thank you! ❤︎