𝐤𝐫𝐲𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐥'𝐬 𝐝𝐢𝐚𝐫𝐲

where bodies press together beneath flashing lights. the scents of cologne, fruit punch, and beer linger in the air. and red solo cups litter every flat surface. a psi bau party ™ is exactly what you need after toji fushiguro dumped you, very publicly, for a sorority girl. 

the aftermath of your split tastes like cheap vodka and dregs of regret. sour and acrid on your tongue.

psi bau has enough alcohol to numb the prickle in your spine from the people staring at you. but it doesn’t have enough liquor to dull the subtle ache in your chest.

it’s an ache that persists despite the fact that you’re not even remotely heartbroken. you’re never invested enough for that. you weren’t in love with toji. not even close. what you’re feeling is something else entirely.

irritation. you’re irritated. irritated at the way eyes follow you with morbid curiosity, waiting for you to shatter. irritated by the whispers trailing after you from the kitchen to the living room. irritated, because your time’s been wasted. again.

“did you hear ? he already took someone else upstairs. poor thing”

‘poor thing ??’ please. you lean against the beer pong table and stare the girl down. she quickly pretends to be very interested in the contents of her solo cup.

you adjust the hem of your top and let your face settle into something more indifferent. across the room, toji emerges with the brunette in greek letters tucked under his arm like an accessory. she giggles, looking extremely pleased with herself. how cute.

“ignore them” shoko says, brows furrowing as she follows your line of sight, “he’s not worth it, and she certainly isn’t either”

you turn away, the sight of toji and his new plaything is less painful than the concern etched across shoko’s features. you don’t want her concern, you want another drink. 

“sugu can you make me another dirty shirley ?” you sigh, fingers brushing against his as you hand him your empty solo cup, “please. and make it strong , i can’t deal with this sober”

“anything for our ‘unofficial frat princess’” he grins, disappearing off into the kitchen before you can throw anything at him

utahime shifts closer to you, her shoulder bumping yours  “so what exactly happened with toji earlier ?”

you swallow. you could tell them about the argument you had in his car. about him calling you a prick tease because you still wouldn’t have sex with him – in your defense, you didn’t have to, and you certainly wouldn’t be getting it on in psi bau’s parking lot – or you could avoid another pity party. you choose the latter, “it’s really nothing, he wanted me to rush his sister sorority”

shoko lets out a snort, “you ? join a sorority ?”

“exactly” you scoff, “he wanted me to fully commit to being his plus-one at all the boring philanthropy events. he wasn’t very thrilled when i told him i’d rather shit in my hands and clap”

“that’s not grounds for a break up. . what are we ?twelve ?” shoko sneers, “i knew his ego was fragile but holy shit that’s pathetic”

“it wasn’t just about frats and sororities though” you add, weaving a half-truth into the lie “the fight started because he has some bizarre issue with my friendship with suguru”

“what a hypocrite” utahime says dryly, “he hangs out with his exes too and he was hooking up with half the girls in that stupid sorority every time you two were ‘on a break’”

you nod, “he was, but i couldn’t care less, it was never that deep”

shoko watches you over the rim of her solo cup “it’s never ‘that deep’ with you”

you frown slightly. “that’s not true”

“for someone who’s got history with like half the guys in this frat—”

“it was all casual” you interject sharply

“—suguru, souta, toji, and what was it . .? like three athletes ?”

“it was two actually” you correct, your jaw tight

she waves her hand dismissively, “have you ever been in healthy, fully-committed relationship ? ”

you open your mouth, a protest ready on your lips, and close it just as quickly. you have nothing tangible to say.

utahime presses, her voice softer  “have you ever allowed anyone to be in love with you ?”

the music seems to recede, the thumping bass replaced by the erratic thudding of your heart. suguru hands you your dirty shirley. you thank him absentmindedly.

“well ?” shoko prompts, arms crossed over her chest

“well, stop interrogating me” you retort, taking a drawn out sip from your crimson solo cup. rum and sickly sweet grenadine seep over your tongue. “i could make anyone at this party fall in love with me if i actually wanted them to”

utahime nearly chokes on her drink “righttt. . . ”

“wanna bet?” you grit your teeth, “i could have anyone wrapped around my finger in like . . ten days”

silence falls around your little circle. shoko and utahime exchange a look that’s a mix of disbelief and intrigue. 

 “aren’t we too old for stupid bets ?” suguru splutters

“i’m not too old for anything” you scowl, “because i’m quite sick of you guys acting like i’m hard to love”

“are you serious. . .” shoko says, it’s more of statement than a question

“oh, i’m dead serious” you reply, a smile playing on your lips “ten days. . or less. i’ll have someone head-over-heels in love with me before you can say six-seven”

“you’ll get bored by day three and start looking for an out that doesn’t involve hurting their feelings, which will obviously hurt their feelings even more” utahime murmurs

“i’m not the one who gets bored” you scoff

“regardless, it’s a terrible idea” suguru groans, dragging a hand through his dark hair, “it might be your worst one yet, and that’s saying something.”

“if i win” you continue, eyes gleaming as you look at each of them in turn, “i get to use suguru’s car for a month. and you” you point at suguru, “are going to campaign for me. i want to be psi bau’s princess”

suguru looks physically ill. “my car ?! you drive like you have nine lives. . and you hate greek life ! isn’t that the reason why you and toji–”

“semantics” you cut him off, “imagine the look on toji’s face when he has to attend a meeting about me”

“i thought you didn’t care about toji” shoko raises a brow

“i don’t, but i love being petty” you say, “if i don’t get someone to fall in love with me then i’ll just stay away from guys for a bit. happy ? ”

shoko shakes her head, “you’re gonna stay away from guys for the rest of the year”

you groan, dragging a hand down your face, “that’s insane i’m only using the car for a month”

“three months then” suguru counters, “no dating and absolutely no stupid situationships” 

“fine” you agree, perhaps a little too quickly, “but if i have to be a chud, i want your car for three months too, not just one and i’m not paying for your gas”

“fine” he groans, “but for the love of everything holy don’t crash my baby”

“oh, and no flirting with anyone if you lose” shoko adds, “if you’re looking at a guy for more than ten seconds, it counts”

you sigh, glancing back across the room. toji’s disappeared with the brunette again. “fine”

“okay” shoko says, leaning against the sticky beer pong table. her expression is solemn, like this is a board meeting rather than a frat party, “glad we’re all on the same page. pick your next victim”

you roll your eyes but you let your gaze sweep across the room. your vision swims throughout the sea of jocks, frat boys, and stoners. 

“shiu ?” utahime suggests, “he’s not that bad”

“toji’s best friend ? absolutely fucking not.” shoko shoots that down immediately, “they’re practically the same person”

“not nanami” you murmur, spotting the tall blond man near the staircase, “we’ve got too many mutual friends,”

“ryomen ?” utahime offers, nodding towards the left side of the living room

sukuna is leaning against the wall, looking like he’s allergic to joy. you wrinkle your nose, “hard pass. he’s literally unc and he hates everything and everyone,”

“choso ?”

“absolutely not” you laugh, “yuki would never speak to me again” 

“higuruma ?”

you shake your head, “he’s pre-law, he’d figure it out almost immediately, and we have so many classes together. it’s not worth it”

“suguru ? souta ?” shoko prompts, half-joking. suguru looks positively mortified

“been there, also been there. plus souta hates me” 

“see ?” utahime says, gesturing vaguely at the collegiate crowd “everyone here knows you and your track record. you’ve already lost the bet”

your lips part, ready to argue but then you see him. and the words die on your tongue

across the room souta weaves through the crowd like he owns the place. his toned arm is slung over someone who looks like a carbon-copy of him. same snow-white hair. same bright blue eyes. same looming height. but where souta is all loose shoulders, cocky smiles, and chaos, this guy is . . . the exact opposite. his jaw is clenched and he looks like he’d rather be anywhere else. cute

“toru c’mon” souta’s laughter carries over the music, “just one shot ! you’ve been doomscrolling that stupid interview script for hours”

“it’s not stupid” his twin snaps, adjusting his glasses with an irritated flick as they slide down his nose. “i have to prepare, the first round is tomorrow and i don’t want to smell like tequila during the selection process”

“you’re basically already dead inside, what’s a little liver damage ? ” souta groans, “live a little !”

“i’d rather live responsibly. unlike you”

“i’m plenty responsible” souta mumbles, but he finally gives up, throwing his hands in the air before slinking off to the kitchen. his twin retreats to the wall right across the beer pong table, completely out of place. he pulls out his phone, the screen’s blue glare reflects off his lenses.

“i didn’t know souta had a twin” you muse, setting your solo cup down on the edge of the beer pong table. a drop of your dirty shirley trickles down your knuckle. you absentmindedly lick it away. your friends follow your gaze across the room.

“uhh you had a thing with souta freshman year” shoko sighs, “how the hell don’t you know ?”

“souta and i never did much talking” you shrug, unable to tear your eyes away from the wallflower “so what’s the deal with his brother ?”

“that’s satoru” utahime quips, “the ‘other’ gojo. the one who actually uses his brain. he’s here on a full-ride even though their family’s filthy rich. perfect gpa, founder of the campus coding club and head of the debate team. your typical overachiever”

you study him as he frowns at whatever is on his screen. “he’s kind of cute” you admit, biting back a genuine smile.

“no” suguru says immediately, cadence firm and rigid “absolutely not, don’t even think about”

“please” shoko snorts into her drink, “you’ll have him questioning every single one of his life choices in seconds ”

“what ?” you whirl around to face them, arching a brow defensively “why the hell are you guys acting like i’m some evil man-eater ?”

“because” suguru says slowly, gesturing to where satoru stands, “that is souta’s identical twin brother”

“i’m aware of the concept of twins, suguru” you scoff, narrowing your eyes at him, “i’m not that stupid”

“and you” he continues, undeterred “are you.”

“what the hell is that supposed to mean ?”

“it means” utahime says, soft brown eyes pouring into yours, “you suck at relationships. you always end up really hurting people. and we know you don’t mean to–”

“i don’t suck at relationships” you huff defensively, folding your arms over your chest, “and i haven’t actually hurt anyone”

“you went out with souta for three weeks” suguru points out, “and then he spent the rest of the semester listening to juice wrld and xxxtentacion”

“we wanted different things !” you insist, though the memory of souta’s wounded puppy-dog eyes after you ghosted him flashes in your mind

“he wanted a girlfriend” utahime deadpans. “you wanted someone to go to parties with”

“and toji ?” shoko presses, “let’s not even get started on the last couple of months”

“toji doesn’t count.” you retort, “he’s a walking red flag ! he’s the one who’s avoidant. not me” 

“i don’t think your therapist would agree with that statement” suguru snickers, “speaking of, when last did you see her because i think you should have a session as soon as possible”

( frankly, your therapist wouldn’t agree with any of this. she’d never approved of your love life anyway )

“okay, that’s enough” you look away before the irritation crawling up your spine can show on your face. you can’t believe this. your own friends, painting you as some heartless siren. it’s beyond insulting

( heaven forbid a girl isn’t the best at romance )

“look” suguru says, his tone softening as he follows your gaze back to satoru, “satoru isn’t like the guys you usually go for”

“and that’s the understatement of the century” shoko adds, “unlike the rest of these meatheads, he doesn’t care about popularity, or parties. hell, he barely cares about anyone who isn’t in the honors college.”

“he’ll be impossible to wrap around your finger” utahime agrees, “you didn’t even know he existed five minutes ago. plus, you’re literally polar opposites. you like partying. he likes engineering. it would never work”

across the room, satoru shifts against the wall. his discomfort is blatant even from a distance. someone tries to hand him a red solo cup and he declines with a barely perceptible shake of his head, his blue eyes never leaving his phone. he’s completely unimpressed by everything around him

you watch him a beat too long before murmuring, “exactly” you lower your cup slowly, glossy lips curving into a smile

shoko narrows her eyes suspiciously, “exactly what ?”

“exactly why it has to be him” you say, “the whole point of the bet isn’t to prove i can make some jock or frat boy fall for me. it’s to prove that i can make anyone fall in love with me. what’s the point of an easy win ?”

suguru lets out a long, pained groan “oh, you’ve got to be fucking kidding me”

“you said he’d be impossible” you continue, your gaze drifting back to satoru. your target is typing out something with an admirable degree of focus, thumbs flying across his sceen. his brows are slightly furrowed and his lips are pressed into a thin line. he exhales slowly, as if he’s counting down the seconds until he can leave.

