she was sitting across from you in the student center two days after the party when you abruptly cut yourself off mid-sentence and looked over her shoulder. your reaction lasted less than a second, but it was enough. dean had just walked through the doors surrounded by a group of friends, and before he’d even had the chance to look in your direction, you were already shoving your notebook into your bag.

“absolutely not,” hannah said.

you froze.

“hannah.”

“absolutely not.”

you sighed heavily and slung the bag over your shoulder. “i have somewhere to be.”

“you’re lying.”

“i’m not.”

“you literally don’t.”

you opened your mouth.

closed it.

then opened it again.

hannah pointed triumphantly. “see?”

you hated when she was right

unfortunately, she was right often.

“i’m not avoiding him.”

the look she gave you could have melted steel.

“i’m not.”

“honey, if you avoided serial killers with the same dedication you’re avoiding dean di laurentis, crime rates would hit zero.”

you groaned and stood before she could continue. ignoring her protests, you headed for the nearest exit without looking back. it wasn’t mature. it wasn’t reasonable. but neither was the way your stomach had immediately dropped the second you’d seen dean enter the room.

because that was the problem.

if dean had been exactly what you’d expected, this would’ve been easy.

if he’d flirted with you for an hour at the party and moved on to the next girl, you would’ve rolled your eyes and forgotten about him by morning. that’s what people like dean did. they charmed everyone. they collected attention like trophies. they never stayed interested for long enough to matter.

except dean hadn’t done that.

he’d texted.

twice.

then three times.

then more.

nothing creepy. nothing weird. stupid little things throughout the day. a picture of a dog he’d passed on campus because you’d mentioned liking dogs. a complaint about one of his professors. a blurry photo of a textbook accompanied by the message “look, i’m studying. are you proud of me?” somehow that had made things infinitely worse.

because it felt real.

and real was terrifying.

you’d spent years mastering invisibility. it wasn’t intentional at first, but eventually it became comfortable. people overlooked you all the time. teachers forgot you were in class. classmates forgot your name. boys definitely forgot you existed. there was safety in that. safety in being unnoticed.

dean noticed everything.

which was why, three days later, you found yourself hiding in the oldest section of the campus library like some sort of fugitive.

it was ridiculous.

even you knew it was ridiculous.

the fourth floor was nearly empty, tucked away in a wing nobody used anymore. half the shelves contained books older than your parents. the lights were dimmer there. quieter. safer. you had been sitting cross-legged on the floor between two shelves for almost an hour, completely absorbed in a novel and blissfully unaware of the fact that somebody was approaching.

the shadow appeared first.

you frowned.

libraries weren’t supposed to have shadows.

slowly, you looked up and nearly had a heart attack.

dean stood at the end of the aisle with his hands shoved into his pockets.

just stood there.

looking at you.

for a solid five seconds neither of you moved.

then dean tilted his head.

“seriously?”

your face immediately burned.

“what are you doing here?”

he laughed.

actually laughed.

the sound echoed softly through the empty aisle.

“that’s your first question?”

“yes.”

“not ‘how did you find me?’”

you immediately regretted asking.

because now you wanted the answer to that question too.

dean stepped further into the aisle, looking around dramatically before his gaze settled back on you. “you know, i thought hannah was exaggerating.”

“about what?”

“the hiding.”

you groaned.

dean pointed around the aisle.

“you are literally sitting on the floor between bookshelves.”

“i like books.”

“you are hiding.”

“it’s called reading.”

“it’s called hiding.”

you looked away.

which was apparently all the confirmation he needed.

the amusement faded slightly from his expression as he leaned against the shelf opposite you. for the first time since you’d met him, dean looked genuinely frustrated. not angry. just frustrated enough to have spent the better part of an afternoon tracking you down across campus.

“did i do something?”

the question caught you off guard.

you blinked.

dean shrugged one shoulder.

“seriously. because if i did, just tell me.”

suddenly the conversation wasn’t funny anymore.

your fingers tightened around the edge of your book.

because that was the thing.

he had done something.

he’d been nice.

he’d remembered things you told him.

he’d looked at you like you mattered.

and somehow that was so much scarier than him being a jerk

because if dean was awful, you could hate him.

instead you liked him.

and that felt like standing at the edge of a cliff.

dean watched your expression change.

watched you look away.

watched the silence stretch.

then something clicked behind his eyes.

understanding.

slowly, he exhaled.

“oh.”

your stomach dropped.

“oh what?”

a smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

not smug.

not cocky.

soft.

almost fond.

“you’re scared.”

your heart stopped.

Surely you could finish the shadowing program without having Park see you in another hospital bed. The first time was a workplace incident and you knew he was at work so that really couldn't be helped. This?

Oh, no. The universe was seriously trying to push some sort of something. You don't know what though.

Hell you weren't even supposed to be in the hospital today its your day off! You're supposed to be having fun. Not thinking about the scrubs and the charting and the operating rooms and all that.

Having fun costs.

You were out with your friends just about an hour ago. Brunching it up with your favorite people. Laughing because you were on someone else's tab and even if the mimosas weren't bottomless, they sure felt like it.

You hadn't even begun working on your third when it happened.

Like clockwork your day turned into something sour. You can't quite remember because it all went so fast. First you were walking your friend the the bathroom. Then you where on the floor. Someone walking past had clipped your friend, she twisted and now here you are.

Your wrist looks fucking purple. You know its not that bad. You know you'll have function of it after this. But you don't know how long its going to take to heal.

In order to get your friends off your back about going to an urgent care, you said you'd just swing by the hospital and have them look at it. Urgent care to you was the first aid kit that sits in your apartment. You were never planning to not see someone you trusted.

Lupe saw you check in and bumped you up. Which you told her not to do because there were other people who could've been seen before you. Like the guy with the serious cough. Or the little boy with the beads stuck up his nose.

Still you were given the fast track. It of course had to be Dana who saw you first once you were in. She basically called the whole ED into your room. Whitaker came and checked out your wrist and told you everything you already know. Possible sprain or highly doubtful but a hairline fracture could've happened.

Page Ortho someone says in the room. Abbot. You recognize his voice.

Mohan pages whoever is on call. You have half a mind to think its going to be Park. Until Mohan tells you on the way out that she didn't ask for him specifically, but someone should be coming down for the consult soon.

Abbot, who was supposed to be on his way you but somehow magically stuck around to get a good look at you, makes a face. A face you know is saying 'I know more than the rest of them'. You silently wave him off with your good hand.

Dr. Meyer comes in. She recognizes you instantly. And dives head first. Does an ultra sound to make sure there's enough blood flow to your hand to get you in for a scan.

What you don't expect, fifteen minutes later Park comes walking though the door of your room. You had thought since Meyer was on it that he was busy. In a surgery or something.

"Why didn't you tell me my resident was the consult?" he asks.

Dr. Meyer says something to the affect of 'you were busy' as she turns your wrist over slowly. You grimace when she pulls it the wrong way. Even though you know she's only trying to get a better read on the injury.

Park though, he gets to your side faster than you can even fucking blink. He's on the side with your good hand. And he looks at your wrist from there.

"Any meds for the pain?" he asks.

"Can't, blood alcohol level is a bit high for it." Meyers answers.

Brendon turns to you with a look. You feel like he's scolding you a bit. Your day off and you're day drinking. It probably didn't look good but what you did outside of this hospital and off the clock was no one's business.

"My friends were treating me to brunch, I couldn't say no." you answer his unasked question with a pout.

He scoffs playfully, "What happened?"

"I got my hand twisted, was holding onto my friend who got body checked on our way to the bathroom."

He looks ticked off. To say the least. You're not sure why that bothers you so much. No, that's not completely honest. You know why it bothers you. You don't want to be a nuisance to the man that you like.

Fuck. What a great time to realize that.

"I'm thinking its a simple pop and pinch." Meyers says casually.

Your eyes widen, "Wait! I don't wanna to do that!"

Automatically your body shoots away from her. In order to do that you move closer to Park. So close that your back in resting against his front. You feel his hands rest your hips in an instant. Probably to get you to steady so you won't fall off the bed.

"I think we should wait for scans. Don't wanna play fast and loose with one of the best new hands in the OD." Park says.

You crane you head up to look at him. He doesn't look down. He starts straight ahead at his colleague. A woman that is maybe a few years older than him. He's going against her...for you.

Because you've seen him do a pop and pinch before. You remember the first time you saw it happen you went and threw up a few minutes later in the bathroom. You hate seeing it happen to patients.

You've gotten better and don't have to heave when you see it happen. It takes a little bit out of you every time but you have gotten better and watching it happen. There was no way you were getting that move pulled on you though.

So you look back at Meyer.

"I can't stand it anyway. Would probably pass out." you comment.

Meyers looks at Park, "Wait, how have you stayed on to shadow the man who basically perfected it?"

"Oh, Dr. Park doesn't do those as much."

You watch Meyer raise her eyebrow in disbelief. Something in you tells you you've may have said a bit too much. You're just not too sure what. Then you watch as she gets up and snaps her gloves off.

Park removes his hands from your hips. You move away from Park and sit up against the bed again. You notice how cold the bed is compared to him fairly quickly. You shouldn't notice that.

"When the scans come back, we'll take next steps." she says as she walks out the room.

The door closes and leaves you and Park alone. You watch with careful eyes as he brings over a rolling chair and plants himself by your side. He looks worried. He never looks worried.

"I'm not gonna lose my hand, Park. It's probably just a sprain." you try to soothe over his fears.

He shakes his head, "I won't have you get anything but the best care. Your hands are important."

You lift up your bad hand and wiggle your fingers in front of him. The faint sense of pain still there but not so much from moving your fingers.

Then you lift your good hand up and compare them. One wrist more swollen than the other. A purple color lining it like a bracelet that goes all the way around.

"Because I chart the way you like." you joke.

"Because you're going to be a brilliant doctor one day." he counters.

At that you put both of your hands down slowly. Trying not to aggravate your bad one. Once rested, you turn to face him. The man never has a problem saying how he truly feels. Even when it knocks the wind right out of you.

You clear your throat. Your fears getting the better of you now. After looking at his face for a few moments the worrying starts to settle in. Maybe this could be a hairline fracture. Or a muscle tear. How much PT would it take to get back to normal?

Would you even get back to normal?

"If its something bad, I'd like you to be the one to fix me." you say.

He nods once. Like you had barked an order at him or something. You had thought he would say something. Like thank you because you basically just called him a great doctor. Or that you were in good hands because he knows he's a great doctor.

"You don't need fixing, Pinkie, but I've got you."

And at that very moment you think that that universe is conspiring to put butterflies in your stomach. Because Brendon Park has never looked more human than when he says that he's got you. And you don't know what it feels like to have him 'get' you, but you wanna find out now.

However, every time your mind tries to drive your attention back to the open textbook in front of you, your gaze keeps shifting lower, completely captivated by the view on the floor.

Logan is shoved halfway under the kitchen sink.

He’s wearing a fitted maroon t-shirt that spreads tightly across his shoulders every time he strains against a stubborn pipe. Whenever he lifts his arms, the shirt lifts too, exposing the patch of skin just above where his faded jeans are hugging his waist. You see the patch of hair that leads down his stomach, like an arrow directing you to look at where one of your favourite body parts of him lies.

It's really not your fault. You really did have the best study intentions.

A stray smudge of grease is smudged against his forehead. And his brown curls look messy from rubbing against the bottom of the cabinet. He holds a massive pair of pliers in one hand, propping himself up on one elbow to look up at you with a cocky grin.

“Take a picture, babe. It’ll last longer,” he teases.

You shake your head out of your daydream, pressing your thighs together and shifting in your seat.

“I might just have to,” you reply, leaning your chin on your hand. “I forgot about how handy you were.”

Logan tosses the pliers into the open, rusted red toolbox by his hip.

“Yeah, the P-trap was leaking, and Tucker was complaining about the smell. Figured I’d take care of it. Didn’t realise it would turn you on so much otherwise I’d have done it earlier.” He’s got a stupid cocky grin on his face that he totally deserves to be wearing, you’re practically drooling.

“I never said it turned me on,” you lie.

There’s just something intensely, undeniably, absolutely attractive about seeing him handle tools, the effortless confidence with which he fixes things. You start thinking about all the things in your dorm that you could break, just so you could ask him to come and fix it.

Logan slides out from under the sink, standing up to wash his hands. He turns back to you, leaning against the counter as he dries his hands on a towel.

“You didn’t have to say it.” He sets the towel down beside him. “Come here.”

He curves his index finger, gesturing you over.

“Logan, we’re in the middle of the kitchen,” you protest weakly, even as you slide off of the barstool and walk over to him. “Anyone could walk in.”

“Garrett’s out with Hannah, Tucker’s with Sabrina, and Dean is... well who knows where Dean is but it’s not here,” Logan murmurs. He hooks his fingers into the belt loops of your shorts, tugging you flush against his chest. The faint scent of motor oil and copper mixed with his clean cologne wraps around you like a vice. “We’re fine.”

Before you can argue any further, his mouth crashes into yours. It’s demanding and makes you completely forget what you were even protesting about. You whimper into his mouth, your hands instantly finding their way into his soft hair and tugging at it.

His hands slide down to rest firmly on your ass. He gives it a little squeeze before giving it a slap.

“You have no idea how hard it was to focus on that pipe with you watching me like that,” he murmurs against your lips.

You yelp as Logan’s hands cup under your ass, lifting you up to set you on the kitchen counter. He begins to trail light kisses along the inside of your knee, his hands tightening on your hips.

“Logan,” you breathe out, your head tilting back, “We really shouldn’t. Someone is going to-.”

“I told you,” he interrupts, his breath warm against your skin as he moves his path higher. “Nobody is home.”

Pulling you closer to the edge of the counter, he pulls your shorts and underwear off swifty.

You lay back, your head resting on top of the long-forgotten textbooks and other stationary.

Logan spreads your legs further, appreciating how you’re already clenching without him even really doing anything.

“Logan~,” you breathe, your hand reaching down to try and find his head so you can push him into you.

“Don’t worry, baby, I’ll take care of you.”

He lifts up your shirt, pressing a kiss to your bellybutton before kissing a slow trail down.

When you finally think he’s going to kiss you where you’re aching, he moves to your inner thigh, pressing kisses and sucking on the skin there.

“Logan~~,” you whine, louder this time. You’re becoming desperate for it.

“Say my name again,” he says against your thigh. He’s so close to where you need him, his warm breath fanning over you.

“Logan~, Logan~, Logan pleaseee,” you chant.

You bite back a moan as blows on your throbbing clit. He does that a few more times, each time leaning back to admire how your muscles contract.

Before you can beg him again, he finally takes your clit into his mouth. He’s gentle with it, giving you a soft suck before releasing it. He tongues his way down to your whole, lapping up your arousal.

“Mhmm, you taste so good, baby.” He swipes a finger up between your folds, coating his finger in your arousal. “Have a taste.”

He leans over, putting his finger in your mouth. Keeping your eyes firmly on him, you suck it into your mouth.

“See how good you taste?” He asks, his voice heavy with need.

You hum around him finger and he looks back at you with a proud look on your face.

Pulling his finger out of your mouth, he settles back between your legs. Lewd, wet, sounds fill the large room as he laps at your pussy.

Your back arches and your finders find his hair as he sucks on your clit again.

“You like that, baby?” He asks.

“Yes~ I’m dripping wet,” you respond.

Just as you start to feel the pleasure coiling, the heavy front door swings open, the sound echoing into the kitchen.

“Yo! Anyone home? I brought food.”

It’s Dean.

Panic hits you like a bucket of ice water. You try to scramble back on the counter, your face flushing a deep, vivid red.

“Logan! Move, it’s Dean!” You hiss frantically.

Instead of jumping up, Logan’s grip on your thighs only tightens. You can’t help but moan as he licks at you again.

Dean rounds the corner, a brown paper bag in one hand and half-eaten chip in the other. He stops dead, taking in the entire scene. You, breathless and dishevelled on top of the kitchen island, and Logan, face pinned between your knees.

Logan lifts his head to look at Dean, his chin and lips are glistening and there’s a line of spit connecting his lips to your pussy. You freeze, hiding your face in your hands.

Dean lets out a loud whoop!

“Well, well, well,” Dean sings, leaning casually against the wall. He casts his eyes over the tools on the floor. “I knew you were handy, Logan, but I didn’t know you offered full-service plumbing. I guess when duty calls...”

“Dean, oh my God, go away!” You squeak, face still hidden behind your hands.

“Hey, don’t mind me! You carry on.” Dean laughs, completely unbothered. “In the kitchen? Respect.”

Before Dean’s even gone, Logan face is already buried back between your legs.  

“See ya later, lovebirds!” Dean struts up the stairs, leaving the two of you alone.

You bite down on your forearm as Logan sucks on your clit again.

“Don’t go quiet on me now, let him hear how wet I get you.” There’s a glint in Logan’s eye, he obviously thrives on this.

The tension leaves your shoulders as Logan works two fingers into you. His tongue presses flat against your clit as he shakes it side to side. It doesn’t take long for the pleasure to build up again, his fingers scissoring and curving inside of you.

You’re babbling now, trying to find the words to articulate what you need from him, you’re on the edge, you’re so close. But he knows what you need and with one final flick of his tongue, electricity runs through your body.

You see stars under the force of your orgasm. Your entire body jerking as you scream Logan’s name.

He holds you close until your pulse begins to slow, telling you how beautiful you look when you cum.

He slowly pulls back just enough to look at you, a smug look of satisfaction on his still shiny face. He stands up, smoothing his shirt. The evidence of his excitement is clear.

He wiggles his eyebrows at you. Just before you’re about to speak, a loud shout echoes down the stairs.

“Hell yeah, Logan. Let’s goooo!” Dean yells through his closed bedroom door.

It was a bargain struck in desperation, your hand traded for the lives of thousands. You had no say in the matter, of course. Your protests fell on deaf ears, drowned out by the clamor of relief from your father’s advisors. 

“It is an honor,” they told you, their voices laced with false cheer. “The emperor himself has chosen you.”

But honor felt like a chain around your neck as preparations for the wedding consumed the kingdom. 

Servants bustled about, draping your chambers in silks imported from the imperial capital, fitting you for gowns that whispered of elegance and submission. And through it all, the stories about him painted a portrait that chilled you to the bone. 

Suguru Geto was no ordinary ruler; he was a force of nature cloaked in imperial robes. 

They said he was cold, his precision in governance as sharp as a blade. He commanded entire rooms without uttering a word – his mere presence enough to silence dissent and bend wills. Always serious, never one for frivolity or warmth, he ruled with an iron fist wrapped in velvet gloves. 

Rumors swirled of his unyielding stare, capable of stripping away pretenses and exposing the raw truth beneath. You imagined him as a statue come to life, beautiful perhaps, but devoid of the spark that made men human.

The journey to the imperial capital was a blur of guarded caravans and endless roads flanked by the empire’s vast armies. 

Your heart pounded with a mix of dread and resignation as the towering spires of the palace came into view, piercing the sky like the teeth of some ancient beast. 

The wedding itself was a spectacle orchestrated to perfection, a union of power and sacrifice under the watchful eyes of nobles, generals, and foreign envoys. You stood at the altar in a gown of crimson and gold, the colors of the empire, feeling like a lamb adorned for the altar.

And then he appeared.

Suguru Geto stepped forward from the shadows of the grand hall, his presence rippling through the assembled crowd like a stone dropped into still water. 

He was taller than you had envisioned, his frame lean and commanding, clad in robes of deep black embroidered with silver threads that caught the light from the chandeliers above. 

His long, dark hair was tied back in a neat ponytail, framing a face that was both strikingly handsome and profoundly unreadable. High cheekbones, full lips pressed into a firm line, and eyes – those piercing dark eyes – that seemed to hold the weight of empires within them. He moved with a deliberate grace, each step measured, as if the very ground yielded to his will.

You expected the coldness, the precision, but not this... politeness. 

As the ceremony began, officiated by a high priest whose voice echoed off the vaulted ceilings, Suguru turned to you. His gaze met yours for the first time, and there was no disdain, no indifference – just a quiet intensity that made your breath catch. 

“It is an honor to stand before you today.” He said, his voice smooth and low, carrying the weight of formality without the edge of cruelty you had feared. The words were polite, scripted perhaps, but delivered with a sincerity that surprised you.

When the time came for the exchange of vows, his hand reached for yours. His touch was firm, fingers encircling your wrist with a possessiveness that sent a murmur through the onlookers. 

To them, it must have looked like a claim, a silent declaration of ownership over the bride offered from a conquered land. His thumb brushed lightly against your pulse point, a fleeting contact that lingered just a moment too long, possessive in its subtlety. 

But to you, it felt restrained, as if he were holding back a tide of something deeper. He didn’t squeeze or demand; instead, he released your hand with a gentle precision, stepping back to allow the priest to continue.

The feast that followed was a whirlwind of opulence: toasts raised in crystal goblets, platters of exotic fruits and roasted meats, musicians playing melodies that wove through the air like silk. 

Suguru sat beside you at the high table, his posture impeccable, engaging in quiet conversations with his advisors. He turned to you occasionally, offering a nod or a brief question about your journey, always polite, always reserved. 

“I hope the capital treats you well.” He commented at one point, his eyes flicking to yours before returning to the room. There was no overt possessiveness now, just that careful distance, as if he were navigating an invisible boundary.

You nodded, murmuring your thanks, but inside, confusion swirled. The man before you was not the monster of rumors; he was serious, yes, but his politeness disarmed you. 

Yet, as the night wore on and the guests departed, you couldn’t shake the feeling that this was merely the beginning of a life tethered to a stranger.

The first weeks of your marriage unfolded in a haze of adjustment. 

The imperial palace was a labyrinth of grandeur: endless corridors lined with tapestries depicting the empire’s triumphs, gardens that bloomed eternally under the care of silent gardeners, and chambers that dwarfed anything you had known back home. 

Your days were filled with the quiet routines of a new empress: lessons in court etiquette from stern-faced tutors, audiences with the emperor’s inner circle where you were introduced as a symbol of unity, and solitary afternoons wandering the palace grounds, trying to find your place in this vast, impersonal world.

Suguru, true to the tales, was a phantom in your shared life.

 He rose before dawn for council meetings, his days consumed by the machinery of empire – decrees on trade routes, strategies against border skirmishes, audiences with vassal lords. 

You saw him at meals, formal affairs where conversation was sparse and laced with protocol. He would inquire after your comfort with that same polite detachment: 

“Have the seamstresses provided suitable attire?” or “Does the library suit your interests?” 

His touches, when they occurred, were minimal: a hand at the small of your back to guide you through a crowded hall, fingers that rested there with a firmness that bordered on possessive, drawing sidelong glances from the courtiers. 

But he never lingered, never crossed into intimacy. He was trying, you sensed, not to overstep, to respect the boundaries of an arrangement born of necessity rather than choice.

Nights were the hardest. Your shared bedchamber was a masterpiece of luxury, with a canopied bed draped in silks and a balcony overlooking the city lights. 

But Suguru retired late, often after you had feigned sleep, slipping into the adjoining study to pore over scrolls by candlelight. 

When he did join you, it was with a quiet efficiency – he changed into night robes, bid you goodnight with a nod, and turned his back, leaving an ocean of space between you on the mattress. No overtures, no attempts to bridge the gap. 

You lay awake, staring at the ornate ceiling, wondering if this was to be your existence: a beautiful cage, shared with a husband who treated you like a fragile artifact.

Months slipped by in this rhythm, the initial novelty of palace life giving way to a creeping isolation. 

You threw yourself into diversions to fill the void: studying the empire’s history in the vast library, where shelves towered like ancient trees; tending to a small herb garden in the secluded east wing, the soil grounding you in something tangible; even hosting modest teas for the wives of nobles, though their conversations often skirted around you, laced with curiosity about the “foreign bride.” 

Your kingdom’s tribute arrived regularly, reports from your father assuring you that peace held, but the letters were tinged with gratitude that felt like another layer of your sacrifice.

Suguru’s routine remained unchanging. He commanded the court with effortless authority, his presence alone quelling debates in the throne room. 

You observed him from afar during public sessions, noting how ministers straightened at his approach, how his rare words cut through noise like a scalpel. 

He was precise in everything – his edicts fair but unyielding, his gaze assessing without cruelty. Yet, in private moments, when your paths crossed in the halls, his politeness persisted. 

A slight bow of the head, a murmured “Good morning,” and that occasional touch – a brush of knuckles against your arm as he passed a document, possessive in its intent but withdrawn before it could unsettle.

But the distance gnawed at you. As a married woman, you were expected to embody grace and companionship, yet your husband barely acknowledged your existence beyond duty. 

Whispers among the servants reached your ears: “The emperor is reserved,” they said, “but perhaps he finds the arrangement... unappealing.” 

It stung, fueling a frustration that simmered beneath your composed exterior. You were no longer the sheltered princess; you were an empress in name, but a ghost in practice. 

Nights alone in that vast bed amplified the loneliness, the silk sheets cold against your skin, the silence broken only by the distant toll of bells marking the hours.

One evening, after six months of this silent coexistence, the weight became unbearable. 

The sun had dipped below the horizon, painting the palace in hues of amber and shadow. You had spent the day in the gardens, pruning roses that bloomed defiantly despite the chill in the air, but your mind wandered to the man who shared your title yet not your life. 

Dinner had been a solitary affair in your chambers, the food tasteless on your tongue. Suguru was late again, his study door closed against the world.

You couldn’t take it anymore. Straightening your shoulders, you crossed the room and knocked firmly on the study door. Silence, then a quiet “Enter.”

Pushing it open, you found him at his desk, surrounded by maps and ledgers, his hair slightly disheveled from hours of work – a rare glimpse of vulnerability. He looked up, surprise flickering in those dark eyes before it was schooled into his usual composure. 

“Is everything alright?” He asked, setting down his quill.

You stepped inside, closing the door behind you with a decisive click. The room smelled of ink and parchment, a masculine scent that mingled with the faint trace of sandalwood from his robes. 

“No,” you began, your voice steadier than you felt, “everything is not alright. We’ve been married for half a year, Suguru, and you treat me like a stranger in my own home. You command empires with a glance, yet you can’t even look at me without this... wall between us.”

He rose slowly, his height unfolding like a shadow lengthening. For a moment, he was silent, his expression unreadable. 

Then, he moved around the desk, stopping a respectful distance away. 

“I apologize if I’ve made you feel unwelcome,” he replied, his tone polite as ever, but there was a tension in his jaw, a subtle shift in his posture. “This marriage was arranged for the good of your people. I did not wish to impose upon you more than necessary.”

“Impose?” You laughed, a sharp sound that echoed in the quiet space. “We’re husband and wife, not distant allies. You leave me alone to wander these halls, doing ’your own thing’ while I do mine.” 

Your voice rose, laced with the bitterness that had been festering for months. “Months have passed, and I feel more isolated here than I ever did in my father’s palace. Do you even see me? Or am I just a symbol to parade at court?”

Crossing your arms, you glared at him, your cheeks flushed with the heat of confrontation. “I gave up everything – my home, my freedom – for this sham, and you can’t even pretend to be interested? It’s humiliating. Everyone whispers about the distant emperor and his unwanted bride. If you hate this as much as I think you do, just say it. End this farce.”

Suguru rose from his chair in one fluid motion, his height towering over you as he rounded the desk.

His expression shifted, the polite mask cracking to reveal a glint of something wilder, more intense: a slight craze flickering in his eyes, like a man on the edge of unleashing what he’d kept chained. 

He closed the distance between you in two strides, backing you against the wall with his body, not touching yet, but close enough that you could feel the heat radiating from him. His hands planted on either side of your head, caging you in, his face inches from yours. 

Those dark eyes bored into you, pupils dilated with obsession, his breath coming a touch quicker.

“You think I ignore you?” His voice was low, a growl edged with that controlled madness, his lips curling into a smirk that didn’t reach his eyes – eyes that burned with possession. 

“Gods, woman, you’ve been driving me insane. I love you– obsess over you. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve jerked my cock to stop myself from bending you over the nearest surface?”

His words hit you like a wave, raw and unfiltered, his body pressing closer now, one hand sliding to your waist in a grip that was firm; unyielding. 

You opened your mouth to retort, frustration still sparking. “You could’ve just—” 

But he cut you off by crashing his lips against yours, the kiss fierce and demanding, his tongue sweeping in to claim every inch. 

It wasn’t gentle – it was a release, his obsession pouring out as he devoured you, one hand tangling in your hair to tilt your head back.

When he pulled away, both of you breathing hard, his forehead rested against yours, eyes wild. 

“No more waiting,” he murmured, voice husky with need. “You’re coming with me. Now.”

Before you could protest or process, he scooped you up effortlessly, your legs wrapping instinctively around his waist as he carried you out of the study and down the dimly lit corridor to his private chambers. The palace was quiet at this hour, servants dismissed, leaving only the echo of his boots on the stone floor. 

He kicked the heavy door shut behind you, the sound final, and deposited you on the edge of the massive bed, its linens rumpled from his earlier retreat.

You glared up at him, heart pounding, a mix of anger and something hotter swirling in your chest. “You think you can just manhandle me like that? After ignoring me for months?”

Suguru’s eyes darkened, that slight craze sharpening as he loomed over you, shrugging off his outer robe to reveal the taut lines of his chest beneath a simple tunic. 

“Oh, I think I can.” He mused, his tone laced with something dark. “And I will. You’ve been a bratty little thing, haven’t you? Snapping at me like you don’t crave this as much as I do. But don’t worry, I’ll fix that attitude.”

He grabbed your wrist, pulling you to your feet and spinning you around with surprising gentleness despite the command in his movements. His hands worked quickly at the ties of your robes, peeling them away until you stood bare before him, the cool air raising goosebumps on your skin. 

You shivered, trying to twist back to face him, but his palm pressed between your shoulder blades, guiding you down onto the bed on all fours. 

“Stay.” He ordered, voice firm. “Ass up, like the needy wife you are.”

Heat flooded your face, frustration bubbling up as you shot a glare over your shoulder. “Needy? You’re the one who’s been—ah!”

The first spank landed sharp on your ass, the sting blooming into warmth that made you gasp. His hand soothed the spot immediately after, rubbing circles that contrasted the correction. 

“Watch that mouth.” He warned, though his voice held a thread of praise. “Such a pretty slut, thinking you can talk back to your emperor. But you’ll learn.”

You bit your lip, trying to hold onto the fire, but another spank followed, harder, jolting you forward. “Suguru, you can’t just—”

He tugged your hair then, pulling your head back gently but insistently, forcing you to arch as he leaned over you, his breath hot against your ear. “I can, and I will. You’ve teased me for months without knowing it. Now, spread those legs wider. Show me how wet you are from this.”

Defiance flickered, but so did desire, your body betraying you as you complied, thighs parting to reveal the slickness between them. 

Suguru groaned low in his throat, shedding the rest of his clothes until his hard cock sprang free, thick and veined, the tip already glistening. He positioned himself behind you, the head nudging your entrance, teasing without entering. 

“Look at you, dripping for it. Such a good girl under all that attitude, aren’t you? Or do I need to spank this greedy pussy to remind you?”

You pushed back against him, bratty even now. “Just put it in already, or are you all talk?”

His chuckle was dark, obsessed, as he yanked your hair again, the pull sending sparks down your spine. 

“Eager wifey.” He murmured, degradation mixing with the way his free hand praised by stroking your hip. “But you’ll beg properly soon.”

With one thrust, he buried himself inside you, stretching your walls around his girth.The sensation was overwhelming – full, burning, perfect – and your attitude shattered in an instant. 

A moan tore from your throat, your arms buckling as you melted beneath him, body going pliant, obedient. No more fight; just surrender to the cock that filled you so completely.

Suguru stilled, buried deep, his hand releasing your hair to grip your hips instead. 

“There it is…” He teased, voice smug as he rocked shallowly, letting you feel every inch. “One push of my cock, and the brat disappears. Look at you, melting like the cockdrunk wife you were meant to be. So obedient now, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

You whimpered, nodding into the sheets, the words hitting harder than any spank. “Y-Yes... please, Suguru...”

He laughed softly, starting a slow rhythm, pulling out almost to the tip before sliding back in, dragging against your inner walls. Each thrust built the pressure, his hands roaming: one spanking your ass lightly now, more for emphasis than punishment, the other tugging your hair to keep your back arched. 

“That’s better. My perfect little whore, taking it so well. You’ve been begging for this without words, haven’t you? Strutting around, making my cock ache every night.”

The pace quickened gradually, his hips snapping forward with precision, the slap of skin on skin filling the chamber. 

You pushed back to meet him, lost in the drag of his length, the way he hit that spot deep inside over and over. Dialogue flowed between thrusts, his voice a constant tease. 

“Tell me how it feels, wife. Does my cock shut that smart mouth of yours?”

You tried to respond sassily at first, the remnants of frustration lingering. “It– it’s good, but you could—oh fuck—go harder...”

Another thrust, sharper, making your ass jiggle and your pussy clench tighter around him. 

“Harder? Greedy– n-ngh, greedy brat.” He growled, tugging your hair to pull you up slightly, his chest pressing to your back. “I’ll fuck you until you can’t talk back if you don’t learn to beg f’me.”

“Please,” you gasped, the word breaking free as pleasure coiled tight. “Harder, please, Suguru...”

He obliged, pounding into you with relentless force, his cock bulging your belly slightly with each deep plunge – you could feel it, the outline pressing against your skin from inside. 

“Good girl.” He cooed, dragging out each syllable in an almost childish manner. “Look at that – my cock reshaping your pretty pussy. You’re mine now, all mine.”

The first orgasm crashed over you without warning, walls fluttering wildly as you cried out, soaking his length with your release. 

But he didn’t stop, thrusting through it, his hand slipping around to rub your clit in firm circles. “Holy shit.” He murmured, obsessed edge in his voice. “Cum again for me, show me how much you need this.”

You were a mess, babbling incoherently as he dragged it out, the overstimulation making your thighs quake. “Suguru—ah!—too much... can’t...”

“You can.” He commanded, spanking once more for good measure, the sting pushing you higher. “Be my lovely wife and cum on your– mmf, your emperor’s cock.”

The second climax built slower, deeper, his pace varying: slow grinds that let you feel the belly bulge, then fast snaps that had you seeing stars. 

When it hit, you squirted, gushing around him in hot spurts that drenched the sheets, your body convulsing as you wailed his name.

Suguru groaned, his control fraying. “Fuck, yes—take it all.” 

With a final, brutal thrust, he came, flooding your pussy with thick ropes of cum, his hips jerking as he painted your insides white. 

He stayed buried, grinding to push it deeper, whispering, “Gonna breed you, fill you up until you’re swollen with my child. My pretty girl, carrying my heir.”

He pulled out slowly after, cum leaking from you, but he wasn’t done. 

Flipping you onto your back with ease, he settled between your thighs in missionary, sliding back in with a wet squelch. Your legs hooked around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer as he loomed over you, eyes locked on yours: wild, loving, crazed.

Now, with him face-to-face, the teasing shifted.

You were fully cockdrunk, mind hazy, body pliant as he rocked into you languidly at first, letting the sensitivity build anew. 