“well, i think i’ll have him hooked in ten days” you grin

suguru pinches the bridge of his nose, “i’d rather call the bet off and let you drive my car for free”

“why ?” you ask, completely perplexed, “what’s the big deal ?”

“the big deal” suguru says, lowering his voice to a whisper, “is that satoru is actually a really good guy. and if you make him fall for you because of this stupid bet and whatever issues you still haven’t resolved in therapy and souta finds out. . . he won’t just be mad at you. he’ll murder me.”

“relax sugu” you murmur, “it’s pretty harmless. if he doesn’t fall for me, you guys are right and i’ll take a break from guys. if he does fall for me i’ll be with a good guy for once – which nitta will love! it sounds like a win-win to me” 

utahime squints at you, “you’re not actually going to date him”

“why not ?” you counter, “he’s smart, he’s cute, and – no offence sugu – he’s definitely an upgrade from all my exes”

“because by all accounts satoru gojo is the most nerdy, boring person on this campus” shoko insists bluntly, “and you get bored very easily”

“i don’t get bored easily” you frown, “and i don’t appreciate this mischaracterization from my so-called best friends”

“that’s beside the point” utahime interjects, “a relationship built on deceit is good for nothing . .”

“i’m begging you” suguru pleads, digging his fingers into his temple, “just pick someone else”

you’re not sure if this impulsive decision stems from the liquor thrumming beneath your skin, or your infinite insecurities. but your mind is completely made up.

your gaze drifts back to satoru again. his eyes lift from his phone for a moment – sweeping across the room, passing over you like you’re just another person getting drunk by the beer pong table – before returning to the illuminated screen in his hand. you don’t even exist to him

“see ?” utahime says pointedly beside you, “he didn’t even notice you !”

you smile thoughtfully, you’ve never had to chase anyone before. you’ve never wanted to try, you’ve never had to but . . “now, i want this even more”

“that is the worst possible thing you could’ve said” suguru inhales sharply, “i’m a dead man, souta’s going to kill me . . .”

“he’s going to kill all of us” utahime sighs, “shoko, why the hell would you entertain this ?”

“i just asked a simple question, don’t throw me under the bus” shoko says, holding her hands up defensively, “ we, yes we, are all responsible for this”

satoru gojo stands by the wall, blissfully unaware that he’s just become the center of your very bad idea. he’s the only person who hasn’t looked at you twice tonight. and you are very determined to change that.

masterlist day zero ⇆ day one

── .✦ mimi’s notes: first chapter everybody twerk! going on the record to say that this series is nothing like the movie but i don’t wanna spill too much ( wink wink )

​Malcolm didn't even look up. "I’m hungry, Ivory. This is a medical emergency." He looks over at her, his expression deadpan. "I don’t know how you aren't hungry after smoking that whole blunt on the porch. Your lungs must be made of iron."​

Ivory smirks, her eyes dropping to Malcolm’s tall frame. "I ain't hungry, Mal. I'm horny. Different kind of empty.​"

Malcolm didn't miss a beat, reaching for the leftover chicken. "I can help with that," he jokes, knowing damn well Ivory is a lesbian.​

You shake your head. They’d been doing this routine for years—Malcolm playing the willing man and Ivory reminding him he didn't have the right equipment. It was the kind of effortless, platonic love that made your house feel like a sanctuary.

Back on the screen, a massive explosion rocks the TV, and Kassy lets out a triumphant "Hah!" as he catches Suki with a well-placed frag grenade.​

"Oh, so we're doing that?" Suki’s voice drops, her eyes narrowing as she gives Kassidy a lethal side-eye. "You're gonna blow me up in front of my people?" She asks, motioning toward you.

"Don't let it happen again, Kassidy. I’m telling you. My feelings are hurt and my kill-streak is gone."​

"Then move your feet, Suki," He mumbles, that sly smirk returning to his face. He loved this—the bickering, the noise, your friends treated his house like their own. "Stop crying and play the game."​

Malcolm wanders over to you, holding the heavy glass pan of your baked mac and cheese like it's a sacred relic. "Hey, sis... you gonna let me take the rest of this home? It’s just gonna sit here and get lonely."​

You look at the pan—there’s still half a pan of the four-cheese, baked-to-perfection mac left. "Malcolm, no. You are not taking half a pan of macaroni home. That’s a part of tomorrow's lunch."​

"Please? My fridge is a desert. I'll bring the dish back tomorrow." He pleads, his hazel eyes doing that puppy-dog thing, though it doesn't work as well coming from a six-foot-three man.​

"No," you laugh, pushing him back toward the counter. "I'll make you a couple of sliders and some fries, but the macaroni stays in this house." You look over your shoulder at the couch, your gaze lingering on the way Kassidy’s grey tank top clings to his shoulders.

"Kassy, you want a plate? I'm fixing Malcolm something."​

He doesn't turn around, but you see his shoulders shake with a laugh. "I want Suki to go home," he jokes.​

"In your dreams!" Suki yells, not missing a beat. "I'm staying until I get my revenge!"​

"Then I guess she's staying forever." He says, then his voice softens, dropping into that sweet, intimate tone that’s meant just for you. "I'll take whatever you're eating, baby. Just bring it over here so I can keep an eye on this little coward."

"Okay," you say, heading towards the stove, Malcolm trailing behind you like a hungry giant.

-ꪶ꠸

The kitchen is thick with the scent of seasoned ground beef and the sharp, salty tang of frozen shoestring fries hitting hot oil. You’re standing at the stove, a spatula in one hand, while Malcolm hovers over your shoulder like a persistent, hungry shadow. His eyes are fixed on the tray of slider buns you just pulled out of the oven. "Malcolm, if you touch one more piece of that cheese before I put the tops on, I am going to fry your fingers next," you say, not even needing to look at him to know his hand is creeping toward the counter.​

"I’m just checking for quality control." Malcolm grumbles, his voice deep but carrying that unmistakable little brother whine. He’s a big man—solid muscle and a face that usually looks like he’s ready to handle business in the streets—but in your kitchen, he’s just a bottomless pit with pretty eyes. "You know I gotta make sure the cheddar is melting at the right frequency."​

"The only frequency you’re about to feel is my hand upside your head," you retort, slapping his hand away as he tries to snag a stray fry. "You're so damn greedy. How are you even related to people who eat normal portions?"​

"I’m a growing man," he insists, leaning his hip against the counter. He looks over at the door to the living room where a particularly loud bang-bang-bang of gunfire erupts. "And Kas is over there working up an appetite too. I’m just looking out for the team."​

"You’re looking out for Malcolm," you correct him, flipping the sliders. The meat sizzles and pops, the edges getting that perfect, lacy brown crust. "Grab the platter and the napkins. The thick ones in the drawer."

Malcolm does as he's told, but not without snagging a slider patty while your back is turned. You catch the movement in the reflection of the microwave.​

"Malcolm!"​

"It fell!" he lies through a mouthful of hot beef, his eyes wide and innocent. "I caught it before it hit the floor. I’m a hero, really."​

You just shake your head, trying to suppress your grin. He’s a badass out in the world, someone people think twice about crossing, but here, he’s just the sweet, hungry brother who’d do anything for you—as long as there’s a plate involved.​

By the time you walk into the living room, the war has finally ceased. Suki is sitting back with her arms crossed over her chest. She’s staring Kassidy down with a look of pure, unadulterated saltiness. He’s leaning back, a satisfied, smug smile on his face as he calmly sets his controller on the coffee table.​

"Don't look at me like that, Suk," Kassy says, his voice a low, smooth drawl. "You played a good game. You just didn't play a winning game."​

"You cheated," Suki says flatly. "I don't know how, but I feel it in my spirit. You used some kind of voodoo."​

"Food’s here," you announce, and the atmosphere shifts instantly from war to worship.​

You set the platters down, and for a few minutes, the only sound is the crunch of fries and the collective "Mmm" of your friends. Ivory reaches out, her locs clinking softly as she grabs a slider, her charms catching the light. She looks at the TV, then at the group. "Alright, enough of the digital violence," Ivory says, her thumb scrolling through the streaming apps. "Let’s put on something.... uhh, Let’s do Get Out."

​"Again?" Malcolm asks, his mouth half-full. "We watched this a few months ago. I don't know if my heart can take the tea cup scene again."​

"Sit down and eat your sliders, Mal," Ivory charms him with a wink. The movie starts, and the room goes quiet, save for the occasional commentary. Kassidy settles in next to you, his arm draped over the back of the couch, his fingers ghosting over the nape of your neck in a way that makes it hard to focus on the screen.​

When the scene comes up—the one where Chris finds the girlfriend’s mom sitting on the couch in the dark—the tension in the room triples. The mom is sitting there, all polite and eerie, asking him about the night his mother died, her silver spoon clinking against the china with a rhythmic, hypnotic tink, tink, tink.​You watch Chris’s face, the way his eyes start to well up, the way he’s being lured into the Sunken Place under the guise of help.​

You shake your head, shifting closer to Kassy’s heat. "See, that right there?" you whisper-shout at the screen. "That’s exactly where he messed up. She starts asking about my mama’s death in the middle of the night on a dark-ass couch? I would have been left. My bags wouldn't even have been unpacked yet."​

"Real shit," Suki chimes in, pointing a fry at the TV. "I’d be out the window. I don't care if we're in the suburbs or the sticks, I'm hitting a sprint."​

Kassy chuckles low in his throat, his hand squeezing your shoulder. "You wouldn't even have made it to the couch. You’d have seen that bowl of Froot Loops in the kitchen and known something was off."​

"Exactly," you say, feeling the comfort of the room, the safety of your people, and the weight of Kassidy beside you. "I'm a track star as soon as the vibe shifts."​

Malcolm mumbles something in agreement, already eyeing the kitchen for the mac and cheese he thinks he’s taking home, while Ivory just laughs, her charms jingling as she settles in for the rest of the ride.

-ꪶ꠸

The betrayal on the screen is almost physical. You watch Chris’s trembling fingers sort through those photos—Rose with one Black man after another, then women, all of them smiling, all of them gone—and the air in the room shifts from suspense to pure, unfiltered disgust.​

"This bitch," you mutter, your voice thick with a mix of disbelief and "I knew it." You shake your head, leaning deeper into the crook of Kassy’s arm.​

Suki lets out a sharp, jagged exhale, her face illuminated by the harsh white light of the TV. "Girl, please. I wouldn't have even seen those pictures. I would have been left as soon as that lady knocked my phone off the charger. You touch my property and start acting like a glitch in the Matrix? I’m hitting the 40-yard dash. Goodbye!"​

Kassidy’s hand is a steady, warm weight against your lower back, his thumb tracing slow, rhythmic circles through the fabric of your shirt. He’s quiet, just watching the screen with that focused, heavy-lidded gaze, but the domestic peace is suddenly interrupted by a shadow moving toward the coffee table.​

Out of nowhere, his voice drops—not into the sweet, soft tone he uses for you, but into that low, dangerous rumble that reminds everyone in the room he isn't one to be played with.

​"I'm gonna fuck you up. Put it down."​

You blink, looking over to see Malcolm, his hand hovering inches away from the plate where Kasey’s last, half-eaten slider is sitting. Malcolm freezes, his eyes going wide as he looks from the slider to Kasey’s face.​

"Chill, big dog," Malcolm says, slowly raising his hands in a mock surrender. He looks like a giant kid caught with his hand in the cookie jar, his short black hair messy from leaning against the couch cushions. "You got it. I was just... checking to see if it was cold. I didn't want you eating cold meat, Kas. I’m a humanitarian."​

"Check yourself into the kitchen and find a napkin," Kassy grunts, though the corner of his mouth twitches. "Touch my plate again and we’re gonna have a problem, Malcolm."​

"You got it, you got it," Malcolm mumbles, retreating toward the armchair. You just shake your head, laughing under your breath at how Malcolm can eat a full meal and still act like he hasn't seen food in a decade.​

By the time the credits roll and that blue-and-red police light finally signals Chris's escape, the room is filled with a collective sigh of relief. You stand up, your joints popping as you reach your arms high over your head, stretching out the tension of the movie.​Suki, ever the opportunist, doesn't even stand up. She reaches over the back of the couch, snagging one of your favorite plush throw blankets and wrapping it around her shoulders like a cape. She looks up at you with a mischievous, wide-eyed grin.​

"Hey," Suki chirps, her voice bubbling with that best friend audacity. "Can I sleep in y'all bed tonight? The guest room feels real far away and I’m scared of the Sunken Place."​

You roll your eyes, knowing damn well she’s done this since you moved in. "Suki, no. You are a grown woman. Go to the guest room."​

"Why?" she pushes, the corners of her mouth crinkling as she grins. "Y'all gonna get freaky? Is that what it is? You can't have your bestie in the corner while Kas does his thing?"