“Look at you,” he cooed, mixed praise dripping from his lips. “So fucked out already, but still greedy for more. Pussy milking me like it never wants me to leave.”

You nodded hazily, not really processing, just agreeing on instinct. “Uh-huh... more...”

He chuckled, low and affectionate, thrusting deeper to emphasize the belly bulge again, his hand pressing on it. “That’s right, just agree. You’re not even listening, are you? Too cockdrunk to think, huh?”

“Mmh, yeah.” You murmured, eyes half-lidded, lost in the sensation as he picked up speed. 

Conversation turned to moans and affirmatives from you, while he teased relentlessly. “Such a good girl now, no more brattiness. Just my pliant girl, taking every inch. Gonna cum inside again, ’kay?”

The rhythm dragged on, his cock stirring his previous load inside you, the slick sounds obscene. 

He kissed you deeply, swallowing your whimpers, then trailed bites down your neck as he angled to hit your g-spot. “Feel that? Yeah? Tell me you’re mine, sweetheart.”

“I’m yours…!” You breathed, the words automatic, mind adrift in bliss. 

He laughed again, the sound vibrating through you. “Damn right you are. Fucked so stupid, aren’t you? But you love it.”

The final orgasm built like a tidal wave, shared this time. Your walls clamped down, squirting weakly around him as you shattered, crying out. 

Suguru followed seconds later, groaning as he emptied another load, hips stuttering. “Hngh, fuck! Take it…!”

Spent, he eased out, but instead of collapsing, he kissed down your body, settling between your legs. “Gonna clean you up.” He promised, voice soft now, obsessed tenderness shining through. 

His tongue lapped at your folds, gathering the mix of cum and your juices, sucking gently on your clit until you twitched oversensitive. 

“M’kay…” You mumbled, too tired to do anything but agree, especially when he talked so sweetly.

He hummed approval, delving deeper, fucking you with his tongue to scoop out his seed. “Can’t let it go to waste. Taste so good mixed with me.”

You carded fingers through his hair, boneless, as aftershocks rippled. 

When he finished, he crawled up, pulling you into his arms. Your bodies tangled, his chest to your back, hand splayed possessively over your stomach. 

“Sleep now, my love.” He whispered, pressing kisses to your shoulder. “Won’t avoid you anymore.”

Exhaustion claimed you both, drifting off in a cocoon of warmth, the months of distance forgotten in the intimacy you’d finally claimed.

a/n: can you guys tell when i started rushing this.. i also tried to get fancy i dont know if it worked i just hope you guys like it..

“My equipment is perfectly fine,” Garrett snaps, glaring at his teammate. “I’m focusing on hockey. We have a championship to win this year, in case you forgot. And my grades actually matter if I want to keep my spot on the roster.”

Logan snorts from his spot next to Dean, running a hand through his dark hair. “Please. You’ve been coasting on a B-minus average since freshman year. This sudden dedication to academia is a smoke screen. You’ve lost your touch.”

“I haven’t lost anything.” Garrett sits up, grabbing the water bottle at his side. He takes a long swig, ignoring the way the cold water does nothing to cool his rising irritation. It’s not that they’re completely wrong. He hasn’t hooked up with anyone lately. But it’s not because he can’t. It’s because he doesn’t want to.

Between the pressure of being captain, the scouts watching his every move on the ice, and the lingering, suffocating weight of his father’s relentless phone calls, Garrett just doesn’t have the energy for meaningless hookups. Phil Graham is a dark cloud that refuses to dissipate, a constant reminder of the bruises he used to hide and the mother he couldn’t save. Her battle with lung cancer took the only good thing out of that house, leaving Garrett alone with a man whose fists spoke louder than words. Garrett pushes the thought down, locking it away where he keeps everything else.

“He’s in a slump,” Tucker adds smoothly, his Southern drawl making the insult sound entirely too polite. He’s leaning against the trunk of a massive oak tree, arms crossed over his chest. “Happens to the best of us, buddy. No shame in it.”

“I am not in a slump,” Garrett says, his voice dangerously low. “It’s completely voluntary.”

“Voluntary celibacy,” Dean says, nodding solemnly. “Right. Sure. Because the captain of the hockey team, the guy who practically had a waiting list outside his bedroom door last spring, just suddenly decided to become a monk.”

“I’m pacing myself.”

“You’re drying up,” Logan counters, a wicked grin spreading across his face. “I bet you couldn’t pull a number right now if your life depended on it.”

Garrett narrows his eyes. “Watch it, Logan.”

“Or what? You’ll glare at me to death?” Logan chuckles. “Admit it. You’ve lost your mojo.”

Garrett’s jaw tightens. Pride is a dangerous thing, and Garrett has always had too much of it. It’s what makes him a lethal center on the ice, but it’s also what gets him into stupid situations off it. “I could pull any girl on this campus if I wanted to.”

Silence falls over the small group. Dean stops tossing grapes. Tucker raises an eyebrow. Logan’s grin simply widens into something predatory.

“Any girl?” Dean repeats, the words tasting like a challenge.

“Any. Girl.” Garrett enunciates every syllable, crossing his arms. “I just haven’t felt like it. But if I wanted to, I could have anyone.”

Tucker lets out a low whistle. “Those are fighting words, G.”

“It’s the truth,” Garrett insists, though a small voice in the back of his head is already telling him to shut up. He ignores it. “Name a girl. Any girl at Briar. I’ll prove it.”

“Oh, we’re making a bet out of this?” Dean is practically vibrating with excitement. He sits up straight, his eyes scanning the crowded quad. “This is fantastic. I love bets.”

“What are the stakes?” Logan asks, leaning forward.

Garrett shrugs, feigning a nonchalance he doesn’t entirely feel. “You guys pick the girl. I’ll have her in my bed by the end of the semester.”

“The end of the semester?” Dean balks. “That’s in December. It’s September, man. That gives you three whole months.”

“Quality takes time,” Garrett says smoothly. “Besides, if I’m pulling someone out of my usual demographic, I need time to lay the groundwork. I’m not an animal.”

“Fine. End of the semester,” Logan agrees. “But if you fail … you wax your chest.”

Garrett chokes on his own spit. “What?”

“You heard me,” Logan says, his eyes gleaming. “Full chest wax. At that salon down on Main Street. The one with the windows that face the sidewalk.”

“You’re out of your mind,” Garrett says.

“Why? Are you scared?” Tucker asks, a slow smile spreading across his face. “Thought you could pull anyone, Graham.”

Garrett looks at his three best friends, seeing the collective challenge in their eyes. He’s the captain. He doesn’t back down. “Fine. But if I win, the three of you have to wax yours.”

“Deal,” Dean says instantly, extending a hand.

Garrett shakes it, sealing his fate. “Alright. Pick the target.”

The three of them immediately turn their attention to the quad, scanning the throngs of students rushing between classes. It’s peak hour. The pathways are packed with girls in yoga pants and oversized sweatshirts, girls in sundresses clinging to the last days of summer, and girls huddled over their phones.

“What about her?” Dean points to a blonde sitting on a bench, expertly applying lip gloss.

Logan shakes his head. “Too easy. That’s a puck bunny. She’d jump into Garrett’s bed before he even finished his opening line.”

“Fair point,” Dean concedes.

“How about the brunette by the fountain?” Tucker suggests.

Garrett squints. “We hooked up sophomore year. Doesn’t count.”

“Damn it, Garrett, you’ve slept with half the campus,” Logan complains.

“I have not,” Garrett argues, though he knows it’s a losing battle. “Just pick someone.”

They sit in silence for another three minutes, watching the foot traffic. Garrett is starting to think they’re going to give up when a loud thwack echoes across the pavement, followed by a startled gasp.

All four of them turn their heads toward the sound.

Garrett sees you first.

You’re clutching a thick, leather-bound notebook to your chest, your other hand rubbing the center of your forehead. Your hair is half falling out of a messy bun, and you’re wearing an oversized Briar Engineering hoodie that swallows your frame. You’ve just walked face-first into the cast-iron lamppost near the library steps.

“Oh, my bad,” you say, your voice muffled but completely sincere. “Sorry about that.”

You are apologizing. To a lamppost.

Dean bursts out laughing, a loud, barking sound that makes a few passing students turn and stare.

You don’t notice. You don’t even look around to see if anyone saw you. Instead, you drop your hand from your forehead, adjust your heavy-rimmed glasses, and immediately bury your nose back into the notebook, resuming your frantic scribbling as you continue walking down the path. You narrowly miss colliding with a garbage can.

“Who the hell is that?” Logan asks, staring after you in disbelief.

“I have no idea,” Dean says, wiping a tear from his eye. “But she just apologized to an inanimate object.”

Tucker is grinning. “That’s her.”

Garrett snaps his head toward Tucker. “Excuse me?”

“That’s the girl,” Tucker says, pointing a finger in your direction. You’re halfway down the path now, still completely oblivious to the world around you. “That’s your target.”

Garrett stares at you. He takes in the oversized hoodie, the complete lack of spatial awareness, the way you’re muttering to yourself while you write. He doesn’t know your name, but he knows exactly what you are.

You’re a ghost. One of those hyper-focused academics who live in the library and survive on vending machine coffee and sheer panic.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” Garrett says, his voice flat.

“He’s absolutely right,” Logan says, catching on immediately. “She’s perfect. Look at her, Garrett. She’s gorgeous.”

Garrett squints. You are turning the corner now, and for a brief second, he catches a glimpse of your profile. Logan isn’t wrong. Underneath the bulky clothes and the distracted demeanor, you are stunning. Striking features, clear skin, and eyes that he can’t quite make out the color of from this distance, but they look intense.

But you are also completely, unequivocally, off the grid.

“She’s an Aerospace major,” Dean says suddenly, snapping his fingers. “I had a general physics elective with her freshman year. She sat in the front row and corrected the professor on day one. She doesn’t go to parties. She doesn’t go to games. I don’t think she even talks to people unless it’s about thermodynamics.”

“You know her name?” Garrett asks, dread pooling in his stomach.

“Nope. Just remember the professor looking like he wanted to cry when she started talking about orbital mechanics.” Dean claps Garrett on the shoulder. “Good luck, buddy.”

“This is insane,” Garrett argues, watching the spot where you disappeared. “She’s not going to talk to me. She probably doesn’t even know what hockey is.”

“That’s the beauty of it,” Logan says smugly. “You said any girl. You said you could pull anyone. So … pull her.”

Garrett looks at his friends. They look entirely too pleased with themselves. The trap is perfectly set. If he backs out now, he admits defeat. He admits his slump. He admits that there’s a girl on campus who wouldn’t fall for the Garrett Graham charm.

And then he has to wax his chest.

Garrett exhales a sharp breath, running a hand over his face. He thinks about the playbook. He thinks about the scouts. He thinks about the suffocating pressure of his father’s voice echoing in his head, telling him he’s never quite good enough.

He needs a distraction.

Maybe the girl who apologizes to lampposts is exactly what he needs.

“Fine,” Garrett says, his voice hard with resolve. “Her. I’ll do it.”

“End of the semester,” Logan reminds him, holding up a finger.

“I won’t even need that long,” Garrett lies, leaning back on his elbows. “Consider it done.”

Dean snickers. “I’m booking the wax appointment right now. Just to be safe.”

Garrett ignores him, turning his gaze back to the path where you vanished. He has no idea how he’s going to get your attention. He doesn’t even know where to start. But as he watches the spot where you stood, a strange, unfamiliar flicker of anticipation settles in his chest.

Game on. 

***

It takes Garrett three full days to figure out how to approach you.

Three agonizing days of strategically loitering around the engineering building, looking like an idiot while pretending to check his phone, only to realize he’s hunting in the wrong territory. You don’t hang out on the quad. You don’t grab coffee at the student union. And you definitely don’t go to the campus bars.

He finally accepts the cold, hard truth: you are a creature of the library.

Which is how the captain of the Briar hockey team finds himself on the third floor of the campus library on a Thursday night, navigating a maze of dusty bookshelves and stressed-out undergrads. The air up here smells like old paper, stale espresso, and desperation. It’s entirely foreign territory.

Garrett spots you in the far corner.

You’ve constructed a literal fortress out of textbooks. It’s actually impressive. There’s a towering stack of hardcovers to your left, a barricade of notebooks to your right, and in the center, you’re hunched over a laptop, typing with a furious speed that suggests the fate of the free world depends on your keystrokes. You’re wearing the exact same oversized hoodie you had on when you fought that lamppost, with your hair twisted up in a messy clip.

He stands there for a moment, observing. He’s used to girls noticing him the second he walks into a room. He’s used to the sideways glances, the whispers, the subtle adjustments of hair and posture.

You don’t even blink.

Garrett rolls his shoulders, taking a deep breath. He’s Garrett Graham. He doesn’t get nervous. He thrives under pressure.

He closes the distance between you and pulls out the heavy wooden chair directly across from you. It scrapes against the floor with a loud, obnoxious screech. Several people at nearby tables glare at him.

You don’t. You just keep typing.

Garrett slowly lowers himself into the chair. He props his elbows on the table, leaning forward slightly, waiting for you to acknowledge his presence.

A minute passes.

Then two.

He clears his throat.

Nothing. Not a twitch.

“Okay,” Garrett mutters under his breath. He reaches over and lightly taps the back of your laptop screen.

You finally pause. Slowly, you lower the screen about three inches, just enough to peer over the top of it. Your eyes are deep and piercing, framed by thick lashes and currently narrowed in absolute irritation.

“Can I help you?” Your voice is flat, lacking any recognizable trace of awe or interest.

“Is this seat taken?” Garrett flashes his signature smile. The one that usually results in a phone number within thirty seconds.

You look around the library. “There are roughly forty empty chairs on this floor alone. Three of them are at the table right behind you.”

“I like this one,” Garrett says smoothly. “It has a great view.”

He expects a blush. A giggle. Even an eye roll would be something. Instead, you stare at him for a long, uncomfortable moment, before lifting your laptop screen back up, effectively hiding your face again.

“Suit yourself. Just keep it quiet. I have a fluid dynamics midterm on Monday.”

The typing resumes.

Garrett stares at the silver Apple logo on the back of your computer, his jaw slightly slack. He’s been dismissed. Summarily and completely dismissed. Panic, sharp and unfamiliar, spikes in his chest. This isn’t going according to plan. You’re not supposed to ignore him. You’re supposed to be flustered.

“Fluid dynamics, huh?” Garrett tries again, raising his voice slightly over the clatter of your keys. “Sounds intense.”

“It is,” you reply, not looking up.

“I’m more of a … physical learner, myself.”

“That’s fascinating.” Your tone is drier than the Sahara.

Garrett rubs the back of his neck. His usual playbook is entirely useless here. Flirting isn’t working. Charm is bouncing right off your textbook fortress. He needs an angle. Fast.

“Actually,” Garrett blurts out, the words leaving his mouth before his brain can filter them. “I’ve always had a really deep appreciation for aerospace.”

The typing stops abruptly.

The laptop screen is lowered again. This time, you don’t just peer over it. You push the laptop back entirely, resting your arms on the table and giving him your full, undivided attention. It’s intense enough to make him want to squirm.

“You,” you say slowly, “have a deep appreciation for aerospace.”

“Yep.” Garrett nods firmly. “Huge fan. Always have been.”

You tilt your head, studying him like he’s a particularly confusing equation on a whiteboard. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name.”

“Garrett. Garrett Graham.”

“Well, Garrett Graham. Do you even know what aerospace engineering is?”

“Of course I do,” he scoffs, offended. “It’s … space. And planes. Rockets. Thrust.”

“Thrust,” you repeat, a single, perfectly sculpted eyebrow shooting upward.

“Yeah. Aerodynamics and all that.” Garrett is fully committed now. He’s digging a hole, but he’s determined to dig it with confidence. “I actually … I want to be an astronaut.”

The moment the word leaves his lips, Garrett wants to punch himself in the face.

An astronaut. Really? He’s a twenty-two-year-old hockey player majoring in history because it requires the least amount of science. He hasn’t taken a STEM class since his junior year of high school, and he only passed that because his lab partner felt sorry for him.

But he can’t take it back now.

You stare at him. The silence stretches between you, heavy and thick. Garrett braces himself for the rejection. For you to pack up your bags and leave.

Instead, a slow, amused expression begins to pull at the corners of your mouth. You lean back in your chair, crossing your arms over your chest.

“An astronaut,” you say, your voice dripping with sweet, lethal sarcasm.

“That’s right.”

“NASA or SpaceX?” You ask, firing the question like a slapshot.

“NASA, obviously,” Garrett counters, leaning into the lie. “Classic. You can’t beat the original.”

“Right. Because nothing says NASA material quite like a Briar University hockey jacket.” You nod toward his chest, where the interlocking BU logo sits over his heart.

Garrett glances down, momentarily cursing his wardrobe choices. “Hey, astronauts need to be in peak physical condition. Hockey is just … cross-training.”

“I see.” You tap a pen against your lower lip, a gesture that immediately draws his attention. “So, let’s look at the facts. You’re Garrett Graham. Captain of the hockey team. You lead the division in scoring, but you also lead the team in penalty minutes.”

Garrett blinks, genuinely surprised. “You follow hockey?”

“I read the campus newspaper,” you correct him. “It’s practically shoved down our throats. So, you spend most of your weekends getting slammed into fiberglass boards by men who weigh over two hundred pounds.”

“It’s a contact sport.”

“It’s a concussion factory,” you deadpan. “You willingly subject yourself to repeated, blunt-force head trauma on a bi-weekly basis. And your GPA … well, considering I’ve never seen you in the science building, I’m going to guess you aren’t exactly pulling straight As in quantum mechanics.”

“My grades are perfectly fine.” It’s a defensive snap, and he hates how quickly you got under his skin.