​"No," you say quickly, your face heating up.​

"Yes," Kasey says at the exact same time, his voice a deep, unabashed rumble.​

You look down at Kassy, who is still sitting on the couch, looking up at you with a wicked, knowing smirk. You smile awkwardly, shaking your head as you give him a playful nudge with your foot. "Put the plates away, and stop encouraging her."​

Ivory lets out a loud, barking laugh, standing up and adjusting her clothes. "My man," Malcolm says, giving Kassy a respectful nod as he starts clearing his own mountain of trash from the coffee table.​Ivory leans over and snags the edge of Suki’s blanket, tugging her upward. "Come on, little monster. Leave the grown folks to their business. You’re coming with me." She looks over at you and winks, her mole dancing on her cheek. "I’ll make sure she doesn't crawl under your door in the middle of the night."​

She herds a complaining Suki toward the guest room, their laughter echoing down the hall.​

Malcolm, meanwhile, has moved to the center of the living room, grunting as he pulls the lever on the pull-out couch. The metal frame groans as it unfolds, and he starts tossing pillows onto the thin mattress.​

"Listen," Malcolm says, pointing a finger at Ivory as she disappears into the hallway. "If Ivory cuts off the AC in the middle of the night and I wake up sweating, we’re fighting. I'm telling you now. I need it at sixty degrees or I’m a hazard to society."​

"Just stay in your lane, Mal!" Ivory shouts back from the hall.​

You stand there in the quiet of the kitchen doorway, watching the people you love settle into the corners of your home. Kassy stands up, picking up the last of the platters. The house is full, the mac and cheese is safe (for now), and the night is finally winding down.

-ꪶ꠸

The house has finally settled into that low, humming quiet that only comes after a night of heavy laughter and good food. You can hear the faint, muffled sound of Suki giggling at something Ivory said through the guest room wall, and the rhythmic thump of Malcolm finally getting comfortable on the pull-out couch.​

In the sanctuary of your bedroom, the only light comes from the moon filtering through the blinds, casting long, silver slats across the bed. Kassy is already under the covers, his large frame taking up his side of the mattress like he was carved into it. You slide in beside him, the cool sheets a sharp contrast to the radiating heat of his body.​

He pulls you in immediately, his arm a heavy, protective weight over your waist as you tuck your head into the hollow of his shoulder. He smells like the soap from his shower and the lingering warmth of the day.​

"I’m telling you now," he mumbles, his voice a deep, gravelly vibration against your temple. "I better not find Malcolm head-first in my fridge in the middle of the night. If I walk out there for a glass of water and see that man hovering over leftovers, it’s over."

You let out a soft, bubbly laugh that vibrates in your chest. "Stop it. He’s your friend."​

He shakes his head, his chin brushing your hair. "Unfortunately. I really can't believe I’ve known that man since birth. Our mamas really did us a disservice putting us in the same playpen. He’s been eating my snacks for almost thirty years."​

"I think it’s sweet," you murmur, your hand wandering up his bare chest. Your fingers trace the hard lines of his pectorals, feeling the steady, calm thrum of his heart. You look up at him, your eyes searching his in the dark. "You have a good friendship, Kassidy. Today was amazing. My heart is just... full."​

His gaze softens. The stern persona he keeps up for the guys melts away, leaving only that quiet, soulful devotion he saves just for you. He looks at you like you’re the only thing in the world that’s ever made sense.​

"It was," he agrees softly. He leans down, his mouth finding yours in a kiss that starts out sweet—a lingering, tender thank you for the day—but it doesn't stay that way for long.​ His hand at your waist shifts, his fingers splaying wide and dragging down to grope your ass, pulling you flush against his hip. He deepens the kiss, his tongue sliding against yours with a slow, practiced hunger that makes your toes curl into the mattress. He tastes like heat and possession.​

You feel that familiar spark ignite in your belly, but then you remember the thin walls and the three people currently occupying your home. You reluctantly press your palms against his chest, pushing back just enough to break the seal of his lips.​

"Stop," you whisper-giggle, breathless. "Not tonight."​

He pulls back just an inch, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded. "I wasn't even trying to do anything," he lies, his voice a low, innocent drawl that doesn't match the way his hand is still firmly cupping you.​

You roll your eyes, a playful smirk on your lips. "Liar. We have company, Kassy. They’re like ten feet away."​

He rolls his eyes right back, mocking your "responsible" tone with a huff. He shifts, propping himself up on one elbow. "So? I'm grown. This is my house. If they don't like the soundtrack, they should’ve stayed at their own cribs."​

"Kassidy!"​

"I'm just saying," he grumbles, though he’s smiling now.​

You turn over, presenting your back to him as a signal that the shop is closed for the night. He doesn't complain; he just sighs and settles in behind you, spooning you perfectly. His chest is a warm wall against your back, and his arm drapes over you, pinning you to him.​ The heat of him is intoxicating, and you can feel the thick, heavy length of his dick pressing right against the curve of your ass through your thin sleep shorts. It’s a silent, stubborn reminder of exactly what he wants.​

You bite your lip, the thought crossing your mind to just roll over and give him a BJ—to take care of him and listen to those low, wrecked sounds he makes when you use your mouth. But you know Kassidy. He’s greedy. He wouldn't let you stop there; he’d find a way to work his way inside you, and before you knew it, the headboard would be knocking a rhythm that Suki would never let you live down.​

"Go to sleep," you murmur, reaching back to pat his thigh.​

"Mhmm," he hums, his breath hot against the nape of your neck. He nuzzles into your hair, his grip on you tightening just a fraction, a silent promise that even if he isn't getting his way tonight, he isn't letting go.​

You fall asleep like that—tangled together, listening to the quiet settling of the house and the steady, comforting rhythm of each other's breath.

-ꪶ꠸

The morning sun is fighting its way through the blinds in thin, golden needles, and the house is surprisingly quiet—until it isn't.

You stir slowly, the warmth of the bed still clinging to your skin. When you blink your eyes open and look up, you see him propped up against a mountain of pillows. He’s already wide awake, his phone held loosely in one hand as his thumb scrolls through a manga chapter. The glow of the screen reflects in his dark eyes, and he looks so peaceful like this—just a man and his stories before the world demands anything from him.​

You lay there for a minute, drifting in that hazy space between sleep and reality, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest.

It’s perfect.

It’s calm.​

CLANK.​

The sound of heavy metal hitting the floor echoes from the kitchen, followed by a muffled "Oh, hush up!" from Suki.​

"What are they doing?" you groan, burying your face back into the pillow.​

He doesn't even look up from his phone, a small, amused smirk playing on his lips. "Suki came in here about ten minutes ago and whispered—very loudly, I might add—that her and Ivory were taking over the kitchen. She told me to stay out of the way unless I wanted to be put on dish duty."​

You let out a long, dramatic sigh and finally roll out of bed. Your feet hit the cool hardwood, and you make your way to the master bath to start the morning reset. You’re halfway through washing your face, the cool water waking up your senses, when Kassy wanders in.​

He doesn't say a word, just walks over to the toilet, whips it out, and starts peeing with the kind of unbothered, long-term-partner comfort that only comes from years of being together. You finish rinsing and start brushing your teeth, watching him in the mirror. When he’s done, he flushes, washes his hands thoroughly, and then splashes some water on his face.​

You hop up onto the rim of the bathtub, foam in your mouth, just watching him work. He is so damn handsome it almost makes you sick. He’s got his hair in a crisp, fresh fade that makes the silver at his temples stand out, and he moves with a slow, deliberate grace. He reaches for his beard oil, rubbing a few drops into his palms before massaging it into his dark, thick beard.​

He catches you staring in the mirror and cuts his eyes at you, that wicked smirk returning. "You’re a creep, you know that?" he rumbles, his voice still thick with sleep. He leans in close, mocking your exact tone from last night. "Stop staring, ma. You ain't getting none while company's over."​

You nearly choke on your toothpaste, let out a muffled laugh, and spit into the sink. "Boy, bye," you say, wiping your mouth. You shove past his shoulder, giving his side a playful pinch, and head toward the kitchen.​

The smell hits you first—sweet vanilla waffles, savory sautéed spinach, and the salty, crispy scent of potato wedges.​

You walk into the kitchen and the sight is... a lot. Suki is standing at the stove, her skin glowing in the morning light, her hair tied up in a silk scarf. She’s plating food like she’s a Michelin-star chef. Ivory is standing near the table, still in her satin pajamas, her charms clinking softly as she gently rubs Malcolm’s head.​

Malcolm is sitting at the table looking absolutely devastated. His hair is a mess, and his eyes are fixed on the center of the table like he’s just lost his best friend.​

"Good morning," you say, looking around at everyone. They all look bright and beautiful in their sleep clothes, a patchwork of silk, cotton, and oversized tees. You look at Ivory. "What’s wrong with him? Why does he look like he’s at a funeral?"​

Kassy wanders in behind you, leaning against the doorframe with his arms folded across his chest.​

"Suki’s starving him," Ivory explains, her voice full of mock sympathy as she continues to baby Malcolm, who actually leans into her hand.​

"Starving him?" Suki scoffs, turning around with a spatula in her hand. "This man kept sneaking over here and ‘sampling’ the potato wedges while I was trying to season them. I told him three times—three!—that if he touched another one, they were coming out of his final portion. He didn't listen."​

She slides a plate in front of Malcolm. It’s a beautiful spread: a golden waffle, a mountain of eggs with spinach... and exactly two solitary potato wedges sitting in the corner of the plate.​

Malcolm looks up at you, his hazel eyes watery. "Two, sis. She gave me two."​

Kassy lets out a short, dry bark of a laugh. "Tragic," he says, not sounding sorry at all. He walks over, grabs a full plate from the counter, and nods to Suki. "Thanks, Suk. Looks good." He looks over at Ivory and Malcolm. "Ivory, stop babying him. He spends his week eating a family of seven portions, he’ll survive on two potatoes."​

You grab your own plate, the smell of the waffles making your stomach growl. As you pass Malcolm, you reach out and pat his shoulder, offering him zero sympathy.​

"Actions have consequences, Malcolm," you say, your voice full of tough love as you head toward the living room to find a spot on the couch. "Maybe next time you'll believe her."​

"I'm a victim!" Malcolm shouts after you, but you can already hear the sound of his fork hitting the plate. He might be sad, but he’s still gonna eat.

-ꪶ꠸

The energy in the house has finally reached that mellow, post-brunch hum. For the last hour, the living room was a battlefield of down feathers and laughter. What started as a simple disagreement between Suki and Malcolm over the correct way to season grits turned into a full-blown civil war. They ended up beating the hell out of each other with couch pillows, their silhouettes dancing wildly against the walls as they swung with zero mercy. Ivory sat back, feet up, egging them on and suggesting that if they really wanted to settle it, they should have used the pool noodles she’d seen in your garage last summer.​

Now, the dust has settled—literally—and you’re standing at the open front door with Kas, seeing everyone off. The air is warm, the scent of the morning's coffee still clinging to your breath.

"We really should do this again next week," Malcolm says, standing on your porch and adjusting the waistband of his joggers. He looks satisfied, though he’s still pouting a little about those two potato wedges.