“I’m sure they are. For history.” You lean forward, resting your chin in your hand. The annoyance from earlier has completely vanished, replaced by a sharp, analytical curiosity. “So, tell me, Garrett. How exactly does your propensity for violence and your complete lack of STEM experience translate to surviving zero gravity and piloting a multi-billion dollar spacecraft?”

Garrett opens his mouth. Closes it. He stares at you, momentarily paralyzed by how effortlessly you just dismantled him.

You aren’t intimidated by him. You aren’t swooning. You’re looking right through the bravado, the captain’s patch, and the reputation, and you’re calling his bluff with ruthless efficiency.

It’s the most attractive thing he’s ever seen.

“I have excellent hand-eye coordination,” Garrett finally says, offering a lopsided grin.

You let out a short, sudden laugh. It’s a bright, genuine sound that cuts through the sterile quiet of the library. It hits Garrett squarely in the chest.

“Hand-eye coordination,” you repeat, shaking your head. “Well, I’m sure NASA will be thrilled to hear that. You can swat away the space debris with your hockey stick.”

“Exactly. See? I bring a unique skill set to the table.”

“You are completely full of shit,” you say, though there’s no real malice in your tone anymore.

“Guilty as charged.” Garrett shrugs, letting the tension bleed out of his shoulders. “I don’t want to be an astronaut. I don’t even like flying on commercial planes. The legroom is terrible.”

“Then why did you say it?”

“Because you were ignoring me.” Garrett drops the charm, allowing a sliver of honesty to peek through. “And I’m not really used to being ignored.”

You study him for a moment, the amusement fading back into something more cautious. You glance down at the heavy textbook sitting open in front of you, the pages filled with complex equations and diagrams that make Garrett’s head hurt just looking at them.

“I wasn’t ignoring you to be rude,” you say quietly. “I’m just busy. This major isn’t a joke. If I don’t keep my head down, I’ll drown.”

“I get it,” Garrett says, and surprisingly, he does. He knows what pressure feels like. He knows what it’s like to have something you can’t afford to fail at. For you, it’s aerospace. For him, it’s hockey. If he fails, he has to face his father. The thought makes his stomach tighten. “You don’t have time for distractions.”

“No. I don’t.” You look back up at him. “And you, Garrett Graham, look exactly like a distraction.”

“I can be very helpful,” he argues. “I could … quiz you.”

“On fluid dynamics?”

“I can read flashcards. I know the alphabet.”

You smile again, a small, subtle curve of your lips, but it feels like a massive victory. “I don’t use flashcards.”

“Then I’ll just sit here and look pretty while you work.”

You roll your eyes, but you don’t tell him to leave. Instead, you reach out and slowly pull your laptop screen back up.

“You have exactly twenty minutes before I pack up,” you tell him from behind the silver Apple logo. “If you breathe too loudly, I’m throwing a textbook at your head.”

“Deal.”

Garrett leans back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. He spends the next twenty minutes in absolute silence, watching you work. He watches the way you chew on the inside of your cheek when you’re frustrated. He watches the way you push your glasses up the bridge of your nose. He watches the sheer, undeniable brilliance radiating from you as you tear through your notes.

When your phone alarm vibrates softly on the table, signaling that your twenty minutes are up, you immediately begin stacking your books.

Garrett sits forward, ready to offer to carry them, to walk you home, to do something, but you’re too fast. You shove everything into a worn-out backpack with practiced efficiency.

You stand up, slinging the heavy bag over one shoulder.

“Goodbye, Garrett,” you say.

“I’ll see you around, astronaut,” he replies.

You pause, looking down at him. “It’s Y/N.”

“I know.”

He doesn’t, actually. He hadn’t bothered to ask Dean if he ever figured it out. But he likes the way your name sounds in his head.

You shake your head, turning away. “Good luck with your thrust.”

Garrett watches you walk away, weaving your way through the tables until you disappear down the stairwell. He remains in the chair for a long time, the silence of the library pressing in around him.

He didn’t get your number. He didn’t secure a date. By Dean and Logan’s standards, this interaction was a complete and utter failure.

But as Garrett finally stands up and pushes his chair in, he can’t help but smile. He got you to look at him. He got you to laugh. He got you to admit that he wasn’t completely repulsive.

It’s a small win.

But Garrett is a competitor. He knows that championships aren’t won in a single game. They’re won shift by shift, battle by battle.

He walks out of the library, the cool night air hitting his face.

You are a fortress. You are heavily guarded, entirely focused, and completely unimpressed by everything he usually relies on.

This isn’t going to be easy. It’s going to take time, patience, and a whole lot of effort.

And for the first time in a very long time, Garrett is actually looking forward to it.

***

“What in the actual hell are you doing?”

Garrett doesn’t take his eyes off the television screen. He reaches blindly into the bowl resting on his stomach, grabs a handful of popcorn, and shoves it into his mouth. “I’m conducting research.”

Dean drops his hockey bag by the front door of the off-campus house they share with a heavy thud. He walks into the living room, staring at the screen in utter bewilderment. Logan and Tucker follow close behind, both stopping dead in their tracks.

On the screen, a laugh track blares as a tall, painfully thin guy in a Flash t-shirt says something about string theory.

“You’re watching The Big Bang Theory,” Logan says, his voice flat.

“Episode four, season one,” Garrett confirms, chewing thoughtfully. “I think I’m starting to pick up on the terminology. Bazinga.”

Tucker lets out a loud, wheezing laugh, doubling over. “Oh, my God. He’s broken. Our captain is broken.”

“I’m not broken,” Garrett snaps, pausing the TV. He turns to glare at his three teammates. “I’m adapting. You guys gave me an impossible target. The girl practically speaks a different language. If I’m going to get close to her, I need to understand her people.”

“Her people,” Dean repeats, wiping a tear of mirth from his eye. “Garrett, she’s an engineering major, not an alien species. And I’m pretty sure watching a ten-year-old sitcom isn’t going to magically teach you thermodynamics.”

“It’s about the culture,” Garrett argues, though he knows he sounds completely ridiculous. He defends his ground anyway. “I need to know how to banter with her. Do you know what a quark is? Because I do now.”

“You are pathetic,” Logan says, walking over and snatching the popcorn bowl right off Garrett’s stomach. “You’re telling me you haven’t even talked to her since the library?”

“I have a strategy.” Garrett sits up, crossing his arms.

“Yeah? What’s the strategy? Quoting Sheldon Cooper until she sleeps with you?” Dean asks, throwing himself onto the adjacent armchair.

“Attrition,” Garrett says, pointing a finger at Dean. “It’s a classic military tactic. You wear the enemy’s defenses down over time. She’s heavily guarded. If I rush in there with cheesy pickup lines, she’s going to shut me down and ignore me until graduation. I have to acclimate her to my presence.”

Tucker snorts, heading for the kitchen. “Acclimate her. Like a feral cat.”

“Exactly,” Garrett says, ignoring the insult. “I’m going to just … be there. Until she gets used to me. Until she expects me.”

“Well, good luck, Spock,” Logan says, tossing a piece of popcorn at Garrett’s head. “Just remember, the clock is ticking.”

Garrett brushes the popcorn off his shirt. The clock is ticking, but he isn’t worried. He has a plan.

***

Phase one of Garrett’s master plan begins the very next evening.

He finds you in your usual spot on the third floor of the library, fortified behind a wall of textbooks. He pulls the chair out across from you, the scrape of the wood cutting through the silence.

You slowly lower your laptop screen. The irritation in your eyes is palpable.

“I thought we established that you are not going to be an astronaut,” you say flatly.

“We did,” Garrett agrees, taking a seat and pulling a totally blank notebook out of his backpack. “I’ve moved on to a new dream. I’m thinking of working on a memoir. Requires a lot of writing. So, I’m here to write.”

You stare at the blank notebook. Then you look at him. “You don’t have a pen.”

“I’m a mental writer.”

You let out a heavy sigh, shaking your head before pulling your screen back up. “Don’t breathe too loud, Graham.”

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Y/N.”

And that’s all he does. He sits there for two hours, pretending to look at his phone, while actually watching you work.

He does it again two days later. This time, you don’t even lower your screen. You just slide a loose piece of notebook paper across the table toward him without looking up. Written on it in neat, precise handwriting are the words: silence is golden.

He writes back: I’m the quietest guy you know. And slides it back.

A tiny, almost imperceptible smile tugs at the corner of your mouth before you tuck the paper away.

By the end of the second week, Garrett notices a pattern. You are a machine, churning through complex equations and drafting endless schematics, but your fatal flaw is your basic human maintenance. Specifically, you forget to eat.

On a Wednesday night, after watching you rub your temples and wince for the fourth time in an hour, Garrett stands up. He doesn’t say a word. He just walks away.

Twenty minutes later, he returns.

You flinch slightly as a large, steaming paper cup and a brown pastry bag are deposited directly onto your open textbook.

You look from the cup, to the bag, and then up to Garrett as he takes his seat across from you.

“What is this?” You ask, your voice a mix of suspicion and exhaustion.

“Black coffee. Two sugars. And a blueberry muffin from the café downstairs,” Garrett says casually, leaning back in his chair. “You’ve been staring at that same page for forty-five minutes. Your blood sugar is crashing. You look like a zombie.”

Your eyes narrow. “I do not look like a zombie.”

“You really do. A cute zombie, but a zombie nonetheless.”

The word slips out before he can stop it, but he doesn’t regret it when he sees a faint pink flush creep up your neck. You look down at the coffee cup, wrapping your hands around the warm cardboard.

“I didn’t ask you to do this,” you say softly.

“I know,” Garrett replies. “Eat the muffin before I throw it at you.”

You finally open the bag, tearing off a piece of the muffin. You take a bite, and he watches your shoulders physically drop an inch as the sugar hits your system. “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing. Just consider it a peace offering.”

“For what?”

“For taking up your oxygen.”

You take a sip of the coffee, closing your eyes for a brief second. “It’s good coffee.”

“I aim to please.”

The next time he comes to the library, he brings a turkey and swiss sandwich. You protest, but you eat the entire thing in under four minutes. The time after that, it’s a pack of peanut butter crackers and a Gatorade.

Slowly, the fortress starts to lower. You stop glaring when he pulls out his chair. You start greeting him when he sits down. Sometimes, when you take a break to rest your eyes, you actually complain to him about your professors.

Garrett listens. He doesn’t understand a word of the orbital mechanics jargon you vent about, but he listens to the tone of your voice, watches the animated way you wave your hands when you’re annoyed, and realizes, with a slight jolt of panic, that he genuinely enjoys your company.

It’s been three weeks. The acclimation phase is complete. It’s time to make a move.

***

It happens on a Monday.

Garrett tracks you down not in the library, but in a small courtyard outside the engineering building. It’s noon, the sun is shining, and you are sitting on a concrete bench with a terrifyingly thick textbook balanced on your knees.

He walks up, casting a shadow over your pages.

You blink, looking up and squinting against the sunlight. “Graham. What are you doing out here? It’s daylight. You’re usually a nocturnal pest.”

“Very funny,” Garrett says, offering a grin. He gestures toward the street. “Come on. Pack it up.”

“Excuse me?”

“It’s lunchtime. You need to eat. And I am starving after morning ice time.”

You immediately shake your head, clutching the textbook tighter. “No way. I can’t. I have a lab report due at four, and I’m only halfway through the data analysis. I’m just going to skip lunch.”

“Skipping lunch is bad for cognitive function,” Garrett counters smoothly. “You told me that yourself two days ago when I tried to skip breakfast.”

“That’s different. You’re an athlete. You need calories to smash people into boards.”

“And you need calories to do math that looks like an ancient alien language.” Garrett steps closer, reaching out and gently tapping the cover of your book. “Come on. Just a quick bite. Thirty minutes. You’ll work twice as fast after you get some real food in you.”

“Garrett, I really can’t-”

“Please.” He drops his voice, leaning in just a fraction. He uses the look. The one that works on everyone. But he tempers it, adding a layer of genuine pleading. “I don’t want to eat alone. My teammates are animals and I need civilized company.”

You stare at him, your resolve visibly wavering. You look from his face, to your textbook, and back again. Finally, you let out a dramatic sigh that he’s coming to recognize as your personal white flag.

“Fine. Thirty minutes. Not a second more.”

“Deal.”

Garrett waits as you shove your massive book into your backpack. You stand up, adjusting the strap over your shoulder, and he falls into step beside you.

“There’s a Panera just off campus,” Garrett suggests. “Fast, decent food, and they have that green tea you like.”

You glance at him, surprised. “You noticed I drink green tea?”

“I notice a lot of things,” he says, keeping his tone light.

The walk to the restaurant is surprisingly easy. You don’t talk much, still clearly pre-occupied with your lab report, but it’s a comfortable silence. When you arrive, the lunchtime rush is in full swing, but they manage to find a small booth near the window after ordering.

As the cashier rings them up, you immediately start digging into your backpack for your wallet.

“Don’t bother,” Garrett says, already handing his debit card to the cashier.

Your head snaps up. “What? No. Absolutely not. I’m paying for my own food.”

“I asked you out,” Garrett says, stepping smoothly in front of the card reader to block you physically. “I pay.”

“It’s not a date, Graham,” you hiss, trying to reach around his broad shoulder. “It’s a hostage situation you initiated.”

“Call it what you want. I’m paying.” He shoots the cashier a charming smile. “Just put it all on the card, please.”

You huff in annoyance, your arms crossing tightly over your chest as the receipt prints. “I’m paying you back.”

“You can try,” Garrett says, grabbing the pager and turning to you. “But I’m surprisingly fast for my size.”

You roll your eyes, but the fight drains out of you. You follow him to the booth, sliding into the vinyl seat with a heavy sigh.

Garrett sits across from you, resting his arms on the table. In the bright, natural light of the restaurant, away from the dim fluorescent bulbs of the library, he takes a moment to really look at you. The way your hair catches the light, the faint blush spreading across the bridge of your nose that he hadn’t noticed before. The sheer exhaustion pulling at the corners of your eyes.

“So,” Garrett starts, deciding to drop the playful banter for a moment. “Lab report due at four. Midterm on Thursday. Do you ever actually sleep, or do you just power down like a robot?”

You offer a tired, self-deprecating smile. “Six hours a night. Mostly. It’s just … crunch time right now.”

“It’s always crunch time with you,” Garrett observes. “I’ve never seen anyone study as much as you do. Not even the pre-med guys.”

You trace a pattern on the laminate table top with your fingernail. For a moment, he thinks you’re going to brush off the comment with a sarcastic remark. But instead, you let out a slow breath.

“I don’t really have a choice,” you say quietly.

“Everyone has a choice.”

“Not if I want to stay at Briar.” You look up, your eyes meeting his, stripped of their usual defensive walls. “I’m not here on a hockey scholarship, Garrett. I’m here on a full-ride academic scholarship. The only way I could afford this school.”

Garrett pauses, all the teasing immediately evaporating from his system. He leans forward, his full attention focused entirely on you. “Okay.”

“The terms are strict,” you continue, your voice low. “If my GPA drops below a 3.8, I lose the funding. Instantly. No probation, no second chances. I pack my bags and I go home. Aerospace is one of the hardest programs at this university. If I slip up on one lab report, or bomb one midterm, that 3.8 drops. So … I study.”

Garrett feels a sudden, sharp twist in his gut. All this time, he thought you were just a typical overachiever, obsessed with grades for the sake of being top of the class. He had no idea you were constantly walking a tightrope, with your entire future hanging in the balance.

It makes the crushing pressure he feels from his father seem almost … different. He plays hockey to escape his dad. You do math to secure your survival.

“That’s a hell of a lot of pressure,” he says honestly.

“It is what it is.” You shrug, though the tension in your shoulders betrays the casual movement. “It’s worth it. If I make it through, I get to do exactly what I want for the rest of my life.”

The pager on the table buzzes loudly, startling them both. Garrett jumps up quickly. “I’ll grab the food.”

When he returns with their trays, setting your soup and salad in front of you, he sits back down, his mind racing. The bet with the guys suddenly feels incredibly juvenile. Gross, even. You’re sitting here fighting for your academic life, and he’s treating you like a game to stroke his own ego.

He pushes the thought down. He can’t back out now, but he can at least make sure this isn’t a complete joke.

“So,” Garrett says, opening his sandwich wrapper. “Why aerospace? Out of everything you could have chosen. Why rockets and thrust?” He smirks slightly at the callback to your first conversation.

You roll your eyes, taking a spoonful of your soup. But as you swallow, a genuine, completely unguarded smile breaks across your face. It completely transforms you, wiping away the exhaustion and replacing it with pure, radiant passion.

“I grew up in Cocoa Beach,” you tell him, your voice softening.

Garrett raises an eyebrow. “Florida?”

“Yeah. Right there on the Space Coast. When you live down there, launches are just a thing that happens in the background, you know? You’re playing in the yard, and suddenly the sky lights up and the windows rattle.” You pause, looking past him, lost in a memory. “But the last space shuttle launch. The final one back in 2011. STS-135 Atlantis.”

“You were there?”

“My dad took me out to the beach to watch it,” you say, your eyes practically glowing now. “I was young, just a teen, but I remember it perfectly. There were thousands of people packed onto the sand. And when the countdown hit zero, you didn’t just hear it. You felt it. The ground literally shook beneath my feet. And then this massive, beautiful machine just tore through the sky, defying gravity, heading for the stars.”

Garrett stops chewing his food. He’s completely captivated. Not by the story, but by the way you’re telling it.

“I looked up at that streak of fire in the sky,” you continue, your hands moving as you speak, “and I knew exactly what I wanted to do. I didn’t just want to watch them anymore. I wanted to build the things that go up there. I wanted to understand the math that makes the impossible, possible.”