You pull a face, a playful absolutely not written all over your features. "Every week, Malcolm? My grocery bill would look like a mortgage payment. Give me at least a month to recover."​

Suki let out a loud laugh, leaning against the doorframe. "Exactly. And you only want to come back so soon because you don't have a life. You need to get a girlfriend, for real."​

Kassy leans his heavy shoulder against yours, his hand finding the small of your back and squeezing. "He has several," he drawls, his voice full of that brotherly snark. "They just don't know about each other."

​"I am not a player!" Malcolm protests, throwing his hands up. "Anā ʿabdu-llāh (I am a servant of God). I am looking for substance!"​

Ivory, standing behind him with her charms clinking as she shakes her head, lets out a dry chuckle. "He’s not a player. He’s a hoe. There's a difference, Mal. One has a strategy, the other just has a high heart rate."​

Kas and Ivory exchange a look of pure, mutual understanding and dap each other up, the slap of their palms echoing in the quiet hallway.

​After the final round of hugs—long, genuine squeezes that remind you why these people are your chosen family—the door finally clicks shut. The silence that follows is heavy, but it’s the good kind of heavy. It’s the sound of a house that was well-loved and well-used.​

You’re smiling as you walk back toward the bedroom, your feet feeling light. You don't even bother making the bed; you just climb on top of the rumpled sheets and fall back, laying on your back and letting out a long, happy exhale.​

Kas follows you in, his presence filling the room. He doesn't go to his side; instead, he crawls onto the bed and settles his weight over your lower half, pinning your legs down with the comfortable, solid mass of his body. He props himself up on his elbows for a moment, looking down at you.​

You reach up, your fingers finding the soft hair of his fade and the thickness of his beard. You rub his head, your nails lightly scratching against his scalp, and he lets out a low, contented hum that vibrates through your thighs.​

"That was fun," you whisper, your voice soft and honey-sweet in the quiet room.​

"Mhm," he murmurs, his eyes locked on yours. He doesn't look away. He stays there, just watching you, his expression open and raw in a way he only allows when the door is locked. "You’re so pretty. You know that? The most beautiful thing in this whole damn house."​

You feel a flush creep up your neck, your heart fluttering. "You're so cheesy."​

"I'm serious," he continues, his voice dropping into that deep, soulful register. "The way you take care of everyone... the way you handle Mal’s greedy ass and Suki’s mouth... I’m a lucky man. I don't say it enough, but I'm lucky."​

He leans down, pressing a lingering, tender kiss to your forehead, then your nose, before finally settling his head on your chest. You wrap your arms around his broad shoulders, holding him close. You can feel the weight of his head right over your heart, and he adjusted himself until he’s perfectly tucked under your chin.​

You stay like that for a long time, the only sound the distant chirp of birds outside and the steady, synchronized rhythm of your breathing. There’s no rush to clean the kitchen or do the laundry. Right now, there’s just the two of you, coming back down to earth after the chaos, wrapped in a love that feels as sturdy and permanent as the walls around you.

The quiet afternoon eventually bleeds into a deep, bruised purple evening. The house is still, the lingering scent of breakfast long gone, replaced by the clean, sharp aroma of the shower you both shared to wash away the day's lethargy.​

The no fucking rule had been a point of pride for you all morning, a playful boundary set in the presence of family, but as the sun dipped below the horizon, that resolve started to melt. Kassy had been hovering all afternoon—a hand on your hip while you put away the last of the laundry, a kiss to the back of your neck while you folded the throw blankets. He was patient, but the tension in his jaw told you he was counting down the minutes until the house was truly yours again.​

Now, the bedroom is draped in shadows, the only light coming from a few candle flickering on the dresser. You’re sitting on the edge of the bed, freshly lotioned and wearing nothing but a silk camisole and small shorts, when he walks in. He’s just in his grey joggers, the waistband sitting low on his hips, his bare chest glowing in the candlelight.​

He doesn’t say a word. He just walks over and stands between your knees, his presence looming and warm. He reaches out, his large, calloused hands cupping your face, tilting your head back so you have to look at him.​

"Company's gone, baby," he murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that seems to echo in your very bones.​

His eyes are dark, focused, and filled with a depth of love that always makes your breath catch. He leans down, his mouth ghosting over yours, teasing the seal of your lips. "I was real good today. I played nice. I let Malcolm eat my food and I let Suki get on my nerves."​

You let out a shaky laugh, your hands coming up to rest on his forearms, feeling the hair and the solid muscle beneath. "You were a saint, Kassidy"​

"I was," he agrees, his voice dropping an octave as he nuzzles into the crook of your neck, his beard soft against your skin. "But the saint is tired. And I’ve been thinking about this since three o'clock yesterday morning."​

He doesn't wait for an answer. He leans back just enough to pull your camisole over your head, tossing it onto the bed without breaking eye contact. His gaze travels over you slowly, worshipfully, taking in every curve, every inch of the skin he’s been craving all day.​

"God, you’re beautiful," he breathes, his voice thick with a refined kind of hunger.​ He hoists you up to the center of the bed, laying you down with a gentleness that contradicts the intensity in his eyes. He crawls over you, his heavy weight a welcome pressure, pinning you into the mattress.​

His hands find yours, interlocking your fingers and pinning them above your head. It’s a position of total surrender, one that speaks to the absolute trust between you.​

He starts with kisses—not the frantic, hungry kind, but deep, soul-stirring ones that taste of promise and long-term devotion. He worships your body, his mouth traveling down your throat, to your breasts, to the soft swell of your stomach, his movements slow and deliberate. He’s savoring you, treating this not just as a release, but as a reconnection.

His large, warm hands slide beneath the waistband of your sleep shorts, his palms grazing the soft curve of your hips before his fingers dive lower. You let out a jagged breath as he finds you, his thumb immediately finding your clit and beginning a slow, torturous rhythm of deliberate circles.​

He leans in, his mouth crashing against yours in a kiss that is anything but polite. It’s sloppy, hungry, and deep. You cup his face, your palms feeling the slight grit of his beard and the heat of his skin, pulling him closer as if you could pull him into your very lungs. His tongue tangles with yours, tasting like the mint of his toothpaste and the raw heat of his desire.​

His hand stays busy, his thumb working you until the friction starts to produce that familiar, heavy ache. He can feel the slick, hot evidence of how much you’ve been wanting this all day.​

"Look at that," he murmurs against your lips, his voice a low, gravelly vibration. "All that talk about company being here, and you’re already dripping for me."​

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes dark and heavy-lidded. He slides a finger down, teasing the sensitive opening of your pussy, dragging the moisture along your length before he finally slips one finger inside. You gasp into his mouth, your hips instinctively jerking upward to meet him. Then, he adds a second, stretching you out, filling the void you’ve been feeling since the sun went down.​

He begins to finger-fuck you with a slow, rhythmic drawl, his fingers curling perfectly to hit that one spot that makes your toes curl into the mattress. With his thumb, he maintains that steady, blunt pressure on your clit, timed perfectly with the internal thrusts of his fingers.​ The sounds in the room change. The quiet is replaced by the wet, sloppy squelch of his fingers moving through your arousal—a sound that makes his jaw tick with a nasty kind of pride. You can't help it; the moans start bubbling up, low and wrecked, vibrating in the back of your throat.​

Kassidy pauses, a wicked, knowing smirk tugging at his lips. "What happened to that shy girl from last night?" he teases, his voice dropping into a soulful, mocking register. "The one who was so worried about the neighbors? The one who told me 'no'?"​

You let out a huff of mock indignation and lean forward, biting down on his shoulder hard enough to leave a mark. "Don't you start," you breathe. "You are not about to embarrass me in my own bed, Kassy."

​"I ain't trying to embarrass you, baby," he grunts, his grip on your thigh tightening. He hooks his arm under your leg, pulling your thigh higher onto his hip so his fingers can dive even deeper, bottoming out against your g-spot. "I just like how loud you get. I like hearing exactly how much you need this."​

You let out a long, high-pitched moan, your head falling back as his fingers hit that sweet spot again. "Kas... please. Put it in. Just put it in already."​

You look up at him, your eyes glassy, pouting with a hunger that makes his own breath hitch. He just shakes his head, his fingers never slowing their work.​ "Patience is a virtue, sweetie," he insists, though the vein in his neck is bulging. "You were so firm on the rules earlier. I think we should take our time. Make sure you’re real... ready."​

He leans back down, recapturing your mouth, and for several long, agonizingly beautiful minutes, there is nothing but the sound of your combined breathing and the rhythmic slap of his hand against your skin. The eye contact is ruinous—intense and filled with a decade’s worth of love and shared secrets.​

He watches your face as the tension in your body starts to peak. He speeds up the motion of his thumb, his fingers curling harder, deeper, until your walls begin to milk him in desperate, frantic pulses.​

"There it is," he whispers, his voice thick with adoration. "Give it to me, baby. Cum on my hand."​

The snap is violent and sweet. You cry out his name, your body shuddering as the first wave of your orgasm crashes through you. You collapse back against the pillows, your pussy clenching around his fingers with a strength that makes him let out a low, guttural groan. You’re shaking, your skin damp and hot, a small, triumphant smile playing on your lips as you look up at him through your lashes.​

You’re undone, slick, and finally ready for the next part—and Kassy looks like a man who is finished being a saint.

-ꪶ꠸

The room is a blur of warm shadows and flickering candlelight, the only sound the rhythmic creak of the mattress and the heavy, synchronized hitch of your breathing. He's is a solid, radiating weight over you, his chest pressed flat against your breast.

You’ve got your legs wrapped tightly around his waist, your heels digging into the backs of his thighs to keep him exactly where you want him. You aren't letting an inch of air between you. Your arms are draped over his broad shoulders, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck as you pull him down, burying your face in the crook of his shoulder.

You’re greedy for the taste of him, your lips find the pulse point in his neck, and you suck hard, the way you know he loves, leaving a dark, bruised brand on his skin that he’ll have to explain tomorrow.​

He lets out a long, ragged groan, his forehead resting against yours for a second as he drives into you. His size is perfect—filling you with a slow, agonizingly deep stretch that makes your vision swim. Every stroke is deliberate, a long, sliding drawl of friction that makes the wetness between your thighs sizzle.​

He tries to push up on his forearms, wanting to get a better look at your face, but you tighten your hold, your nails scratching lightly down his spine.

"No," you whimper against his skin. "Stay close. Don't move."​

He lets out a low, gravelly laugh that vibrates against your chest. He speeds up the pace just a fraction, his hips snapping forward with a little more force. "Mghn—Ma, let me up," he mumbles, his voice thick and wrecked. He knows you—knows you crave the skin-to-skin contact, the feeling of his heavy frame pinning you down. It’s why you always end up tangled in a side-fuck or why you love to sit on top of him, pressing your chest to his until your hearts beat against each other.​

You let out a soft, protestive whimper, but as he playfully slaps the meat of your thigh, you finally loosen your grip. He sits back on his heels, never pulling out, the transition making him slide even deeper into you.​

The change in perspective is immediate and intense. Kassy is looming over you, his bare chest glistening with a fine sheen of sweat in the candlelight. He’s biting his lower lip, his dark eyes hooded and focused as he watches the way your breasts bounce. Your nipples are hard, peaking in the warm air, and he reaches out, his large hand cupping one breast and squeezing it firmly.​

"You don't want me to look at you, baby?" he asks, his voice dropping into that deep, sultry register.​

You shake your head, your braids splaying out across the pillow like a halo. You reach up, wrapping your hand around his thick wrist, your other hand trailing down to his lower stomach. Your fingers dance over the rough patch of hair that leads down into his joggers, feeling the ripple of his muscles as he maintains the rhythm.​

"You feel so good, Kassidy," you whisper, your voice dropping into that low, dirty-talk tone that you know makes his head spin. "You’re taking up so much space... You’re stretching me so good."​

His eyes flicker down, his gaze dropping to the junction of your thighs. He watches with a raw, primal fascination as his dick disappears and reappears, swallowed whole by your pussy. The sounds are filthy—the wet, rhythmic squelch of your arousal mixing with the friction of his skin. His length is wet, streaked white with your cream, glistening in the dim light every time he pulls back.