You suddenly blink, pulling yourself back to the present. You clear your throat, picking up your spoon again, suddenly looking incredibly self-conscious. “Sorry. I’m nerding out. You don’t care about this.”

“Are you kidding me?” Garrett asks, his voice thick with a sincerity that surprises even him. “That’s the coolest thing I’ve ever heard.”

You look at him, searching his face for any sign of mockery. When you find none, you relax slightly against the back of the booth. “It was pretty incredible.”

“I’ll bet.” Garrett takes a sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving yours. “So, you’re from Florida. That explains why you look like you’re freezing to death every time the wind blows here.”

You let out a loud laugh, the sound bright and warm. “It is so cold here, Garrett. Unreasonably cold. Why do people live in this state?”

“It builds character,” he jokes. “Besides, it makes for good hockey.”

“Right. Hockey.” You tilt your head, studying him with that same analytical gaze from the library, but the edge is completely gone. It’s softer now. Curious. “So, tell me. Why do you do it? And don’t tell me it’s for the character building.”

Garrett hesitates. He doesn’t talk about hockey in a serious way. He talks about the glory, the hits, the stats. He never talks about the fact that the ice is the only place he feels completely in control. The only place where the ghost of his mother’s illness and the reality of his father’s fists can’t reach him.

He looks at you. You just handed him a piece of your soul, wrapped up in a story about a space shuttle.

“It’s quiet,” Garrett says slowly, the truth slipping out before his defenses can catch it.

Your brow furrows. “Quiet? I’ve seen clips on ESPN. It looks like the exact opposite of quiet.”

“The arena is loud,” Garrett clarifies, leaning forward. “The fans, the sirens, the coaches yelling. But when I’m on the ice … when I have the puck on my stick and I’m moving toward the net … everything else just turns off. The noise goes away. It’s just me, the ice, and the goal. It’s the only time my brain actually shuts up.”

You stare at him, your eyes wide, processing his words. For a long moment, neither of you says anything. The clatter of the busy restaurant seems to fade away, leaving only the charged space between the two of you.

“I get that,” you finally say, your voice barely above a whisper. “That’s how I feel when I finally solve an equation that’s been taking me days. The world just stops for a second.”

Garrett smiles, a slow, genuine smile that reaches all the way to his eyes. He realizes, with a sudden, terrifying clarity, that Dean, Logan, and Tucker were wrong.

He didn’t just pull a target. He found someone who actually understands him.

“Eat your soup,” he says softly. “You have a lab report to write.”

You smile back, picking up your spoon. “Yes, Captain.”

Garrett eats the rest of his sandwich, his heart beating a slightly different rhythm in his chest. He knows he has to win this bet. But as he watches you wipe your mouth with a napkin, he realizes he wants to win for entirely different reasons now.

He doesn’t just want you in his bed. He wants you in his life.

***

Garrett feels like an absolute idiot.

He is walking across the bustling Briar University quad on a Thursday afternoon, carrying a bouquet of bright, aggressively cheerful flowers wrapped in brown paper. He’s getting stares. A few whispers. Two girls from his sports sociology seminar actually stop in their tracks and giggle as he walks past.

He ignores all of it, adjusting his grip on the stems. He spent two hours on the internet and visited three different florists in town to find these specific flowers. If Logan, Dean, and Tucker could see him right now, he’d never hear the end of it. The captain of the hockey team, reduced to a lovesick errand boy.

But as he pushes open the heavy glass doors of the engineering building, Garrett realizes he doesn’t actually care.

He checks the schedule you mentioned offhandedly two days ago. You should be getting out of your aerodynamics lecture right about now. He posts up against the tiled wall near the lecture hall doors, crossing his ankles and waiting.

Ten minutes later, the double doors swing open, and a flood of exhausted-looking students pours into the hallway. Garrett scans the crowd until he spots you. You’re wearing your signature oversized Briar hoodie, your hair clipped up, your nose already buried in a planner as you walk.

Garrett steps right into your path.

You stop short, narrowly avoiding a collision with his chest. You blink, looking up from your planner, the familiar flash of annoyance in your hazel eyes instantly softening when you register who it is.

“Graham,” you say, a hint of a smile tugging at your mouth. “Are you stalking my classes now?”

“Just providing an escort service,” Garrett says casually. He pulls his hand from behind his back and extends the bouquet toward you. “Here.”

You freeze. Your eyes drop to the bright orange, pink, and yellow petals bursting from the paper. You don’t reach for them right away. Instead, you look back up at his face, your expression a mixture of confusion and deep suspicion.

“What is this?” You ask slowly.

“They’re flowers, Y/N. Usually, people give them to other people as a gesture of goodwill.”

“I know they’re flowers,” you say, rolling your eyes, though a faint pink flush is already rising on your cheeks. “But why are you giving them to me? Did you accidentally run over someone’s garden and need to ditch the evidence?”

Garrett laughs, stepping a fraction closer. “Take them.”

Hesitantly, you reach out and take the bouquet. You look down at the blooms, your fingers gently brushing against a bright orange petal. “They’re … really beautiful. What kind are they?”

“Zinnias,” Garrett says.

“Zinnias,” you repeat. You look up at him, waiting for the punchline. “Okay. Is there a joke I’m missing?”

“No joke.” Garrett shoves his hands into the pockets of his jeans, suddenly feeling entirely too vulnerable. He clears his throat. “I, uh … I read an article online. Well, Wikipedia. But the source cited an actual NASA press release, so I think it checks out.”

Your brow furrows in confusion. “NASA?”

“Yeah.” Garrett shifts his weight. “In 2016, astronaut Scott Kelly tweeted a picture of a flower from the International Space Station. It was the first flower to ever bloom entirely in space, in zero gravity.” He nods toward the bouquet in your hands. “It was a Zinnia.”

The hallway around them is noisy, filled with the chatter of students rushing to their next classes, but Garrett barely hears any of it. He is entirely focused on your face.

You look down at the flowers again. Your breath hitches, just slightly, but he catches it. When you look back up at him, your eyes are wide, shining with an emotion he can’t quite decipher. It’s a look of total shock.

“You …” you start, your voice barely a whisper. You clear your throat and try again. “You researched the first flower grown in space?”

“I did.”

“For me?”

“Well, I wasn’t going to buy them for Logan,” Garrett deadpans.

You let out a startled, breathless laugh, clutching the flowers closer to your chest. The walls you constantly keep up — the defenses, the sarcasm, the intense academic focus — seem to crumble right in front of him. You look genuinely touched.

“Garrett,” you say softly. “This is … I don’t even know what to say. This is the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me.”

“Say you’ll go on a date with me,” he counters smoothly, seizing the opening. “A real date. Friday night. Not Panera. Not the library. An actual dinner.”

You bite your lower lip, a habit he’s quickly becoming obsessed with. “I have a fluid dynamics quiz on Monday.”

“You’ve been studying for it since Tuesday. You know the material.” Garrett pulls one hand from his pocket and gently taps the cover of your planner. “Take one night off. Give your brain a rest. Let me take you out.”

You look from him, to the Zinnias, and then back to him. The hesitation in your eyes dissolves, replaced by a warm, definitive spark.

“Okay,” you say.

Garrett’s chest swells with a massive, undeniable sense of victory. “Okay?”

“Yes, Graham. It’s a date.” You tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “What time?”

“I’ll pick you up at seven. Dress nice. I’m taking you somewhere that uses real cloth napkins.”

You laugh again, a sound Garrett wants to bottle up and keep. “I’ll see you at seven.”

***

Friday night arrives, and the energy in the house is chaotic.

Garrett stands in front of the mirror in his bedroom, adjusting the cuffs of a crisp, dark blue button-down shirt. He checks his hair, runs a hand over his jaw to make sure his shave is clean, and grabs his favorite cologne.

The door to his bedroom swings open without a knock.

“Hey, G, are we ordering pizza or-” Dean stops dead in the doorway. His eyes go wide. “Whoa. Look at you.”

Logan and Tucker appear behind Dean a second later, peering into the room.

“Is there a funeral?” Tucker asks, leaning against the doorframe.

“Very funny,” Garrett mutters, grabbing his wallet and keys off the dresser. “I’m going out.”

“With the lamppost girl?” Logan asks, a smirk playing on his lips. “You’re wearing a collar for the lamppost girl? Damn, the strategy must be working.”

Garrett shoots Logan a dark look. “Her name is Y/N. And yeah, I’m taking her to dinner.”

“Where? The dining hall?” Dean teases.

“Osteria.”

The three guys fall completely silent. Osteria is the nicest Italian place in town. It takes a week to get a reservation, and it definitely isn’t cheap.

“You’re taking the bet to Osteria?” Logan asks, his smirk fading into genuine confusion. “Garrett, you just need to get her in bed. You don’t need to buy her a fifty-dollar steak.”

Garrett’s jaw tightens. Hearing them call you that suddenly makes his stomach turn. It feels dirty. It feels wrong. The bet was a stupid, arrogant mistake, but the date tonight? The date is real. He wants it to be real.

“I know what I’m doing,” Garrett snaps, pushing past them into the hallway. “Don’t wait up.”

He leaves the house before they can say anything else, his pulse drumming a heavy beat against his ribs.

Twenty minutes later, Garrett pulls his Jeep up to the curb outside your apartment complex. He walks up the exterior stairs to the second floor, his palms actually sweating. He wipes them on his dark jeans before raising a hand to knock on your door.

He waits. He hears footsteps inside, the slide of a deadbolt, and then the door pulls open.

Garrett’s brain instantly flatlines.

You are standing in the doorway, and you look absolutely devastating. The oversized hoodies and messy buns are completely gone. In their place is a sleek, black slip dress that hugs your curves perfectly, the silk material catching the warm porch light. Your hair is down, falling in soft, loose waves over your shoulders. You’re wearing a touch of makeup — dark mascara that makes your eyes pop, and a dark red lip that makes Garrett’s mouth go entirely dry.

You aren’t wearing your glasses.

“Hi,” you say, a nervous, shy smile breaking across your face.

Garrett realizes he hasn’t spoken. He’s just staring. He forces his vocal cords to work. “Hi. Wow. You look … wow.”

You laugh, the sound a little breathless, and step out onto the landing, pulling the door shut behind you. “Is that a good thing, or do I have lipstick on my teeth?”

“It’s a very, very good thing,” Garrett says, his voice dropping an octave. He can’t tear his eyes away from you. You look stunning. You look like the kind of girl who stops traffic. “I feel incredibly underdressed.”

“You look great, Garrett,” you say softly, your eyes raking over his button-down and jeans. You step closer, the faint scent of vanilla and something floral washing over him. “Shall we?”

“Yeah.” Garrett clears his throat, finally finding his brain again. He steps to the side, pressing a light hand against the small of your back to guide you toward the stairs. “My car is right down here.”

The drive to the restaurant is easy, filled with light banter about the horrific traffic on campus and a debate over the local sports radio station playing quietly in the background. But the moment they walk into Osteria, the atmosphere shifts into something more intimate.

The restaurant is dimly lit, smelling of garlic, roasting meats, and expensive wine. The maître d’ leads you to a secluded booth in the back corner.

Once they’re seated, Garrett watches you pick up the menu. The candlelight flickers across your face, highlighting the sharp line of your jaw and the soft curve of your lips. He is genuinely captivated.

“Okay, I stand corrected,” you say, scanning the menu. “They do use real cloth napkins here. And the prices don’t actually have dollar signs next to them. That’s how you know it’s fancy.”

“Don’t worry about the prices,” Garrett says immediately. “Order whatever you want.”

You lower the menu, raising an eyebrow at him. “Are you trying to bribe me, Graham?”

“I’m trying to impress you,” he admits, leaning forward on his elbows.

“You already gave me space flowers,” you point out, a soft smile playing on your lips. “The bar is pretty high.”

“I like a challenge.”

The waiter arrives, and they order. Garrett asks for a bottle of red wine, and you don’t object, even allowing him to pour you a glass when it arrives.

Once the waiter leaves, the quiet intimacy of the booth settles over them again. You take a sip of the wine, your eyes locking onto his.

“So,” you say, tracing the rim of your glass. “Garrett Graham. Captain of the team. Unlikely future astronaut. You know all about my stress, my scholarship, and my deep, abiding love for rockets. But I feel like I barely know anything real about you.”

Garrett shifts slightly in his seat. He’s used to girls asking him about his stats, his NHL chances, or his workout routine. He isn’t used to anyone asking him to be real.

“What do you want to know?” he asks.

“Start with the basics,” you suggest. “Where are you from?”

“In New York. The city, mostly. But my dad moved us out to the suburbs when I was in middle school so I could play for a better youth hockey program.”

“Ah,” you nod slowly. “A hockey family.”

“Something like that.” Garrett takes a long drink of his wine. The familiar, bitter taste of resentment coats his tongue whenever he thinks about his father. He decides to test the waters, offering a piece of the truth he rarely shares. “My dad played in the NHL. Phil Graham. He had a solid career with the Rangers. Made a lot of money. Won a Norris.”

Your eyes widen slightly. “Wow. That’s a huge legacy to follow.”

“Yeah. It is.” Garrett stares into his glass. “He’s … intense. To put it mildly. He thinks second place is just the first loser. If I don’t score a hat trick, the game is a failure. If I don’t get drafted in the first round, my career is a bust.”

“That sounds exhausting,” you say softly.

Garrett looks up. There’s no pity in your eyes. Just a quiet, steady understanding. “It is. But it’s the way he is. He trained me to be a machine. No distractions. No emotions. Just the puck and the net.”

“Is that why you act like nothing ever bothers you?” You ask, your tone completely devoid of judgment. “Because you were trained to shut it off?”

Garrett feels a jolt of shock run through him. You see right through him. You always have, from the very first day in the library. You don’t buy the charming, carefree persona he projects to the rest of the world.

“Yeah,” Garrett says, his voice thick. “I guess it is. If I don’t care, he can’t use it against me.”

You reach across the small table. Your fingers lightly brush against his knuckles, a fleeting, electrifying touch that makes Garrett’s breath catch.

“You’re allowed to care, Garrett,” you say quietly. “It doesn’t make you weak.”

He flips his hand over, catching your fingers before you can pull away. He intertwines his fingers with yours, holding your hand on the table. Your skin is soft, warm, and the connection sends a rush of heat straight to his chest. You don’t pull back. You just look at him, your eyes dark and magnetic in the candlelight.

“I’m starting to care about a lot of things,” he says, his voice dropping to a rough murmur.

The waiter returns with their food, forcing you to break apart, but the tension between you only thickens as the meal progresses. The conversation flows effortlessly. You argue playfully about the best sci-fi movies, you mock the pretentious names of the dishes on the menu, and you share stories about their worst college professors.

Garrett realizes, halfway through his steak, that he is having the best night of his life. He isn’t performing. He isn’t trying to be the cool, detached captain. He is just Garrett, and you are looking at him like he’s the only person in the room.

By the time the waiter clears their plates and brings out a slice of tiramisu to share, the air between them is practically humming with electricity.

You take a bite of the dessert, groaning softly as the chocolate and espresso hit your tongue. “Oh, my god. That is incredible.”

Garrett watches the movement of your mouth, his mind suddenly going entirely blank of anything but the intense, overwhelming urge to kiss you.

“Glad you like it,” he manages to say, his voice tight.

“You aren’t having any?” You ask, offering him the fork.

“I’m good,” he says, his eyes locked on your lips. “I’ve got everything I want right here.”

You swallow hard, your breath hitching again. The playful banter fades away, replaced by a heavy, charged silence. You put the fork down, your eyes dropping to his mouth before rising back to his eyes.

Garrett signals for the check, pays quickly, and they step out of the restaurant into the cool, crisp autumn air.

You shiver almost instantly, crossing your arms over your chest. “Okay, the food was amazing, but I officially hate Massachusetts weather.”

Without a word, Garrett shrugs off his suit jacket and steps behind you, draping it over your bare shoulders. The warmth of his body heat transfers to you, and you lean back slightly into his chest, letting out a soft sigh.

“Better?” He asks, his voice rumbling right by your ear.

“Much,” you whisper.

He rests his hands lightly on your shoulders for just a second longer than necessary before guiding you to the Jeep.

The drive back to campus is quiet, but it’s not the comfortable silence of earlier. It’s heavy. It’s loaded with anticipation. The radio plays softly, but Garrett barely registers the song. His hands grip the steering wheel tight, his mind racing.

He wants to keep you. He wants to drag this night out until the sun comes up.

He pulls up to the intersection where he normally turns right to head to your apartment.

The blinker ticks loudly in the quiet cab of the car.

Garrett doesn’t turn the wheel. He hits the brake, sitting at the red light, and looks over at you. You are already looking at him, buried in his suit jacket, your eyes dark and expectant in the shadows of the car.

“I don’t want to take you home yet,” Garrett says, the words spilling out before he can overthink them. He is laying all his cards on the table. No games. No strategies. Just the raw, honest truth. “I don’t want this night to end.”

You hold his gaze, the silence stretching out between you. Garrett’s heart hammers against his ribs. He waits for the rejection. He waits for you to tell him about the fluid dynamics quiz, or the late hour, or the fact that you need to go to sleep.

Instead, you reach out and place your hand gently over his on the center console.

“I don’t want it to end either,” you say softly.

Garrett turns his hand, threading his fingers through yours once again. He swallows the lump in his throat. “Do you … do you want to come back to my place?”

The light turns green.

You give his hand a gentle squeeze.

“Yes,” you say. “Take me to your place, Garrett.”

Garrett lets out a breath he feels like he’s been holding since he met you. He flips the blinker off, hits the gas, and drives straight through the intersection, heading away from your apartment, and straight toward the house.

***

The drive takes less than ten minutes, but to Garrett, it feels like an eternity. Every time he shifts gears, his knuckles brush against the soft fabric of his suit jacket still draped over your shoulders. The car is completely silent save for the low hum of the engine and the soft rhythm of your breathing.

He pulls into the gravel driveway and cuts the engine. The house is dark. Dean, Logan, and Tucker are out, probably at whatever Friday night mixer is happening on campus. For the first time in his life, Garrett is overwhelmingly grateful for his teammates’ predictable party habits.

“They’re not here,” Garrett says, his voice low in the quiet cab.

“Good,” you murmur, turning your head to look at him. Your eyes catch the faint amber glow of the streetlamp outside. There’s a nervous energy radiating from you, but there’s no hesitation in your voice.

He gets out, walking around the front of the Jeep to open your door. You step down, shivering slightly as the brisk autumn air hits your bare legs, and Garrett instinctively wraps an arm around your waist, pulling your side flush against his chest.

“Let’s get you inside,” he whispers.

He guides you up the porch steps, his keys jingling as he unlocks the front door. The house smells faintly of stale beer and athletic gear, but Garrett barely registers it. He leads you straight past the living room and up the wooden stairs to his bedroom at the end of the hall.

He pushes the door open and reaches for the lamp on his nightstand, bathing the room in a warm, dim light. His room is surprisingly clean — he’d practically scrubbed it top to bottom before the date, just in case.

You step inside, your eyes darting around the space, taking in the framed hockey jerseys, the neatly made bed, the stack of textbooks on his desk. Garrett closes the door behind you, the click of the latch echoing loudly in the quiet room.

The moment the door shuts, the reality of the situation settles over you both. The air is suddenly heavy, thick with anticipation. Garrett stays by the door, his hands in his pockets, watching you. He’s dying to touch you, to close the distance, but he forces himself to stay put.

“Y/N,” he says softly.

You turn to face him, clutching the lapels of his oversized jacket. “Yeah?”

“Are you sure about this?” he asks, his gaze locking onto yours. He needs to know. He needs to hear it. “Because we can just hang out. You can borrow a t-shirt and go to sleep. I don’t want you to feel pressured just because I bought you dinner.”

A small, genuine smile breaks across your face. You take a step toward him. Then another. Until you are standing right in front of him, close enough that he can feel the heat radiating from your body.

“I’m sure, Garrett,” you whisper, tilting your head up. “I want to be here.”

That’s all it takes.

Garrett’s hands come out of his pockets, immediately finding your waist. He pulls you against him, ducking his head, and captures your lips with his.

The kiss is explosive. It’s not slow or tentative. It’s exactly what he’s been craving all night. His mouth opens over yours, his tongue sliding past your lips, tasting the sweet, dark hint of the tiramisu and the intoxicating flavor that is just you. You let out a soft gasp, your hands coming up to grip his shoulders as you kiss him back with a fierce, unexpected intensity.

“Fuck,” Garrett groans against your mouth. His hands slide up your back, gripping the jacket and pulling it off your shoulders, letting it drop to the floor.

He steps forward, backing you slowly across the room until your knees hit the edge of the mattress. You tumble back onto the comforter, and Garrett follows you down, bracketing your body with his arms.

He takes a second to just look at you. Your dark hair is fanned out across his pillows, your lips are swollen and slick from his mouth, and the black silk slip dress rides dangerously high on your thighs.

“You are so beautiful,” he murmurs, trailing a line of open-mouthed kisses down the line of your jaw, down the column of your neck. He feels your pulse jumping wildly against his lips.

“Garrett,” you breathe, your fingers tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck. “Take this off. Please.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. He sits up slightly, grabbing the hem of your slip dress. “Lift your arms.”

You comply, and he pulls the silk over your head, tossing it aside. You are left in a matching set of black lace underwear, and Garrett feels his mouth go completely dry. He traces a finger down the center of your stomach, watching the way your muscles jump and quiver under his touch.

“You’re perfect,” he whispers, leaning down to press a hot, wet kiss to your stomach.

Garrett takes his time. He wants to memorize every inch of you. He unhooks your bra, peeling it away, and his mouth immediately replaces the fabric. He circles the tight peak of your nipple with his tongue, sucking gently, and you let out a high, sweet moan that sends a surge of blood straight to his groin.

“You like that, Starshine?” He asks, his voice thick and raspy.

“Yes,” you gasp, your hips arching up off the mattress involuntarily. “Don’t stop.”

He doesn’t. He continues to worship your chest, his hands sliding down to grip your hips. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of your lace panties, slowly dragging them down your legs and tossing them onto the floor.

You instinctively try to cross your legs, a sudden flash of vulnerability crossing your face, but Garrett gently catches your knees, pressing them open.

“Don’t hide from me,” he says, his voice a low, commanding rumble. He rests his forearms on your thighs, looking at you. “I want to see you.”

He leans in, pressing his mouth to the soft skin of your inner thigh, right near your center. You jump, your fingers digging into his bedsheets.

“Garrett-”

“Relax,” he murmurs against your skin. “Let me take care of you first.”

He trails his lips higher, his breath ghosting over your slick, swollen folds. The scent of your arousal fills his senses, sweet and completely intoxicating. He traces the delicate seam with the tip of his nose, and then, slowly, he presses his tongue flat and takes a long, slow drag upward.

You scream his name, your entire body bucking off the bed.

“Shh,” he soothes, though he’s smiling against you. His hands slide under your ass, lifting you higher, tilting your hips exactly where he needs them. “I’ve got you.”

He sets a punishing, relentless rhythm. He swirls his tongue over your sensitive bundle of nerves, sucking hard, and then diving two fingers inside you. You are incredibly tight, and so wet his fingers slide in effortlessly. He curls his fingers, hitting that sweet spot inside you with every thrust of his hand, mirroring the flick of his tongue.

“Oh my god,” you sob, thrashing on the pillows. “Garrett. Please. I can’t-”

“Yes, you can,” he growls, quickening his pace. “Come for me, Y/N. Let me feel it.”

You unravel completely. Your thighs clamp down on his head, your nails ripping into the sheets as a violently intense orgasm tears through your body. You cry out, your core pulsing and clenching frantically around his fingers, milking him of every drop of sanity he has left.

Garrett waits until the last of your tremors subside before he pulls away. He crawls back up your body, his chest heaving, and captures your lips in a devastating kiss, letting you taste your own release on his tongue.

You are completely limp, your eyes half-closed, a dazed, blissful smile on your face.

Garrett pulls back, stripping off his button-down shirt and throwing it across the room. He kicks off his shoes, shoves his jeans and boxers down his legs, and stands by the bed, completely bare.

Your eyes drag down his chest, lingering on the hard planes of his stomach, before dropping lower. Your eyes go wide, a flash of something akin to panic crossing your face for a fraction of a second, but you quickly mask it, biting your lower lip.

Garrett turns, opening the drawer of his nightstand and pulling out a foil packet. He tears it open, quickly rolling the condom down his length, before moving to hover over you.

He settles between your legs, his knees sinking into the mattress. He braces his weight on his forearms, looking down into your flushed face.

“You okay?” He checks, his thumb brushing a stray piece of hair off your forehead.

“I’m more than okay,” you whisper, reaching up to run your hands over his broad shoulders. “I want you.”

Garrett groans, the sound completely animalistic. He shifts his hips forward, aligning the blunt head of his cock with your slick opening. He pushes forward, letting himself sink into your heat.

But immediately, he feels resistance. It’s tight. Impossibly tight. And as he pushes another fraction of an inch, your breath hitches sharply, your hands flying to his chest to grip his biceps.

“Ouch,” you gasp, your body tensing completely.

Garrett stops instantly.

Every alarm bell in his head goes off. He freezes, pulling back slightly, his eyes snapping to your face. You are biting your lip, your eyes squeezed shut in obvious discomfort.

He pulls out entirely.

“Y/N,” he says, his voice laced with concern. He looks down, and the sight makes his heart completely stop in his chest.

There is a single, vivid streak of crimson blood on his condom.

Garrett stares at it. The room suddenly starts spinning. The air is sucked entirely out of his lungs.

He looks back up at you. You have opened your eyes, and you are staring at the ceiling, your cheeks burning with a fierce, humiliated blush. You look incredibly small, pulling the edge of the comforter over your chest.

“Y/N,” Garrett repeats, his voice trembling now. “Look at me.”

You slowly turn your head, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Are you … is this your first time?”

The silence that follows is deafening. You pick at a thread on the comforter, your voice incredibly quiet when you finally speak.

“Yes.”

The word hits Garrett like a physical blow to the stomach. A brutal, agonizing hit that leaves him completely winded.

A virgin.

You are a virgin.

And he is about to take your virginity to win a fucking bet.

A wave of nausea washes over him so intensely he actually feels dizzy. The memory of Dean, Logan, and Tucker laughing on the quad violently assaults his brain. You guys pick the girl. I’ll have her in my bed by the end of the semester.

He is a monster. He is worse than his father. His father broke his mother’s body, but Garrett is about to shatter your heart. You, the girl who apologizes to lampposts. The girl who gets starry-eyed talking about space shuttles. The girl who looks at him like he’s actually a good person.

“I’m sorry,” you say suddenly, your voice cracking. “I should have told you. I just … I know you’re super experienced, and I didn’t want you to think I was a total loser or some kind of prude. I just … I’ve never had the time. Or met anyone I wanted to do this with. Until you.”

Your words twist the knife deeper.

“Hey,” Garrett says immediately, forcing the panic down, forcing the crushing guilt into a dark, locked box in the back of his mind. He has to take care of you right now. He can hate himself later. He reaches out, gently cupping your cheek, forcing you to look at him. “Do not apologize. Are you crazy? Y/N, you’re not a loser.”

“But you stopped,” you whisper, tears shining in your eyes. “I’m ruining it.”

“You are not ruining anything,” he says fiercely. He leans down, pressing a soft kiss to your forehead. “I’m just … I’m honored, baby. I just wish I had known so I could have been gentler. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“It only hurt for a second,” you assure him, your hands coming up to grip his wrists. “I promise. Please, Garrett. I want to. I want it to be you.”

God, he wants to throw up. He wants to pull away, put his clothes on, and run out of the room. But looking at your face, so open, so trusting, so incredibly beautiful — he knows that pulling away now would destroy your confidence. It would humiliate you.

He’s in it. He has to finish this. And he vows right then and there, he is going to make it the best experience you’ve ever had.

“Okay,” Garrett whispers, his voice thick with unshed emotion. “Okay. But you have to tell me if it hurts too much. Deal?”

“Deal.”

Garrett settles back between your legs. He reaches down, sliding a hand between your folds, using the slickness of your earlier orgasm to massage you, stretching you gently with two fingers before he tries again. He leans down, capturing your lips, keeping your mouth busy and distracted as he aligns himself once more.

“Take a deep breath,” he murmurs against your mouth.

You inhale sharply, and as you exhale, Garrett pushes forward.

He goes excruciatingly slow. Every instinct in his body is screaming at him to drive deep, to bury himself to the hilt, but he fights it. He pushes through the tight, resistant barrier with agonizing patience. You whimper against his mouth, your nails biting into his shoulders, but you don’t tell him to stop.

“You’re doing so good, baby,” he praises you, his voice ragged. “You’re doing so good for me. Just relax. Let me in.”

He pushes the rest of the way, finally seating himself completely inside you. You are so tight it takes his breath away, his cock throbbing from the intense pressure. He stays perfectly still, burying his face in your neck, letting you adjust to the sheer size of him.

“Garrett,” you gasp, your arms wrapping tightly around his back. “Wow.”

“You okay?” he pants, pressing a kiss to the pulse point jumping at your throat.

“Yeah. The pain is gone. It just feels … really full.”

“It feels perfect,” he corrects, pulling back slightly to look at your face. The tension has left your features, replaced by a heavy-lidded, glazed look of arousal.

Slowly, carefully, Garrett pulls back, almost to the tip, and drives forward again.

You let out a soft moan, your hips instinctively tilting up to meet him.

That’s all the encouragement he needs. He begins to move, establishing a slow, steady, grounding rhythm. He makes love to you with a reverence he’s never shown anyone in his entire life. He watches your face, memorizing the way your brow furrows when he hits a certain spot, the way your lips part as he drags himself out and slides back in.

He makes sure every thrust counts. He reaches down between your bodies, his thumb finding your slick clit, and begins to rub in circles, matching the pace of his hips.

“Oh!” You cry out, your eyes flying open. “Garrett-”

“I know,” he whispers, kissing you deeply. “Let it go, baby. Come for me again.”

The combination is too much for you. You don’t last long. Your internal muscles clamp down viciously around his cock, triggering a second, violent orgasm. You scream his name, your body arching like a bowstring.

The feeling of you coming around him snaps Garrett’s control entirely. He lets out a guttural groan, driving into you hard, once, twice, three times, before his own climax rips through him. It is blinding. It is the most intense, earth-shattering release he has ever experienced. He empties himself into the condom, his entire body trembling with the force of it.

He collapses on top of you, burying his face in the pillows next to your head, his chest heaving as he struggles to catch his breath.

You wrap your arms around him, your hands tracing soothing patterns up and down his sweaty back.

“That was …” you whisper, sounding completely dazed. “That was incredible.”

Garrett closes his eyes, a profound sense of self-loathing pooling in his gut. “Yeah,” he manages to say.

After a few minutes, Garrett forces himself to move. He rolls off you, pulling the condom off and tossing it in the trash, before grabbing a few tissues from the nightstand. He gently cleans you up, his heart breaking all over again when he sees the faint smear of pink on the white tissue.

He climbs back into bed, pulling the thick comforter up over both of you.

You immediately curl into his side. You rest your head on his chest, right over his heart, and drape an arm across his stomach. You are warm, soft, and smelling like vanilla and sex.

“I really like you, Garrett,” you murmur, your voice thick with exhaustion. “I’m really glad you talked to me in the library.”

Garrett stares up at the ceiling. The shadows in the room seem darker now. Menacing.

“I’m glad too,” he lies, his voice barely a whisper.

He presses a kiss to the top of your head, holding you tight as your breathing slows and evens out, signaling that you’ve fallen asleep.

Garrett remains wide awake.

The digital clock on the nightstand flips from 1:00 AM to 1:01 AM.

He just won the bet. He secured his victory. His chest is safe from a wax.

And he has never felt like more of a loser in his entire life.

He is in too deep. This hasn’t been a game to him since the second week in the library. He cares about you. He cares about your stupid equations, and your obsession with space, and the way you apologize to inanimate objects.

He’s falling in love with you.

And when you find out how this started — when you find out that your virginity was the punchline to a joke in the campus quad — it is going to destroy you. And you will never forgive him.

Garrett pulls you a little tighter against his chest, staring into the dark. He knows he has to tell you. He has to confess before someone else does.

But as you let out a soft, contented sigh in your sleep, Garrett knows he’s a coward. Because right now, the thought of losing you hurts far more than the guilt.

The way you find out is probably even more bizarre than the fact itself. You and him had little to no reason to ever interact with each other. You weren’t some shy nerd who holed herself up in her room all day or anything, but you weren’t much of the party type other.

You were stuck somewhere in the middle of all that, vicariously living through some of your friends who had better things going for them.

As such, there was no real reason for you and Sukuna to cross paths. He never even had a reason to acknowledge your existence until the two of you are paired up together for a project in the one class you happen to take together.

——

The background noise is the chatter of your fellow classmates and their own project partners, you find your partner grumbling out a low, “What?” In response to your last statement, having hardly heard a thing you said.

“I said,” You huff, sitting beside the man in question as today marks week two of you being paired up with him for this semester’s project, “We should be meeting up outside of class too. We could get this knocked out in like a day if you just-“

“Oh that,” Sukuna cuts off casually. Seated all slouched back in his seat, his legs sprawled out in that signature manspread of his—he rolls his eyes at your little reminder, “You said somethin’ about that last week.”

You speak through slightly gritted teeth, fighting the headache he’s about to give you from this conversation alone, “All the more reason for you to take it into consideration. The faster we get this done, the less we have to deal with each other.”

As you say that, you glance at him only to find his eyes directly on yours already. He’s got such lazy posture, his head tilted slightly whilst he gazes at you so intently, and his big muscular arms folded across his chest. Even wearing a black hoodie and gray sweats, he still looks as attractive as ever—mean low-lidded crimson eyes locked on yours, tattooed face so beautifully defined, and rosy lips pulled into such an uninterested little frown.

Up until your words hit his ears properly, “The less we have to deal with each other, huh?” Sukuna repeats, narrowing his eyes even further at you, “You barely even know me and yet you want nothing to do with me already.”

“I know enough about you, Sukuna,” You say with a sigh, “And you hardly contribute to this project as is. Which only proves that everything they say about you is probably true.”

He arches a brow, his interest piquing, “And what exactly do people say about me?”

You let off a light scoff, “Don’t act like you don’t know.”

“But I don’t know,” Sukuna tells you honestly, maroon eyes boring into yours.

You stare for a moment as you try to decipher whether or not he’s being honest right now. How does he not know what people say about him? Everyone talks about his brooding personality very openly.

“They say you’re an ass,” You eventually say to the man.

To which his lips twitch into a slight smirk, “And you believe that?”

“Seeing as I’ve asked you to—at the very least—type your name on this document and you haven’t even done that yet,” You scoff, “Yes.”

The two of you mildly glare at one another for a moment before Sukuna leans up in his seat. Breaking eye contact for just a moment to look at his laptop, he swiftly moves to open up that shared document of yours and types his name out with a heavy sigh.

After which, he’s slouching back again and looking at you, “Don’t believe everything people tell you, woman.”