"God, look at you," he moans, his voice cracking. "Look how wet you are for me. You’re soaking the sheets, honey."​

He reaches out, one hand sliding up to loosely encircle your throat—not to choke, but to anchor you, to keep your eyes locked on his. His other hand stays heavy on your hip, his thumb digging into the bone. He stops the slow drawl and starts to pound, his hips hitting yours with a dull, fleshy thud that echoes in the quiet room.​

He’s not holding back now. He’s driving into you with a focused, masculine intensity, his jaw set as he watches your face break, your eyes rolling back as he hits that spot again and again. You hold onto his waist, your fingers digging into his skin, riding the wave of the friction he’s building, both of you lost in the deep, rhythmic trance of a love that’s been years in the making.

As the air in the room grows heavy and humid, you’re getting louder, your voice catching in the back of your throat with every deep, rhythmic slide of him. Kassy has shifted his weight, sitting back on his heels while staying buried deep inside you, his hand reaching down to find your clit.​

His thumb begins to work in a relentless, blurring motion, and the combination of that blunt pressure and the way he’s bottoming out inside you makes your hips stutter. He lets out a long, fractured moan, his head falling back for a second as he feels your internal walls clenching around him in tight, rhythmic pulses.​

"I can't believe you," he rasps, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that vibrates through your joined hips. "Acting like a angel all night. Not letting me touch you because you can’t control yourself in front of company." He looks down at you, his dark eyes hooded and full of a nasty kind of heat. "Look at you now. You're a mess, baby. Where's that control?"​

You shake your head against the pillow, your hair a wild halo around your face. "You’re just as bad," you gasp, your fingers digging into the meat of his thighs. "You just don't care. Suki would be outside the door with a glass against the wood, Kas. She would mock us for a month. It’s embarrassing."​

He lets out a dark, amused chuckle, his thumb never slowing its work. "You’re so cute when you’re worried about her. But she’s gone now, sweetie. It’s just us."​

You look up at him, and for a moment, the heat of the moment softens into something deeply, achingly domestic. He is so incredibly handsome. You track the line of his crisp fade, the way his eyebrows are set in a look of intense focus, and the perfect, straight bridge of his nose. Your eyes linger on his plump lips—the ones that have been all over you for the last hour—and the thick beard that feels like silk against your skin.​

"You're so handsome," you whisper, the honesty of it making your chest ache. You reach up, your hands tangling in his hair at the nape of his neck, trying to pull his weight back down onto you. "Give me a kiss, Kassidy."

​He smiles, a slow, beautiful expression that reaches his eyes before he leans down to capture your mouth. As your lips meet, you whisper something sweet and utterly filthy into his mouth, a secret request that makes his entire body go rigid.​

"God, you're so bad," he groans against your lips.​

He doesn't wait. He recaptures your mouth in a sloppy, deep make-out, his tongue claiming yours while his hips start a frantic, pounding pace. He’s rubbing your clit with a bruising intensity now, and you can feel the heat of his release building in his lower stomach. You wrap your arms around his neck, holding on for dear life, whispering into his ear.​

"I love you, Kassidy. I love you so much. You’re so perfect."​

"I love you too, baby," he moans, his voice breaking as he feels the first contraction of your climax hitting him. He doesn't pull back; he pushes deeper, burying himself into your heat as you begin to come undone. He moans directly into your mouth, the sound vibrating through your teeth, before he pulls back just an inch to watch you.​

He holds your thigh wide open, his hand heavy and possessive as he watches your glassy eyes and your parted, panting lips. The sight of you shattered under him is clearly his favorite thing in the world. He mumbles sweet, protective things—and then some darker, possessive stuff that makes your heart hammer against your ribs.​

"That's it, baby. Cum for me. Cum so I can fill you up."​

You nod, unable to even find your voice, as the world narrows down to the point where his body meets yours. You shatter, your pussy milking him in desperate, electric waves. He lets out a low, guttural groan, his back arching as he finally loses his own control. He drives into you one last time, holding himself deep as he spills into you, his body trembling with the force of it.​

After a few minutes of heavy, silence-filling pants, he collapses onto your chest. He’s a dead weight, his brown skin slick with sweat, his heart hammering against yours. You wrap your arms around his back, your fingers tracing the dip of his spine, getting all clingy and refused to let him move.​

He lets out a long, weary sigh against your neck, though you can feel the smile in it. "You're so clingy when you’re tired," he mutters, though he doesn't pull away. He just settles into you, the two of you lying in the cooling dampness of the sheets, basking in the absolute peace of the room.​

The silence lasts until a sharp, upbeat ringtone pierces through the air. It’s coming from Kassidy’s phone on the dresser. He doesn't even lift his head. He recognizes the tone instantly.​

"Don't answer it," you whisper.​

"I’m not," he grumbles. "Malcolm is so damn annoying. It’s nearly midnight. Why is he calling?"​

He lets it ring until it goes to voicemail.​

-ꪶ꠸​

The two of you are cleaned up, wrapped in fresh sheets, and sitting propped up against the headboard. Kassidy finally reaches for his phone, hitting the speaker on the new notification. Malcolm’s voice booms through the quiet room, sounding entirely too energetic.​

"Yo, Kas. I know your ball-ass head saw me calling and you just ignored me. I see how it is. You get a little quality time and suddenly the homies don't exist. Cold world, man. Cold world."​

There’s a sound of Malcolm crunching on something in the background.​

"But anyway, so... um... is sis cooking this week? Because if she is, I need a plate. I’m already thinking about those sliders again. And if she ain't cooking, I mean, you still owe me for that mac and cheese she wouldn't let me take home. Anyway, I just started watching this show, 'The Bear'—yo, Kassy, have you seen this? The stress is real, bro. I’m sitting here sweating just watching them make a sandwich. Why is everyone yelling? It reminds me of Suki, honestly. Just loud for no reason..."​

The message continues for another three minutes, Malcolm ranting away about the plot of the show, his car's oil change, and a dream he had about a giant waffle.​

Kassidy looks at the phone, then at you, and just shakes his head. "I'm changing the locks tomorrow."​

"He just wants a plate, Kas," you laugh, leaning your head on his shoulder.​

"He wants our souls," he mutters, but he pulls you closer, finally clicking the phone off.

.ꪶ꠸𝑷𝒍𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆 𝑺𝒖𝒑𝒑𝒐𝒓𝒕 𝒀𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝑪𝒓𝒆𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒔 𝒃𝒚 𝑹𝒆𝒃𝒍𝒐𝒈𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒈ꪶ꠸.

Dividers by @uzmacchiato

And just like any other night, there he sits on the couch, laptop resting on his lap. Hunched over with his eyebrows furrowed, his fingers click away on the keys, a box of half-eaten Chinese food sitting on the table.

He mumbled to himself about the paper, he's been talking about this paper for a while and he wanted it to be perfect. This was going to be his 5th big paper and he wanted it front page on The Daily Planet.

You check the time and it's 11:45pm. He has to wake up early in the morning tomorrow for work. "Baby, maybe you should get some rest, the paper will be there tomorrow morning."

Clark nods, but still typing."I know hun, I'm almost done."

You look at him, and you can't even begin to imagine how many night's you've heard those exact words— how many nights you've gone to bed alone, only to wake up to a note on the fridge and flowers in one of your favorite vases. how many nights you've heard that and went to bed alone and woke up to a letter on the fridge and fresh flowers, because he woke up early to get to work.

You scoot over next to him and your hand finds the back of his neck, caressing it and running your fingers through his hair. That motion always brought him peace, causing him to let out an audible sigh. The kind of sigh that sounds like he is finally letting go of the weight of the world. His broad shoulders visibly drop as he leans back into the cushions, sinking into the space next to you.

"You've been working so hard, Clark," you whisper, shifting closer so your shoulder brushes against his. "But look at what you've already put together tonight. It's incredible."

Clark closes his eyes briefly, letting his head rest back against the couch, soaking in the comfort of the room. "I just need this to be perfect," he admits softly. "The people deserve to know the truth about this story."

"They will, cause' you're the one telling it," you say, your fingers moving to the back of his neck to knead out a knot. "I mean it. I am so incredibly proud of you. Not just for the big headlines, but for how much heart and time you put into this, don't even get me started. You care so much about helping people, Clark. It shines in literally everything you do. And that's not even going into you being the best boyfriend ever or you being Superman."

The sharp frantic clicking of the keyboard hasn't returned as Clark's laptop was on the coffee table

A soft, warm smile spreads across Clark's face, the stressed-out reporter who just sat beside you slowly easing away . You lean into his warm palm.

You begin to lean in close and pepper light, gentle kisses all over his face. You press a soft,sweet kiss on his temple whispering to him,"Such a smart man," As you press another kiss to his cheek,"So handsome and kind."Finally, you press another kiss to his forehead where the stress lines usually gather.

Clark lets out a low, rumbling laugh, his eyes closed with a smile plastered on his face. With every soft press of your lips, you see the tension in his shoulders soften a bit.

You kiss him softly, smiling as you pepper his face with kisses until he tries to pull away. "Hun, I still have more to—"

You cut him off gently, leaning in to press a kiss to his lips, silencing him successfully.

When you pull back just an inch to see him, his eyes are a bit tired behind his glasses, the detailed reporter energy now completely derailed. He blinks, as if he had something on his mind but forgot, but you can't help but smile at him, staring into his brown eyes,as your hand runs through his hair.

"Guess what? The work you are doing now will also be there tomorrow and the day after that, baby," you say softly, you say softly with your voice leaving no room for argument. "The deadline isn't even for a couple of days, and look at this—you're already almost done anyway."

Clark opens his mouth to protest again, but you place a hand over his mouth, giving him a knowing look.

"I believe you deserve a break," you insist, leaning in to press another soft kiss to his cheek, slowly moving down his jawline. You move your hand away from his mouth.

"You've been so busy, baby," you kiss under his chin, shaking your head to yourself. You don't think he understands how perfect he is.

Your lips slowly press onto his, moving like a slow dance with his, lips sucking one an other. He groans into the kiss, your hands find his face as you nuzzle your face into his neck, leaving soft kisses and love bites along his neck and jaw and begin to leave kisses and love bites on his neck.

Clark's glasses begin to slide down slightly and over your shoulder he sees the computer the document he has been working on for hours, the one he is honestly nervous to publish and give to Perry. You feel his throat bob as he swallows.

You pull away from his neck, to get a good look at his face. You can see the tension and him shifting in his seat, which was sign he was getting hard. Now you don't know if it is from your kisses or your praises but whatever it is, it is working, causing you to smile.

"Baby, if you could just let me finish—," he tries to argue.

But your lips and hands are faster, your hand covers his mouth, and you leave a sweet kiss on his nose. "You are still thinking about work, and you still don't see how much you've accomplished, don't you see the problem with that, baby?"

Clark shrugs lightly, causing you to look at him.

"You have no idea how proud I am of you," you whisper, kissing his cheek once more. "You are so worked up, Mr. Kent, I have a question, hun who got employee of the month three times in a row, hm?"You ask as you begin to unbutton his white shirt that began to wrinkle the longer he sat there.

He shrugs off his shirt, placing it on the ottoman, revealing his toned chest and abdomen, just sitting before you perfectly.

Clark let out a shaky breath. You leaned towards the laptop, saving his file and powering it off. You heard a sigh leave Clark, as if he wanted to go back and continue writing. But you couldn't let him get sucked back into the loophole he so easily got lost in. You needed him to know that he had been working hard and that he, and the story he was writing for the Planet would be perfect—just as he was.

His eyes were on you fully as he adjusted his glasses which had began to slide slowly.

You face him and your lips crash once again, but this time with more force and passion behind the kiss. Clark groans as he leans in, and his hands find your hips, resting there like he knows where home is.

"You ain't answered my question, baby? Who got Employee of the Month three times in a row?" you repeat, this time holding his jaw so he has to look at you.

Clark shivers, causing his hips to shift just a little bit. And now you know why. You feel it between your legs, the tent straining against his pants, aching to be released.

"Me, I-I got Employee of the Month," Clark mumbled.

"And you don't even know how hard you work, or you think no one sees that, but I see that. I see you, baby," you whispered.

You tilted your head down, looking at the brown belt buckle that tightened his pants. And you began to undo his belt. Clark's hands circled around your wrist, pausing your movements as his breath hitched.

"My love, I-I- are you sure? Y-you don't have to if you don't—."

You smiled lightly at him and his cute gesture. It’s funny that he thinks you don't want to do it, yet so sweet that he is checking on you.

"I want to," is all you said.

You unbuckled his belt, feeling his dick already twitching against his briefs.

You slid your hand into his boxers, feeling him pulse around your fingers as you held him from the base of his shaft.

You couldn't help but smile, he was just so handsome and sensitive when he got like this.

"Relax, baby. I got you. You always working so hard for the paper, for us, and as Superman. I think you deserve some release."

You kiss his cheek, as your hand strokes him lightly, feeling the heft of his dick. You run your thumb over his tip, collecting just a bit of pre-cum on your thumb and licking your finger.

He watches you letting out a moan as he watches you just lick his pre-cum off of your finger, he can't help but let choke out a moan.

"Baby, you can't do that-ya can't just, i- gah i need you to to touch me" He whispers as he spreads his legs even more, giving you more room to work .

"I will," you reassure him softly.

You begin to stroke him and shower him with praise.

Your heart can't help but spike as you feel him growing harder and throbbing for you. His hips begin to move, even if your hands haven't, he is chasing the feeling he yearns for. He is chasing his release.

"Princess, please move your hand," he practically begs as one of his hands clench the couch pillows.

You watch him closely. You watch the way he is looking at you with complete need, almost a distraught, desperate look on his face.

You like hearing his moans, you like the way he sounds and looks in this moment.

So, you tighten your grip and stroke him, watching him closely, what causes his breath to hitch and him to whimper and moan.

When you twist your hand slightly at the base of his dick and rub your thumb on his mushroom tip, it causes him to moan and sink further into the couch as his hips begin to meet your movement.

You loved this, seeing him completely give everything to you. Watching him get off was pleasure to you; this is what you wanted in this moment.

Your hands repeat the movement now in a rhythm and flow, up and down, as you rub his tip. His hips buck to meet his release, a bead of sweat dripping from his forehead as his glasses start to hang low on his nose.

You kiss his cheek, as you put your face cheek to cheek with his and just watch your hand move around his thick dick. It felt heavy in your hands, throbbing in your hands.

"You are so handsome, baby, so smart too, gosh my smart journalist boyfriend who is so stressed about things that he’s gonna ace? Ain’t that right Clark?"

He whimpers "Gah, g-gah,".

"You're so good for me, baby, you just really need to cum by the way you are moving your hips, just so handsome" you whisper as you lick the shell of his ear and kiss it.

"I wish you could see how you look, so perfect, your stomach tensing every time I stroke you, it's like you are waiting permission to cum, is that what you are doing honey are you waiting?"

Clark moans , his cheeks completely flushed as cum slowly begins to seep from his tip sliding down to your hand, he can't help but let out breathless moans and his mouth agape.

He nods feverishly.

“Fuckkk honey, you’re so perfect for me, ugh everything to do is just-ughh fuck I needed this, I-I thank you" he says desperately as his hand comes up to your jaw holding your face. His hand slides to the back of your head and pulls you closer to him, and he kisses you fervently, moaning into the kiss and slipping his tongue inside.

His hips never stop jerking, he pulls away from the kiss, moaning "Can I cum? I swear to God I’ll be good for you just let me cum, let me finish,"

He whimpers your name.

His thrusts into your hands grow sloppy and convulsive.

You pepper a kiss on his neck and whisper in his ear, "Cum for me, honey. You deserve it, baby. You’re so hot for me, you're so hard for me. So prove it, show me how bad you need this."

"Fffuuuuckkkk, I’m cumming, ah. Y/N,baby. I’m gonna make a mess, princess. I-“ Clark's body jerks as his dick twitches, and finally, he cums, hips sloppily thrusting.

"That's it , Clark. Let go for me."

His mouth agape, panting, and head thrown back with pleasure, causing you to kiss his soft lips.

You stroke him slowly as his cum splashes onto his laptop and notebook, hitting some of the coffee table. He's panting and moaning .

You watch him, panties soaked and thighs clenched, as you feel the wetness between your thighs as you watch your boyfriend cum to the thought of you, cumming right into your hands.

Clark catches his breath, swallowing slowly as he turns his head towards you with a lopsided smile.

You lick your hand, and he groans, chuckling a bit. "You are unbelievable. You know that?"

You smile as you taste him. He tastes sweet and strong at the same time.

"Feel better?"

He nods and smiles as he fixes his glasses.

“See, you did finish, honey." You smile as you plant a sweet kiss to his cheek with the most mischievous smile playing onto your face as Clark sits, catching his breath, legs still spread as his breathing begins to return to normal.

"You finished, just not your paper." You smile as you lick the cum off your hands.

"Like I said, unbelievable." Clark shakes his head with a tired smile on his face.

"Thank you, hun." As he kisses your lips once more.

˙ . ꒷ 🍰 . 𖦹˙— mika’s notes: thank you for reading lovelies, please reblog, comment and let me know what you think!! 💋💋 i’ve miss you all, also thank you to @heav3nlyglory @jellywrites1218 @mtcloudsworld for listening to me yap about this fic <𝟑 .ᐟ

۶ৎ if you’d like to continue to become a regular at my bakery, join my taglist to place your order! 🍮🥄 ˚₊‧

╰┈➤ ໒꒰ྀིᵔ ᵕ ᵔ ꒱ྀི১ 𝐓𝐀𝐆𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

Here is the other baked goods you might want to taste. Check out my masterlist!

╰┈➤ 𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓

He said it was the way you talked, too nice, too careful. The way you waved at everyone, even people who didn’t deserve it. The way you looked like you believed the world was good when he’d long decided it wasn’t.

He told his brothers at Delta Chi Alpha that you were “too perfect,” “too fake,” “too much lip gloss and not enough substance.” He said it every time your name came up, every time someone mentioned that you’d politely turned down yet another guy from his house.

But really? You just got under his skin.

He’d watch you at parties sometimes, pretending he wasn’t. You’d be there with your friends, laughing over neon cocktails, hair catching the string-light glow, politely side-stepping drunk guys who tried to flirt.

Always untouchable. Always just out of reach.

And the more he told himself he didn’t care, the more he did. You were everything he wasn’t. And that drove him crazy

The problem was, the feeling wasn’t one-sided, not completely.

You didn’t like Rafe Cameron (no, definitely not), but you noticed him.

Everyone did. The easy confidence, the way his laugh cut through music, the way people followed his lead like it was law. He was trouble, obvious and magnetic. The kind of boy your friends warned you about while secretly hoping to end up in his sweatshirt.

So you avoided him.

You perfected it, actually. A polite smile here, a soft “hi” in passing, and then you’d vanish into a crowd of safer boys.

And it worked. Until it didn’t.

“Man, Rafe’s got it bad for the Sigma sweetheart,” Topper joked one night, elbowing him as you walked by. You smiled, that soft, automatic smile you gave everyone, and Rafe’s jaw tightened.

“Yeah, right,” he said, tipping back his drink. “She’s not my type.”

Except you was exactly his type. Pretty. Smart. The kind of good he didn’t know how to be around.

He’d tried ignoring you. He’d tried teasing you, the sarcastic comments, the smirks, the “careful, princess, you’ll get glitter on my shoes” kind of lines that usually made girls roll their eyes and then lean closer anyway. But not you. You just smiled that infuriating, patient smile and walked away.

It drove him insane.

So when he saw you at the Delta Chi house again, pink dress, perfect curls, laughing with your friends in the kitchen while the bass thumped through the floorboards, he made a decision.

“Cameron, don’t,” Kelce warned, already seeing the look in his eyes.

Rafe smirked. “What? I’m just gonna say hi.”

He crossed the room like he owned it, because he did, technically, and leaned against the counter beside you, all casual arrogance and expensive cologne.

“Didn’t think Sigma Theta girls were allowed to fraternize with the enemy,” he said.

You turned, half-smile polite, eyes glittering. “Didn’t think Delta Chi boys were capable of complete sentences.”

Rafe’s grin deepened, lazy and practiced. “So, sweetheart,” he said, pushing off the counter just enough that the space between you hummed, “what would it take for a Delta Chi guy to get a minute of your time? Dinner? Coffee? A moment under the fairy lights out back?”

You blinked, surprised by the smoothness of it, then folded your arms. “You mean like the minute you gave Lindsey Carver last month?”

His smirk faltered for a beat.

“She’s still telling people you’re texting her, by the way,” you added, tone all sugar but eyes sharp.

Rafe’s jaw worked. “Ah. That.” He exhaled a soft laugh, the kind that pretended to be amused but wasn’t. “Look, Lindsey and I—we’re cool. Just part of the… inter-Greek exchange program, you know?”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s what you call it?”

He leaned closer, voice dipping low enough that you caught the faint smell of expensive aftershave and beer. “Come on, princess, you’re really gonna hold a harmless mistake against me?”

“It didn’t look harmless to her,” you said, lifting your cup. “Besides, I don’t think you’re exactly Sigma Theta material.”

“Oh, no?” he asked, smile curling again. “Because I was thinking the opposite.”

You shot him a look that was half amusement, half warning, but he wasn’t done.

“Every year,” he continued, tipping his bottle toward the crowd of mingling Greek letters, “there’s this unspoken tradition. One Delta Chi, one Sigma Theta, solidify the alliance.” His gaze locked onto yours, stripping away the party’s noise.

“We fuck. Plain and simple. Tradition. Like my dad did with some Sigma president back in ‘92. Topper’s cousin did it last fall.” He leaned in, heat radiating off him. “Keeps things smooth between houses. Avoids petty rivalries, or whatever bullshit they tell pledges. It’s practically history by no” His grin sharpened, predatory.

You hesitated, just long enough for him to notice.

“That’s not fair,” you said, half-laughing, half-flustered.

"Hell, ask your sisters, they’ll tell you.” He leaned in, voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that scraped against your ear. “Wouldn’t want to break tradition, would you? Imagine the disappointment in your sisters’ eyes if their sweetheart chickened out.”

The music thumped, someone yelled from the living room, and for a heartbeat you wondered if maybe, just maybe, Rafe was right, maybe you were still standing there because something about him, about this dangerous mix of confidence and charm, pulled you in despite every reason not to.

You stared at him, the practiced politeness crumbling. This wasn’t charm; it was coercion wrapped in frat-boy mythology. The scent of cheap beer and his expensive cedar cologne clashed in your nostrils. "Bullshit," you breathed, voice tight. "You made that up five seconds ago."

Rafe’s grin didn’t waver, but his eyes flickered, minute, almost imperceptible. "Ask Kelce," he countered smoothly, gesturing vaguely towards the porch where Kelce nursed a beer, oblivious.

"He did it last year with Sarah Miller. Solidified the whole semester. Smooth sailing since." He leaned closer, his knuckles brushing your bare arm. "You wouldn’t want Sigma blamed for starting a war over some… reluctance, would you?"

The implication landed like a slap.

Tradition?

More like sanctioned degradation. Your cheeks burned, but beneath the humiliation, anger coiled, cold and sharp. He was cornering you, weaponizing your reputation against you.

Your throat tightened, a phantom pressure remembering Lindsey Carver’s tearful whispers about Rafe’s promises vanishing faster than morning mist.

"You think threatening my sisters works?" Your voice dropped low, surprising even you with its steadiness.

The polite Sigma veneer cracked, revealing something harder beneath. "That’s low, Cameron. Even for you." You watched his smirk falter again, replaced by a flicker of genuine surprise.

Good. He hadn’t expected fight.

He leaned back slightly, reassessing. The predatory grin softened into something more calculating, almost intrigued. "Threatening?" He chuckled, a dry sound devoid of humor. "Nah, princess. Just stating facts. The tradition." He emphasised the word, letting it drip with implication.

His gaze swept over you again, lingering on the defiant set of your jaw. "You know what really pisses me off?" His voice dropped, rough and intimate against the thumping bass. "That fucking smile. That perfect, polite Sigma smile you give everyone. Like you're above it all." He took a step closer, invading your space until the cedar-and-beer scent was overwhelming.

"But I see it. How you watch me when you think I'm not looking. How your pulse jumps right here," His thumb brushed the frantic flutter beneath your jawline, a touch that felt like a brand. "When I get too close. You hate me? Fine. But you want me too. It’s written all over you."