You roll your eyes at him, “What? Are you not fond of rumors? That still doesn’t negate the fact that you’re an assho-“

“When do you want to meet up?” Sukuna grumbles out almost reluctantly, watching the way you pause and swallow thickly as he catches you off-guard.

He’s almost even intrigued by how quickly you bounce back, despite being caught by surprise, “Friday. Are you free?”

“Unfortunately,” He grumps.

You give him a little shrug, “Good. I’ll see you then.”

And that was it. That was how each and every interaction with you and Sukuna went. Bickering back and forth about him not doing shit to help you with something that’ll affect your grade majorly, criticizing you about being too focused and needing to relax every now and then, and even calling you a stuck-up little brat one time—it was safe to say, you and Sukuna didn’t get along too well.

Not that you minded anyway. He wasn’t your first partner to care little about their grade so, you knew how to deal with these kinds of people by now. Typically, you indulge yourself in their craving to ‘relax’ just once and then they promise to start helping. You’ve gone down that path before and it’s worked for you just fine so you assume things will go the same way with Sukuna.

Plus, you guess you can give him a slight pass for his asshole attitude, at least he has a pretty face to look at. Black ink always decorating his awfully smooth skin, deep dark yet beautiful ruby-shaded eyes boring into whatever it is his focus on, and broad shoulders looming over your smaller figure every time he stands in front of you—you can't help but feel both attracted and intimidated by the man.

——

Which is exactly why when you open your apartment door for the scheduled meetup that Friday to crane your head up at him, you’re swallowing thickly to settle your nerves. You’ve never been alone with the man so of course you’re a bit nervous.

Especially with the way he gazes down at you like that’s exactly where you belong: beneath him. His eyes are filled to the brim with intensity and yet he’s only just set them on you. Wearing a noticeable black compression shirt and those signature gray sweats of his, he almost appears as though he’d just come from the gym.

And just as you take in his appearance, he very openly takes in yours—his eyes raking over your body and taking in every single inch of you. After all, just as it was your first time alone with him, it was his first time seeing you dress so comfortably. He doesn’t even try to hide the way he stares at your tits peeking out from the rather thin spaghetti-strap top you were wearing, his eyes soon trailing down slowly to those tauntingly short shorts you had on.

“So,” Sukuna swipes his tongue over his lips and cocks his head to the side, hands stuffed in his pockets and eyes yet to lift from your legs, “Are you gonna stare at me all day or are you gonna let me in?”

You blink out of whatever little daze you were in, having found yourself gazing at his chest far longer than you meant to. It was right in front of your face after all, how could you look anywhere else? And his shirt was so damn tight, the fabric hugging his well-toned body perfectly, so much so that you swore you could make out piercings on his-

Sukuna leans forward suddenly, his face nearing yours to gain your full attention, “If you keep staring at me like that, I’m gonna assume you invited me over for something else-“

“Sorry,” You chirp out as you clear your throat and awkwardly step back a bit to let him in, “You can come in.”

Nodding, Sukuna slips by you and you shut your apartment door behind him. Then, you’re quick to lead him over to your living room where you’d previously been working on your project.

The two of you are hasty to take a seat on your couch, both of you only a few inches apart from one another whilst you lean toward your coffee table and log into your already open laptop. Sukuna’s eyes are all over you as always, studying your side profile, your intent focus on the screen in front of you, and even the way you-

“Did you even bring anything?” You suddenly ask before you glance at the man.

Sukuna quickly meets your gaze, ripping his eyes off of wherever they’d been previously, “Was I supposed to?”

“Sukuna,” You sigh out, “Please tell me you’re joking right now.”

He swallows at the mere sound of his name rolling off your tongue in that scolding tone of yours—he's heard such a tone from you time and time again and yet, for whatever reason, it never seems to annoy him.

“I’m not.” He says plainly.

“How are we supposed to work on this if you-,” You cut yourself off and decide not to even attempt arguing with him. Arguing won’t change the fact that he showed up with nothing. “Just uhm,” You glance elsewhere for a second before an idea comes to mind and you place your laptop down and stand up, “Stay here.”

Sukuna doesn’t say anything. He merely watches as you huff and walk off, swiftly exiting the living room and disappearing down a nearby hall. He swears he finds himself looking at you a bit more than intended. Especially as you walked off, his eyes dropping to your ass and those damn shorts of yours.

Even when you’re out of his sight, he still finds himself staring in the direction of which you went, almost unable to look away for whatever strange reason.

That lasts for a few minutes until he snaps out of it and leans back against the couch, tossing his head back and letting out a long sigh. You soon return to find him with an arm stretched along the back of the couch, his legs spread as usual, and his eyes up on the ceiling.

He doesn’t even notice you’ve returned until he feels something placed in his lap. Looking down, Sukuna finds your laptop kindly set on top of him. To which his brows furrowed in confusion and he looked at you to see you sitting on the floor in between the couch and the coffee table with a paper and pencil in front of you.

“What’s this?” Sukuna scoffs.

You don’t even spare him a glance as you begin writing something down, “How we’ll get things done.” He opens his mouth to say something but then you’re looking back at him with a glare, “I already organized the parts of this project that you have to do so, since it’s on my computer, you can work on that and I’ll work with what I remember.”

You wholeheartedly expected him to find something about this to disagree with you on but, to your surprise, he simply nods and redirects his focus to your laptop immediately.

And then, the two of you work exactly like that for the remainder of that little study session.

——

Sukuna’s not terrible to work with when it’s just you and him. If anything, he’s rather cooperative and a lot smarter than he leads on.

Which is why a solid two hours of productivity flies by surprisingly smoothly with him. If you asked him a question, he answered. Told him to do something, he’d say something snarky, and then do whatever it is you’ve instructed anyway.

It all went so perfectly up until he let out a really heavy sigh, “Alright, I’ve had enough for this.” Sukuna says casually.

He’s been repeating a similar phrase every thirty minutes or so but he usually gets right back to work after getting ignored by you. This time though, you get the feeling he’s serious when he pushes your laptop off of his lap and places it forward on the coffee table.

It’s then that you frown, “Oh c’mon, we were getting so much done,” You comment as you glance back to him.

He shrugs, “I can’t keep looking at that damn screen, it’s giving me a headache.”

“Of course it is,” You utter sarcastically, rolling your eyes whilst you place your pencil down and throw your arms up to stretch, “Fine then, we can take a break.”

Sukuna’s brows lift in surprise. He didn’t expect you to listen to him, “Good.” He hums, “I was getting bored as well.”

You scoff, “Were you?”

“Yeah, can we do something else?” He asks.

Turning around, you rotate the way you’re sitting so that you’re facing him and your back is resting against your coffee table. “Like what?” You muse, meeting his low-lidded gaze.

“Talk,” Sukuna says.

That’s it? He wanted a break to talk to you? Your eyes are narrowing at him before you even realize, “Talk?” You repeat with a scoff, “Seriously?”

He nods, “Mhm.”

“What do you wanna talk about, Sukuna?” As you ask him that, you watch the way his eyes casually slide down to your lips.

Does he mean to be this indiscreet with his looks? Or is he eyeing you down like that on purpose?

The man shrugs, “Anything outside of fuckin’ school.”

You laugh at that, “Okay, I can work with that.”

He tilts his head at you and licks his lips, “Yeah?” Something about your little laugh threw him off.

“Mhm,” You hum as you look down at your hand, fiddling with your nails a bit, “The rumors… are they true?”

Thrown off yet again, Sukuna’s brows pinch together. “Rumors?” He echoes in a genuinely confused tone, “What rumors, woman?”

The sound of your scoff makes him stiffen in his seat. Almost in an instant, the atmosphere had changed suddenly. “C’mon, don’t play dumb,” You tease, lifting your gaze to him again, “The rumors about you.”

He gives you a perplexed look and it’s almost as though you could see the gears in his head turning. “If you know something, say it.” He demands.

You sigh, “Sukuna, do you seriously hear nothing people say about you?”

Sukuna shrugs, “I don’t care enough to remember. So what is it? What rumor?”

You’re just curious. You swear that’s all it was. And, naturally, since he seemed to have warmed up to you—of course you wanted to know if that rumor about his dick was true. You’re both adults and it’s just a silly question. Plus, with the way he’s been looking at you all afternoon, you’re sure he won’t mind answering you with a simple yes or no.

Glancing to the side, your shoulders lift a bit, “It’s uh, rather intimate.” You hush out.

Sukuna narrows his eyes at you, “Intimate?? An intimate rumor about me?”

His emphasis on himself makes your eyes flick back over to him. “Yeah, are you sure you don’t know what they say about you??” You ask again.

“Positive. Now speak, what is it they say?” Sukuna huffs impatiently, even more curious about this little rumor after the mention of it being intimate. After all, he’s never-

“People say you have a big dick,” You utter way too casually.

So nonchalantly that it makes him choke, a choke you don’t mess with the way he clears his throat and sits up a little. “What?” He rasps out.

You bat those stupidly false innocent eyes at him, “I didn’t stutter,” Your tone dips into something different and he catches every bit of it, “People say you have a big dick, is it true?”

Sukuna clears his throat and for the first time, he glances away from you. Then, he opens and closes his mouth, contemplating his next words carefully before they soon fall from his lips, “You wanna find out?”

His offer spurs a shift in your seat from you as you scoot closer to him ever so slightly, “You wanna show me?” You ask boldly, your tone direct, and not even a flicker of hesitation present.

“Do I want to-,” Sukuna pauses, his eyes scanning the entirety of your seated frame as you inch closer to him, “What?” He huffs, swallowing thickly.

You move to stand on your knees and lean forward to the couch, soon propping your chin up on your palm as you look at him, “Show me,” You chuckle, “I asked if you wanted to show me, Sukuna.”

He blinks, “Show you my cock?”

You shrug, “Yeah.”

The air is so thick right now, Sukuna’s not sure how exactly he can play this off without making a fool of himself. He gulps yet again, only to watch as your eyes start to drop down along his body.

“Stop,” He rushes out, “Keep your eyes up here. On mine,” He commands in a low tone, earning your gaze once more.

And then it’s quiet for a moment. He’s staring at you and you’re obediently keeping your eyes up on his. Sukuna hates it but he doesn’t know what to say or do from here. The last thing he wanted was for you to find out his little secret.

It’s like he was waiting for a fucking pin to drop, something to break the silence. Yet, his mind was going blank and words were failing him at the moment. He’s flirted with women before, plenty of times actually, effortlessly even—but for whatever reason, as you sit there with those stupidly pretty eyes staring at him, his mind simply flakes on him.

He’s like that for a minute longer until you move. So subtly too, sliding a hand to his thigh, leaning forward slightly, batting your lashes at him, “Sukuna?” You whisper.

His hips are rolling upward slightly at the sound of his name alone. “W-What?” He stammers, mentally cursing himself a thousand times over.

“If you don’t wanna show me you can jus’ say no,” You hum, smiling a bit, “Y’know that, right?”

He scoffs, “Of course I know that, woman.”

“If you know that then…” Your fingers lightly squeeze his thigh and you tilt your head, “Are you gonna tell me or show me whether or not those rumors are true?”

Something simply clicks inside Sukuna’s head. Rose-tinted lips cracking into a smirk, the man spreads his legs further and slouches back into the couch, “Find out for yourself since you’re so curious.”

Your eyes go wide, “What?”

Sukuna scoffs lightly, moving one of his arms from the back of the couch and placing his hand over his crotch. Of course, your gaze sinks down to his veiny hand, watching as he palms a stupidly large bulge in his sweats.

Your breath hitches a bit, “I-“

You don’t even get the chance to get it out before he’s cutting you off, “C’mere,” Sukuna hums in that low voice of his.

“What?” You whisper.

You and him make eye contact again and he nods his chin toward the space in between his legs. Nothing can really explain why you follow his gesture and quickly find yourself sitting in between his legs, taking a deep breath as you settle your hands on his thighs.

Sliding your touch up and up and up until your fingers graze his hand. The same hand that was resting on top of that aching bulge of his.

Sukuna slowly lifts his hand up and away, relaxing his arm on the back of the couch again as he stares down at you. Cocking his head to the side, “Well? Feel it.” He huffs.

You don’t even hesitate. Trailing your fingers upward carefully until you feel the outline of his cock beneath your fingertips, gulping as you drag your hand up to cup his length in your hand firmly, and smirking at the way his cock twitches furiously beneath your small touch.

Sukuna’s mouth falls open for a second but you’re too engrossed in feeling him to notice. He lets out a shuddered breath as he watches the way you grope his steadily growing erection. His head even tosses back and his fingers dig into the couch for a moment.

“It is big,” You whisper to yourself, your words only making him twitch more within your hand.

“Fuck,” Sukuna grits out lowly, hips unconsciously lifting to press himself further against you.

His curse earns your attention. You quickly glance up to him and see the way he’s got his head tossed back, Adam's apple bobbing with every heavy gulp he takes, and his chest rising and falling rather quickly.

You lift your hand carefully and decide to test something out. Slowly, you lean forward and just barely press your lips against his clothed cock.

Sukuna’s whole body reacts. He gasps louder than he means to and he’s weaving his fingers through your hair faster than he realizes, palming your scalp as he quickly looks down at you. “T-The fuck are you doing? Huh?” He huffs while gripping onto your hair.

You lift your head a bit but he keeps you in place, despite his question to you. “I just…” You’re not exactly sure you can explain yourself.

And by this point, Sukuna doesn’t think he cares enough to hear an excuse from you, “…You what? You wanna see it?”

All you can do is give him a little nod before he moves his free hand to the drawstring of his sweatpants. Then you're quick to help him tug them down until his boxers are revealed to you—a noticeable dampness in the fabric right where his leaking tip is. Was that because of you?

Before you can dawn on your own questions, Sukuna’s moving to tug his cock out. And fuck is he even bigger revealed before your eyes. With an upward curve, such an angry flushed tip, precum dripping from the slit of his fat cockhead, veins decorating his shaft and-

Shit, you were drooling. How’d you get like this again?? Ah, who cares.

“Sukuna,” You breathe out, ripping your eyes away from his cock just to look up at him.

He was almost panting, dark maroon eyes pouring down into yours, face flushed with different shades of red and pink, his lips parted softly—hell, he looked like he was in heat or something.

Gulping before he answers you, Sukuna clears his throat and his voice is already husky, “What?”

You shift against the floor, your hands relaxing against his large thighs, “Can I-“

“Yeah,” He cuts off. Lord knows if you got that question out he was going to lose his damn mind.

You raise a brow and lean forward, keeping your eyes on his while your lips near his tip, “Yeah?”

The last thing you get from him is a nod before you’re parting your lips. And from that moment forward, it all goes downhill. Everything from the way you’re sitting in between his legs to that initial connection of your plush lips against his drooling cock had Sukuna’s mind spinning.

He’s never been sucked off before. Hell, the farthest he’s gone as far as sexual activities are concerned is a little bit of dry humping. But this? Oh hell, this was his first time and he had zero idea how he was going to keep that information away from you.

Especially when he feels your tongue slip from between your lips and swirl around the head of his cock, kittenly lapping up that slim layer of precum sitting so prettily on his tip.

“Oh f-fuuck,” Sukuna groans huskily, the hand on your head gripping tighter.

You pull away from him slightly just to take in his expression and the way he tosses his head back. It was almost cute to you. The last thing you expected was for him to be so damn sensitive, you hardly did anything.

His sensitivity only worsens as you finally start wrapping your lips around his cock, feeling him throb when you sink your mouth down on him. Sukuna’s jaw goes slack and his brows twist up. He tries his best to hold it in but he can’t help but moan at the way you leisurely suck on half of his lengthy cock.

Your saliva wets up the rest of his shaft and you make up for what your mouth hasn’t reached yet with your hand, stroking him lightly whilst you take the rest of his girth in and out of your mouth. Rolling your tongue around him, pulling off just to messily spit and kiss on his blushing tip, and slobbering all over him—Sukuna almost fucking kicked something with how good your mouth felt around him.

He’s used his hand and other shit before but holy fuck, nothing, and he means nothing compares to that damn mouth of yours. The way you look with his cock stuffed right in between those lips he’s been staring at for God knows how long—your lips all slick with spit, eyes rolling back the deeper you take him, and tongue sticking out every time you pull your mouth off of him.

You soon slip your mouth off of him and start jerking him off, focusing your tongue on his tip and slithering the wet muscle in between the slit of his cock, lathering your tongue up with his glistening precum.

The sound of Sukuna groaning makes you look up at him, finding his eyes on yours again. He’s panting, trying his best to look like this wasn’t phasing him but failing in every way with how flushed his face was.

Your tongue sticks out and your hand continues to slide up and down his cock as you tap his tip on your tongue, making his brows twist up.

He bites back a throaty sound, “Hah… damn brat,” Sukuna huffs out as if to… degrade you?

You almost find it cute how clearly inexperienced he is, spitting a fat wad of spit onto his pretty wet tip and then smiling at him, “Sukuna,” You coo, your hand gripping his shaft tighter, “Is this your first time?”

He instantly looks off to the side, the veins in his neck and along his jawline tensing as he grits his teeth. Since he decides to ignore your little question, you take it a step further and slide your hand down his cock, gripping his thick base firmly before taking him into your heavenly warm mouth again.

His expression breaks completely, “Oh shit,” Sukuna moans, his hips bucking up into your mouth as you slide him deeper into your mouth than you did before.

Then his hand is pushing your head down further on instinct and he’s subtly rutting his hips up. You lift your head up despite his constant pushing, soon causing your head to bob up and down whilst you suck him off skillfully.

“Jus’ like that,” Sukuna suddenly groans and you moan around his cock in reaction. To which he keeps giving your mouth mindless little thrusts, “Don’t s-, agh, stop.”