His words scraped raw against your nerves. He wasn't entirely wrong, the dangerous pull was undeniable, a sickening mix of revulsion and unwelcome heat pooling low in your belly.

The pressure built, a suffocating cocktail of anger, unwanted arousal, and the crushing weight of his frat-boy mythology.

Tradition. Reputation. Disappointing sisters.

And the phantom echo of Lindsey’s humiliation mingled with the pulsing music. Your resolve, meticulously constructed brick by polite brick, began to fracture.

"Fine," you hissed, the word escaping tight and brittle. "Your room. Now." You spun on your heel before he could see the tremor in your hands, marching towards the stairs without looking back.

The roar of the party faded behind you, replaced by the hollow thud of your heels on worn wood. Rafe followed silently, his presence radiating smug heat at your back.

Upstairs, the hallway was dim, littered with discarded solo cups and the faint smell of stale weed. He unlocked a door at the end, pushing it open.

Inside was predictably chaotic, rumpled sheets, clothes strewn everywhere, a faint scent of expensive cologne barely masking something muskier. He kicked the door shut behind you both, plunging the room into near-darkness save for the neon bleed from a frat house sign outside the window.

He leaned against the door, arms crossed, silhouetted against the garish light. "See?" His voice was low, dangerous velvet. "Knew you weren't just gloss." He pushed off the door, closing the distance in two strides, his hand gripping your waist possessively. "Now, about that tradition…"

His fingers traced your jawline, tilting your chin up. "It's gotta be thorough." His smirk was back, sharp and predatory. "Seal the deal properly." His other hand went to his belt buckle.

The metallic clink echoed harshly in the sudden quiet of the room.

You flinched as he popped the button, the zipper rasping down. Your eyes dropped instinctively, widening as he pulled himself free.

Thick, heavy, already half-hard and intimidatingly large. Your breath caught, a small, involuntary gasp escaping your lips. You'd given head before, a few awkward times with boyfriends who were polite and patient.

But this felt like looking down the barrel of a cannon.

"Problem?" Rafe’s voice was a low rumble, thick with mocking amusement. He stroked himself slowly, deliberately, his gaze locked on your face. "Sigma sweetheart suddenly shy? Thought you were experienced."

The slut shaming hit its mark, sharp and intended.

"Lindsey managed alright. Bit messy, but she got the job done."

Anger flared hot beneath the panic, mixing with the unwanted heat pooling low in your belly. You hated him. You hated that he saw your hesitation. You hated that he was right, Lindsey had managed.

And you refused to be found wanting. "Shut up, Cameron," you hissed, forcing steel into your voice. "Just… give me a second."

Dropping to your knees felt like stepping off a cliff. The worn carpet scratched your bare legs, smelling faintly of spilled beer and stale smoke. You stared at him, thick and heavy in your face, the tip glistening slightly in the dim neon light bleeding through the window.

Your hands trembled as you reached out, fingers clumsy against his shaft. You tried to mimic what you'd seen, what you'd half-remembered from fumbling experiences, wrapping your hand around the base and leaning forward tentatively.

The musky scent of him filled your nose, sharp and primal. You opened your mouth, taking just the head inside.

It felt alien, too warm, too solid. You tried to suck gently, your tongue clumsy against the underside. It tasted faintly of salt and skin. You pulled back slightly, breathing through your nose, trying to find a rhythm. Your jaw already ached with the unfamiliar stretch.

Rafe’s low chuckle vibrated above you. "Christ, princess," he drawled, his voice thick with condescension. "You weren't kidding about being inexperienced." He watched your awkward ministrations, his amusement palpable.

"Lindsey at least knew how to use her tongue."

The deliberate slut shaming landed like a physical blow. "Open wider," he commanded, his hand suddenly tangling roughly in your hair. "And relax your jaw. You're tighter than a fucking virgin."

He pushed forward, not violently, but with insistent pressure. You gagged reflexively as the head bumped against the back of your throat, tears springing to your eyes. You pulled back sharply, coughing, saliva slicking your chin.

Humiliation burned your cheeks hotter than anger.

"Pathetic," he muttered, but his grip in your hair tightened, holding you in place. "Again. Wider this time. Deep breath."

His thumb brushed roughly against your cheekbone, wiping away a stray tear with a mocking gentleness. "Think of it as… Greek relations training." He pushed again, slower this time, guiding himself deeper as you choked and trembled.

"There. Feel that?" His voice was a low rasp, devoid of kindness, focused only on the mechanics. "That's where you need to take it. Hold it. Breathe through your nose." He held you there for a torturous second, the pressure immense, the urge to gag overwhelming, before pulling back slightly. "Now, again. Deeper."

The mockery was a relentless tool, forcing submission through shame. "Show me Sigma Theta isn't just about cookies and charity drives."

His grip in your hair was unforgiving, forcing your head back down onto him. You choked again, tears blurring the neon smear outside the window. The taste, salt, skin, bitterness, coated your tongue.

Each shallow breath through your nose brought the thick musk deeper into your lungs. Your jaw screamed, muscles straining against the unfamiliar intrusion. He pushed deeper, past the point of gagging, holding you there until your throat spasmed violently around him.

"See?" Rafe grunted, pulling back just enough to let you gasp. "You're learning." His thumb traced the wetness on your chin, saliva, tears, with a detached curiosity. "Lindsey cried too. Said it hurt." He pushed forward again, relentless. "But she didn't stop. Because she knew her place."

The slut shaming was precise, surgical. "Yours is right here. On your knees. Taking it."

You squeezed your eyes shut, focusing only on the mechanics: breathe through the nose, relax the throat. The pressure was immense, a suffocating fullness that blurred thought.

When he pulled back slightly, you instinctively sucked harder, desperate for air, your tongue flattening against his shaft.

A low groan escaped him, the first sound that wasn't mockery. It fueled you. You hollowed your cheeks, drawing him deeper, ignoring the burn. Your hand tightened at the base, stroking in time with your mouth.

"Fuck," he hissed, hips jerking forward. The sudden movement triggered another gag, but you held, swallowing convulsively.

Tears streamed freely now, mingling with the slick mess on his skin. His breathing roughened, fingers tightening in your hair. "Yeah… like that. Keep going."

The praise was rough, almost grudging, but it ignited a spark of defiance. You weren't Lindsey. You wouldn't just endure; you'd conquer this.

You pushed yourself further, taking him deeper until your nose pressed against coarse hair, throat opening in a raw, involuntary swallow. He cursed, a ragged sound ripped from his chest, his control fraying.

The rhythm became frantic, his thrusts shallow and urgent. You braced yourself on his thighs, meeting each push, the humiliation momentarily eclipsed by a savage, unwanted thrill of power.

You were breaking him, too.

He bucked hard, hips snapping forward, burying himself fully in your throat. The groan tore from him, raw, involuntary, as your muscles clenched around him.

The taste, salt, musk, faintly metallic, flooded your senses. His fingers tightened painfully in your hair, anchoring you as he thrust shallowly, chasing his own release. "Fuck, fuck—" he choked out, voice stripped of its mocking edge. "Just like that—don't stop—"

You didn't. You pushed harder, hollowing your cheeks, sucking with a desperate rhythm that mirrored the frantic pulse between your own legs.

Shame warred with a dark, liquid triumph. His thighs trembled under your palms. The air thickened with the sounds, wet gasps, ragged breathing, the slick slide of your mouth. His control shattered completely; his thrusts grew erratic, uncontrolled.

A sharp cry ripped from him as he came, hot and bitter, flooding your throat. You gagged, swallowing reflexively, tears streaming freely now. He held you there, buried deep, as the last pulses faded.

Slowly, he pulled out, leaving you gasping, saliva and come slicking your chin. You wiped your mouth with the back of your hand, trembling. Rafe leaned back against the door, breathing hard, watching you with hooded eyes.

The predatory smirk was gone.

In its place was something raw, almost stunned. He ran a hand through his hair, dislodging his backwards cap. "Jesus," he breathed, the word ragged. He stared at the wet shine on your lips, then met your gaze. The usual arrogance was absent.

For a heartbeat, silence stretched, thick and charged.

Then, like flipping a switch, the mask slammed back into place. He straightened, adjusting himself with deliberate slowness. His gaze swept over you, kneeling, flushed, tear-streaked, and the familiar contempt curled his lip.

"Better," he conceded, voice rough but regaining its mocking edge. He gestured dismissively toward the rumpled bed behind him. "Now get your ass up there. Tradition's not finished."

You pushed yourself to your feet, legs unsteady. The carpet fibers clung to your knees. "What?" The word came out hoarse. "That was—"

"A warm-up," he cut in, stepping closer. His knuckles brushed your cheekbone, tracing the path of a drying tear. The touch was coldly clinical. "The deal requires sealing. Properly."

His eyes dropped to your mouth again, then lower, lingering on the neckline of your pink dress. "You think swallowing earns you a gold star?" He chuckled, low and humourless. "Bed now."

You didn't move. The raw vulnerability of kneeling, the sting in your throat, the bitter taste still coating your tongue, it hung heavy in the air between you. Rafe’s gaze, however, wasn't lingering on your tear-streaked face or trembling hands.

It was fixed on your collarbone, exposed by the sundress strap that had slipped slightly down your shoulder. His thumb pressed against the dip where your pulse hammered wildly.

"Still racing," he murmured, almost to himself. His other hand slid roughly beneath the strap, pushing it down further, exposing more skin. The fabric bunched awkwardly.

He leaned in abruptly, his lips brushing your ear. "Was that your first time?" he demanded, voice low but stripped of its earlier mocking cadence. It was flatter.

Needing confirmation.

The question hung suspended, sharp as broken glass. You flinched, pulling your head back slightly to meet his eyes. The practiced arrogance was fractured; beneath the hooded lids was something raw, almost unnerved.

He needed to know.

Needed to categorize this violation. "No," you whispered, voice raspy from his abuse. "Not… not first." You swallowed, the motion painful. "But… it’s been a while."

A slow, predatory smile spread across his face. Not triumphant. Calculating. "A while?" He echoed, dragging the words out. His fingers traced the edge of your exposed shoulder.

"Define 'a while', princess." The nickname dripped with renewed venom. "Semester? Year? Since your high school sweetheart?" His gaze sharpened, dissecting your hesitation. "Lindsey said Sigma girls talk. Said you were… selective." He paused, letting the implication sink in. "Too selective. Practically frigid."

The slut-shaming was back, precise and aimed.

He pushed the strap down further, the pink fabric catching precariously on your arm. "So," he continued, his breath warm and unwelcome against your temple. "Who was the lucky bastard? Before me?"

His hand slid from your shoulder down your arm, rough fingertips grazing your bare skin. "Some soft-handed poli-sci pledge?" his voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper laced with malice, "Did he teach you that pathetic little trick?" He jerked his head vaguely towards where you’d knelt moments before. "Or was that all… natural talent?"

You pulled back sharply, the movement dislodging his hand. "None of your business, Cameron." Your voice scraped raw, but held defiance. "Doesn't matter."

His laugh was short, sharp. "Oh, it matters." He stepped forward again, closing the space you’d created.

One hand snaked around your waist, pulling you flush against him. The other cupped your jaw, forcing your gaze up. The sudden proximity, the heat radiating off him, the lingering scent of sex and cedar, it was disorienting.

His thumb brushed roughly over your bottom lip, wiping away a trace of moisture you’d missed. "Because," he murmured, his voice losing its mocking edge, dipping into something lower, almost contemplative, "if it’s been a while…" His gaze locked onto yours, stripping away the frat-boy bravado for a fleeting second.

"Then this," he leaned in slowly, deliberately, his lips hovering a breath away from yours, "…is gonna hurt."

The kiss wasn't brutal.

It was soft, unnervingly so.

A slow press of his lips against yours, testing, almost questioning. His hand remained firm on your jaw, holding you still. It lasted only a heartbeat, a shocking counterpoint to the violence of moments before.

Then he pulled back just enough to see your eyes, searching your face. "Well?" he breathed, the word ghosting over your lips. "Still pretending you don't feel it?"

The unexpected gentleness was more jarring than the roughness. Your breath caught. The taste of him, faintly minty now, overlaying the salt and bitterness, mingled with the phantom pressure still constricting your throat. You stared at him, the polished Sigma composure utterly shattered.

What flickered in his eyes wasn't triumph, but a raw, predatory curiosity. He saw the confusion, the unwelcome tremor running through you, and his lips curved into a slow, dangerous smile.

"Thought so," he murmured. The softness vanished instantly, replaced by the familiar, biting contempt. His grip tightened on your jaw. "Good. Means you’re paying attention."

He jerked his chin towards the rumpled bed again. "Now get on it. Face down. And lose the dress." The command was flat, final. "Let's see if 'selective' Sigma girls can take more than just a cock down their throat."

You hesitated. The unexpected gentleness had been a trap, a flicker of false intimacy designed to disarm.

Now, stripped bare by his gaze, the pink sundress felt like childish armor. You fumbled with the zipper at your side, fingers clumsy. The fabric pooled around your ankles, leaving you in only your underwear. The air felt cold against your exposed skin.

Rafe didn't touch you. He watched, arms crossed, leaning against the doorframe. His eyes raked over you, lingering on the curve of your hip, the dip of your spine, with clinical detachment. "Panties too," he ordered, voice devoid of inflection. "Don't make me ask twice."

You obeyed, stepping out of them, the worn carpet rough beneath your bare feet. Shame burned hotter than anger now. He gestured impatiently towards the bed. "Face down. Ass up. Now."

You moved stiffly, climbing onto the unmade sheets that smelled faintly of stale beer and other girls. The mattress springs groaned beneath your weight. You buried your face in the pillow, trying to disappear into the scratchy cotton.

The silence stretched, thick with anticipation and humiliation. You heard the rustle of his jeans, the clink of his belt buckle again. Then, footsteps approached the bed.

His palm landed hard on your bare ass cheek. A sharp, stinging slap that echoed in the small room. You jerked, a gasp ripped from your throat.

"Still tight," he observed, his voice dripping with mock appraisal. He ran a calloused finger down the cleft of your ass, making you flinch. "Bet that poli-sci boy didn't know what to do with this." His finger pressed, against your entrance. "Been that long, huh?"

You clenched your teeth, pressing your face deeper into the pillow. His finger withdrew. You heard the slick sound of him spitting onto his palm, then the wet slide as he coated himself.

The blunt pressure returned, pressing against your entrance. You braced, muscles locking tight.

"Relax," he muttered, his voice unexpectedly low, almost rough. His free hand landed warm on the small of your back, pressing down firmly. You flinched at the touch, expecting pain.

But then his lips brushed the knobs of your spine, soft and fleeting. The kiss was startlingly gentle, a ghost of warmth against your chilled skin. "Just relax," he breathed against your skin, the words muffled, almost lost in the pillow. His hips nudged forward slowly, easing just the thick head inside you.

The stretch was immediate, burning, but he didn't shove. He held there, letting the pressure build gradually.

"Fuck," he whispered, his voice thick with something that wasn't anger. His lips moved again, pressing another soft kiss against your shoulder blade. "Hate this."

His hips pushed forward another fraction, unbearably slow. "Hate how perfect you look like this." His palm smoothed up your spine, a strangely soothing gesture. "Hate how tight you feel."

He eased deeper still, the burning stretch intensifying, but his movements remained measured, controlled. "Hate that fucking smile you give everyone else."

Another inch, slow, deliberate. His breath hitched. "Hate that you make me want to do this slow." The contrast was dizzying.

The soft kisses trailing your spine, the deliberate gentleness of his invasion, clashed violently with the venom in his mumbled words. His hand slid around your hip, fingers splaying possessively over your lower belly, pulling you back onto him as he sank the final inch.

You gasped, the fullness stealing your breath, the initial burn settling into a deep, aching stretch. He stayed buried deep, his forehead resting against your shoulder blade, breathing hard.

"Perfect," he groaned, the word sounding ripped from him, laced with disgust and something else, raw, undeniable desire. "Fucking hate how perfect you are." He began to move, finally, but still slow, a deep, grinding roll of his hips that dragged against every nerve ending inside you.

A whimper escaped you, torn between protest and a treacherous surge of pleasure. You wanted more than this torturous slowness, wanted the friction to chase away the lingering humiliation, the sharp sting to overwhelm the confusing tenderness.

Yet, the deliberate pace was unraveling you, each measured withdrawal and deep thrust hitting spots you hadn't known existed, building a heat that coiled low and tight.

You pressed your face deeper into the pillow, muffling another sound, part gasp, part plea. His hand tightened on your hip, fingers digging in.

But his own breath was ragged, his thrusts losing their strict rhythm, becoming slightly quicker, deeper. His other hand slid beneath you, fingers finding your clit with startling accuracy.

The rough pad of his thumb circled you, not gently, but with brutal efficiency. The dual assault, deep inside, sharp friction outside, made your vision blur. You arched instinctively, pressing back against him, seeking more of that maddening fullness, more of the rough pressure.

A low, choked moan escaped despite yourself.

"Fuck," Rafe hissed against your shoulder blade, his hips snapping forward harder. "That's it." His thumb pressed down harder, grinding against your clit. "Begging without words now? Pathetic." But his voice lacked its usual cutting edge; it was strained, thick with exertion and something darker.

The slow, deliberate torture had built a pressure inside you that threatened to rupture. His relentless rhythm, the deep, grinding drag, the insistent pressure on your clit, it coiled tighter, tighter. Your fingers clawed at the scratchy pillowcase, muffling another whimper that sounded suspiciously like a plea.

"Louder," he demanded, his breath hot and ragged against your skin. "Let me hear how much you want it." He shifted his angle slightly, driving into you with punishing precision. "Want it faster? Deeper?" His thumb flicked sharply against your clit. "Tell me."

The command ripped through the haze. "More," you gasped, the word ragged, involuntary. "Faster. Please." The humiliation burned, but the need was stronger. "Deeper, Rafe—please."

He groaned, a raw, guttural sound. His hand tightened painfully on your hip, fingers digging into flesh as he drove into you with brutal force.

No more slow torment.

This was pure possession, each thrust slamming deep, the friction white-hot. His thumb kept its brutal pace on your clit, relentless. "There," he panted, his voice cracking. "That's what you needed. Couldn't admit it, could you?" He slammed home again, burying himself to the hilt. "Had to be made to beg."

The coil snapped.

Pleasure detonated, sharp and blinding, radiating out from your core in violent waves. Your body clenched around him, spasming uncontrollably, pulling a ragged shout from his throat as he followed you over the edge.

His hips jerked erratically, emptying himself deep inside you with short, sharp thrusts, his groan echoing your own gasping cries. He collapsed heavily onto your back, his weight pressing you deeper into the mattress, his breath hot and uneven against your neck.

The room was silent except for your shared, ragged breathing and the faint thump of bass still bleeding through the floorboards. His hand, still resting possessively on your hip, trembled slightly.

Neither of you moved. The air hung thick with the scent of sex, sweat, and something dangerously unresolved.

Then, a soft brush of lips against your shoulder blade.

Gentle. Almost hesitant.

It startled you more than the slap had. A small, involuntary sound escaped your throat, a mewl of confusion, exhaustion, the remnants of shattered nerves.

Rafe froze. His breath hitched.

Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his head. You felt his gaze burning into the side of your face. You couldn't turn, couldn't meet his eyes, buried as you were beneath him. His lips touched the curve of your cheekbone, just below your temple.

Another feather-light kiss. It wasn't mocking. It wasn't cruel. It felt… bewildering. He sighed.

A long, slow exhale that seemed to deflate him, his weight settling heavier for a moment before he pushed himself up onto his elbows. The sudden coolness on your sweat-slicked skin made you shiver.

You remained face down, utterly still, waiting for the axe to fall, for the contempt to flood back in. "You liked that," he stated flatly. Not a question. An accusation devoid of its usual venom.

The silence stretched. Your throat felt raw, scraped. You swallowed painfully. "Yeah," you whispered, the word muffled against the pillowcase. It sounded absurdly small, impossibly awkward.

Admitting it felt like surrendering another piece of yourself. "I… I liked it." The kisses. The terrifying gentleness woven through the hate.

A beat. Then another rough sigh escaped him, closer to a groan this time. He rolled off you completely, landing beside you on the rumpled sheets with a soft thud.

He stared up at the ceiling, the neon light from outside painting harsh stripes across his face. His jaw was tight. "Fuck," he muttered, the word thick with self-loathing. He ran a hand over his face, dragging it down hard.

"Lindsey didn't…" He trailed off abruptly, clamping his mouth shut. He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. The implication hung heavy.

Lindsey didn't make me do that. Lindsey didn't elicit confusing tenderness. Lindsey didn't get kissed on the shoulder blade after being fucked into the mattress. Lindsey didn't make him sigh like the world was ending.

Slowly, tentatively, you shifted.

Not away, but towards the heat radiating off him. Your body moved of its own accord, curling against his side, your head finding the hollow beneath his collarbone. His skin was damp, salty, the frantic pulse in his neck gradually slowing beneath your cheek.

You felt him stiffen, a full-body flinch, but he didn't push you away. Didn't mock. His arm, trapped beneath you, remained rigid.

Then, impossibly, his lips brushed the crown of your head. A whisper of contact, fleeting and clumsy. "Tradition's done," he mumbled, the words thick and muffled against your hair. The expected dismissal, the shove off the bed, didn't come. Instead, his rigid arm shifted.

Hesitantly, almost cautiously, his fingers brushed, hesitant, clumsy, through the tangled mess of your hair near your temple. It wasn't tenderness; it felt like surrender.

Like a circuit overloaded and sparking malevolently.

Silence pooled thickly around you, broken only by the distant thump of bass and the frantic drumming inside your own ribs. You clung tighter, pressing your face harder against his chest, inhaling the complex scent of sweat, sex, cedar cologne, and something uniquely him, sharp and vaguely metallic.

Your fingers curled into the damp cotton of his t-shirt, anchoring yourself against the bewildering undertow pulling you both down. You felt the hitch in his breathing, the subtle tremor in the hand resting on your back.

His lips moved against your hair again, the words barely audible, muffled and raw. "Fuck," he breathed, the curse sounding strangely soft. "I… like this."

The admission hung suspended, fragile as blown glass. "Having you here." His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly against your spine. "Like this." He paused, the silence stretching taut.

"Not… not just the fucking." The words sounded clumsy, alien on his tongue. "This." He gestured vaguely with his chin against your head, encompassing the tangled limbs, the shared heat, the unbearable intimacy. "You… quiet."

You sighed against his skin, the sound escaping without permission, a release of tension, confusion, the sheer exhaustion of navigating his jagged edges. "Yeah," you murmured back, equally soft, the word tasting unfamiliar.

"I… like it too." You didn't elaborate. Couldn't.

Admitting you liked the quiet closeness felt infinitely more dangerous than admitting you liked the rough, hateful sex. It was a surrender to something far deeper than submission.

His arm tightened around you, pulling you closer against the hard plane of his chest. The rigid tension in his muscles began to bleed away, replaced by a heavy, almost drowsy warmth. His fingers, still tangled in your hair, resumed their clumsy stroking, smoothing down the tangles he’d likely caused himself.

It was awkward, unpracticed, but undeniably tender. "Shut up," he mumbled, his voice thick with sleep and something suspiciously close to embarrassment. "Just… stay."

You did.

The silence wasn't empty now; it hummed with the quiet rhythm of your breathing syncing, the distant bass fading into insignificance. You traced the faint ridge of a scar on his collarbone with your fingertip, a relic from some forgotten frat brawl, probably. He didn't flinch.

Instead, his thumb rubbed a slow circle against your shoulder blade, a silent acknowledgment. The raw intimacy felt stolen, fragile. His arm, the one pinned beneath you, shifted.

Slowly, awkwardly, it wrapped around your shoulders, pulling you infinitesimally closer. His palm settled flat against your upper back, holding you there.

Anchoring you.

Or anchoring himself. You couldn't tell which. The neon stripes from the window crawled slowly across the ceiling, the muffled bass downstairs a distant heartbeat. His thumb began a slow, unconscious stroke against your shoulder blade, tracing the same spot his lips had touched minutes before.

The silence wasn't comfortable. It was fragile, charged with the aftershocks of something terrifyingly new.