Sucking him deeper and deeper before you move your hand completely, you suck in a deep breath of air through your nose, open up the very back of your throat, and sink all the way down, your lips meeting his pelvis as your eyes roll to the back of your head.

Sukuna kicks something. Probably your coffee table with the way one of his legs extends out so suddenly, a choked-out groan ripped from his throat as your little move was all it took for him to cum. And it’s so much too, hot thick ropes of cum spurting down your throat, his hand holding onto your head for dear life whilst a moan of your name rolls off his tongue.

You’re still sucking too, pulling up only to swallow what he’s gifted you and then stick your tongue out. Laying it flat against his tip, you leisurely lick at him as if to beg for more and now the man’s pushing your head away for the first time.

When you lift your eyes up to him again, you notice he’s got his tattooed arm over his mouth and his lashes are batting softly at you. For such a big man, he was so ridiculously cute right now. Panting, sweating, cursing under his breath as if you couldn’t hear him.

“Yeah,” Sukuna utters suddenly, clearing his throat, “That was… my first… time. I uh-“

“Do you want more?” Is the last thing you asked him before you were sitting back on your heels and he was stumbling to his feet.

You had to guide him through it of course but, Sukuna doesn’t hesitate to stuff your face full of his cock again. You take him so kindly too, obediently sitting there with your hands gripping his thighs for support with every careful thrust of his hips.

He was trying to be gentle with you at first. Partially because he didn’t know what the hell he was doing, and also because he just loved the initial entry into your mouth. Over and over, Sukuna slid his dick in and out of your mouth like he was possessed, addicted to the feeling of you greedily sucking on him.

He was still sensitive from his first orgasm but his cock had yet to go down—twitching inside that sloppy mouth of yours, aching against your tongue, and dripping into the depths of your throat. Sukuna wasn’t much of a talker but he damn sure let out a plethora of grunts and groans.

They were so husk too, coming from deep within his chest, some getting caught in his throat when he felt your tongue flick against a specific vein on the underside of his cock. His fat tip knocked into the back of your throat with a single heavy thrust before his hands were latching onto the sides of your head.

Again, he’s not much of a talker but, something seems to come over him all at once because soon he’s got his gaze locked down on the messy sight of you and he’s huffing out words before he realizes. “Eyes up here, c’mon, hah… look at me,” Sukuna grunts.

Your eyes are completely glossed over as they flutter up to him. A moan vibrates against his skin as you make such intimate eye contact with the man, feeling his hips pick up.

Sukuna nods, “Good girl,” He praises in a low purr, and fuck does that do wonders for you because your legs are squeezing together more than they were before and you’re whining against him. “Fuck, y’like that?” He huffs, earning a sloppy lil’ nod from you.

He then feels you hum, “M-Mhm.” And he’s got chills slipping up his spine in pleasure.

Cracking a lazy, lopsided, and almost fucked-out little smirk, Sukuna scoffs, “Yeah? Fuck, behind all those g-glares ‘nd-, agh, scolding me… this is all you wanted, hm? A throat full of cock?”

His words had you whining again, fluttering your lashes at him as your fingertips dug into his thighs a little. Sukuna eases his hips back slowly, tipping his head to the side as he gently caresses the side of your face with his thumb.

“Messy girl,” He hums deeply, biting his lower lip at the way you’re just drooling for more and more as he pulls himself out of your mouth completely. “Jus’ look at this face,” Sukuna chuckles, “Y’look like a slut cryin’ like that—it’s cute.”

Blinking, you hadn’t even realized you had a tear or two sliding down your face. Your mouth remains open for a second before he moves to rub his tip against your plump lips, smearing your spit and his cum all over the damn place with a little grin on his face.

“‘Kuna…” You whisper, earning a quirk of his brow, “I can’t believe you’re a virg-“

“Don’t finish that sentence,” He grunts, moving a thumb to your chin to widen how open your mouth is for him, “Jus’… keep sittin’ there lookin’ pretty f’me,” Sukuna says.

You roll your eyes at him and all he can do is smile, pushing his hips forward again and easing his cock in between your lips. He slides in slowly until you can feel him pressing right against the back of your throat. To which he keeps himself there for a second, testing that gag reflex of yours and watching your eyes water.

Moving his hand back to the top of your head, he buries his fingers in your hair, “So fuckin’ sexy like this,” Sukuna compliments, feeling you moan in response, “M’gonna cum again, stay j-just like that,” He breathes out heavily, his eyes rolling to the back of his skull before he’s throwing his head back.

And as if to coax his orgasm out, you carefully move a hand to cup his balls, sucking on his cock as best as you can and earning an accidental sound from his throat. The second your palm is felt against him, the moment he feels your tongue slicking against him, Sukuna whines.

Then his thighs are tensing and he’s groaning loudly as if to cover up the sound that just left his lips, filling your throat with his seed and then tugging your mouth off of him with a quick pull of your head. You’re quick to swallow for yet a second time, letting out a needed cough after the fact while he stumbles back just a bit, his calves hitting the couch.

“Whore,” Sukuna growls.

You clear your throat and send a smile his way, “Not my fault you cum easy.”

Sukuna’s slow to sit back down on the couch to catch his breath, “Tell anyone about this and I’ll-“

“Oh,” You suddenly purr, cutting him off as you lift yourself up from the ground. He watches with slightly widened eyes as you move to straddle him, “Don’t tell me you thought we were done?”

He’s at a loss for words all over again, his confidence suddenly getting caught in his throat and flying out the window. Your hands slip to his broad shoulders and you lean forward a little.

Sukuna’s hands shakily find their way to your waist as he stares up at you, “You want more?”

You smirk, tilting your head at the dumbfounded male, “Don’t you?” You ask in a sultry little whisper, making his sensitive cock twitch once more. “At the very least…” Your lips slowly near his and he’s losing his breath, “Taste yourself, Sukuna.”

And then your lips are on his and he’s taking your tongue into his mouth. His grip on your waist tightens before he pulls you flush against him, feeling your crotch press right against his cock that’s steadily twitching back to life.

The two of you share a heated and messy kiss, your hips carefully swaying against him to encourage his returning arousal. You can’t really use curiosity as an excuse anymore, can you?

Well, you can. And you do with the way your hands slide down to his chest, your fingers slipping over his nipples to find exactly what you’d been curious about. You flick your fingers over his piercing there and Sukuna lets out a low hiss, prying his lips from yours and sending you a glare.

Not only did that little move of yours make his cock spring up completely but, you also notice the frown on his face.

Smiling at him, “Sukuna…”

“Don’t.” He huffs.

“You have nipple piercings?” You end up asking anyway in a happy little tone.

He grits his teeth slightly, “…Obviously.”

Chuckling, you press a soft peck against his lips and whisper, “Can I see them?”

“No.” He replies.

“No? Oh c’monnn, they’re just piercings!” You whine as your legs remain sprawled out over Sukuna’s muscular thighs.

Your panty-clad cunt was throbbing over his saliva-slicked semi-hard cock, and yet here Sukuna was still trying his very best to figure out a way out of this situation. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to go further with you—he was just nervous.

Not that he’d ever say that out loud though. Admit you’ve made him nervous? Oh please, in what universe?

Sure, you made him cum prematurely but that’s not his fault. No one told you to have such a slutty ass mouth.

Back to the present though, as you gaze down at him with those stupidly pretty eyes of yours, batting your lashes pleadingly whilst you await for the man to change his answer. It was simply unfair of him to have nipple piercings and not show you. It’s the least he could do after the head you just gave him, right?

“No, it’s not the ‘least I can do’,” Sukuna huffs. It’s then that you realize you’d spoken your thoughts aloud but—in a way—you’re actually glad you did so, “You’re not seeing shit, now get off of me.”

The pout that presents itself on your face is practically immediate, “C’mon ‘Kuna, I won’t touch them. I just wanna see,” You coo softly, tilting your head to the side as if to convince him, “Please?”

One simple word and his tip was wet with precum yet again. Sukuna swears he hates you. He hates the way you're looking at him right now, the way you're seated so perfectly on top of him, and the way he forgets how the hell he even got into this position with you in the first place.

Didn't he come over here to finish a project? Not have sex with you.

And yet, he can't find it in himself to say no to you again. That damn word you said, it did something to him. Sukuna's not sure what or why but his mouth is moving on its own, almost instinctively, "You wanna see them?" He sighs.

You're nodding, slipping your hands down to the hem of his shirt, "Yeah. Promise I won't touch."

"Tch. I..." Sukuna grits his teeth and you can see a pretty vein decorating his skin along his sharp jawline as he glances away for a moment, "I want you to beg me again."

Although you're a bit taken back by his request, you're quick to lean forward a bit and bite your lower lip, "Please?"

He ignores the word leaving you lips, his cock springing to life once more despite his attempt at leaving you unanswered. Given his body's reaction to you, all you can do is smirk before you're leaning down slightly and pressing your lips to his jaw.

"Pretty please, Sukuna?" You purr, warm breath hitting his now overly tense skin, "I promise I'll be good. Won't lay a finger on you unless you want me to."

His head slumps back against the couch and he inhales sharply at your soft touch sliding under his shirt, steadily working it up as the black fabric bundles up against your hands.

Then you're at his neck, sucking on his skin, rolling your tongue over him, shifting your hips forward against his cock and he simply groans. "F-Fucking, fine." Sukuna huffs, annoyed out of his ever-loving mind at whatever control it is you seem to have over him.

He hates you. He swears he hates you. Everything about the way your hands quickly tug his shirt up over his head, tossing the fabric elsewhere as you set your greedy eyes on his chest, the way your eyes widen at how flushed his skin is, and the sight of your tongue swiping over your lips as soon as you set your sight on his nipples.

Such pretty contrasting metal decorated his very pretty swollen nipples. So flushed with shades of pink and red, itching to be touched—just one flick and you knew he'd let out the most heavenly sound. The problem was convincing him to let you touch his nipples.

They were so damn tempting though, you swore you were drooling at the sight. God, you just wanted to reach out and-

"No," Sukuna rasps out. Your eyes snap up to his face and your pussy throbs at his expression.

He's beyond embarrassed. His eyes almost look glossed over with how desperate he was for you to stop looking at him. And yet he was so pouty and grumpy too, plump lips pulled into the cutest little frown at how hungry you were looking at him, his breathing unsteady all over again, and his cock felt twitching wildly beneath you.

You smirk, "'No'... what?"

"No, you cannot touch them," He's slow to clarify that, having seen right through those greedy eyes of yours, "You wanted to see and you've seen so-"

"I can make you feel good though," You purr, leaning in close to him all over again. "Jus' let me-"

"No," Sukuna mutters sternly. Then his hands are meeting your hips and his grip alone makes you flinch.

His touch is filled with intent as he slides his hands back to your ass and gives you a nice and firm squeeze, tugging you against him and making you gasp at the way his dick twitches right against your cunt. Your hands go to his shoulders to stop yourself from being pulled flush against him and he gazes dead up into your eyes.

How does one look so needy and yet commanding at the same time? It was like Sukuna told you thousands of words through his gaze alone. Maybe it was his very apparent physical need for you, or maybe it was just how attractive he is when aroused but fuck his look had your body hot all over.

Sukuna lets out a small breath of air before he drops his raspy tone even lower to a whisper, "Fuck me," He utters, feeling the reaction your cunt has to his words and cracking a cocky little smirk, "Fuck me, and you can touch me as much as you wish to."

You gulp thickly. Did you forget how to speak for a moment because all you do is open your mouth and it was like no words were even coming to your brain. His gaze was to intense and starved, large hands playing with the fat of your ass while he lifts his hips up slightly.

Then you gasp again, his thick tip was pressing right against your needy hole through the few layers of clothing that remained and you felt drunk off of your own arousal. Nodding and whispering in return, "O-Okay," Your hands slide around his neck and you lean in until your lips are meeting his again.

And if you were drunk off of your arousal then he was fucking high off of his own—feeling faded out of his mind with the way he leisurely moves to undress your lower half as he kisses you like he's done so a thousand times before, sliding his tongue into your mouth, swallowing up your moans, sucking on your lower lip, and undressing you all in one go.

Hell, for a second you forget the man is a damn virgin.

And as if to combat with that—you feel like a damn virgin once you start sinking your saccharine walls around Sukuna’s thickly curved cock. Gasping against his lips and feeling his fingertips curl into the skin of your waist, his jaw-dropping and lips quivering against yours as he lets out the most guttural groan he’s ever uttered, and both of your eyes fluttering at the connection of his body to yours.

Sukuna’s deeply shaded red eyes are hazy on yours as you sink down on him. His mind is turning to mush and he swears he’s about to pass the fuck out. It could’ve been the way your face looked as your cunt greedily sucked in his cock, or how tight your walls clamped down on him but, either way, Sukuna felt hot all over. Dizzy with lust and faded off of everything that’s you.

Every inch of you, the feel of your squeezing wet pussy enclosing around his aching cock, that breathy squeak of his name leaving your lips, and then your fingers grazing his chest-

Sukuna’s brows twist up and his entire body flinches instinctively. Hips bucking up slightly, large hands urging you further down, and shaky sound escaping his wet blushing lips—he’d officially lost it.

He looked so damn pretty doing so as well, not that you’d ever tell him that (you’ve embarrassed him enough for the time being). Those damn eyes of his were all glossed over, his bottom lip was shaking as a sexy-pitched gasp escaped his throat, and his hands held onto you for dear life whilst he bottomed out.

His fat cockhead kissing your cervix with little to no movement had you panting heavily while you kept your eyes low on his. “‘Kuna,” You feel his cock twitch desperately inside you and you toy with one of his sensitive nipples in between your index and thumb, “Y-You’re so-“

“Shut up,” He groans, and then he’s kissing you—desperately, hungrily-, starved. He knew another word from you would have your cunt stuffed full of his cum within seconds.

And as much as he wanted that, as much as he knew that’d be the end result of all this, he did not want to make yet another fool of himself. Though, the way your fingertips constantly flick over his pierced nipples makes him fucking whine into your mouth, a heavy grunt following after the sound as if to cover it up.

The hands your waist urge your body up, dragging your slicked walls up along his cock before allowing gravity to slam you back down. God the way you moan his name makes his knees feel weak. You were making him, as a whole, feel so utterly weak.

It wasn’t long before you were picking up a steady pace on top of him, your breaths shared with his and his eyes not once leaving yours. Sukuna was such a silent commander, that gaze of his told you everything, testing-, no, daring you to look away from him. He didn’t even know what it was about eye contact but he craved it so desperately.

Your gaze made his cock so stupidly hard, so much so that he just wanted to flip you over on this stupid couch of yours and-

And then he was. Sukuna doesn’t even register he’s repositioned with you until you let out the prettiest little whimper and your eyes roll back as he, almost experimentally, thrusts his heavy cock deep past your plush pussy lips.

What brings him back into the moment is that sound of you and the way you’re choking out his name, “S’kuna, f-fuck,” You almost hate that he’s taken control because you’ve lost your teasing of his chest, “Why’d you-, ngh-,” You’re cut off completely when he drags his hips back so torturously slow before rolling his hips down into you.

Shaking his head thoughtlessly, “Shut up,” Sukuna huffs again as he presses his bulky weight down against you, folding you into the meanest mating press and making you let out a filthy mewl at the sheer stretch of his girthy cock. “Please,” He sounds almost breathless, that plea of his hardly even audible, “Just be quiet f’me.”

Your jaw hangs open and you’re simply gaping up at the man with stupid, cockdrunk eyes. Something about feeling and watching him learn how to please you was probably more pleasurable than the sex itself. Which is saying an awfully lot because even though he didn't know what the hell he was doing, whatever he was doing, he was doing it right.

All you can do is wrap your arms around his neck and tug him closer, moaning his name softly every time his tip nudges into that mushy spot inside you. Sukuna lets out a low hum when he feels your nails claw at his back suddenly.

Then the cocky bastard has the nerve to fucking smile at you. Almost as if he enjoyed the pain of your nails scratching at his back hard enough to leave marks…

Because, of course, then he’s fucking you faster, harder, deeper. So determined to learn what you like, to learn your body inside and out (literally), and to have you mark up his back more than the dark ink that decorates his skin currently.

“Y’feel so fuckin’…” He can hardly even speak as he just grows addicted to pushing his cock in and out and in and out. That sloppy sound of your cunt squelching and wetting up his cock over and over again-, fuck he couldn’t get enough of it. “S-So fuckin’ good,” Sukuna’s voice almost softens as he shifts his lips to your ear, “Oh fuck, wanna…” His words trail off, a deep shade of blush coating his cheeks.

You can’t help but grow that never-ending urge to tease him, moving your lips to his ear, “Wanna what?” There was a slight shake in your voice but that didn’t save him from his cock throbbing at the sound of your voice alone.

“Hahh… wanna-, agh, wanna make you cum,” Sukuna admits begrudgingly. He sounded so ridiculously embarrassed saying that out loud but he was far too pussydrunk to care right now.

Thrusts growing heavier as if he were searching for a specific spot inside you, his eyes softening as he shifts to hover his face over yours once more, and his groans making your stomach churn with butterflies. Hell, you almost do exactly that of what he’s requested based on the sound of desperation in his tone alone.

Sukuna’s usually such a big, mean, sometimes stoic man, and yet here he was, silently requesting your assistance.

He is only a virgin after all.

“Not anymore,” He gruffs, catching you by surprise as you render the fact that those words left your lips. “C’mon, tell me what to do.”

Again, Sukuna swears on his life he hates you. He hates the way you’ve made him so weak, the way your cunt is so deliciously warm inside, the way you moan his name-

Fuck, he hates you.

“‘Kuna,” You whisper as you slide one of your hands from around his neck to slip to his hand and guide him, “My clit. You gotta-“

Your breath is caught in your throat all over again. You were trying to guide him just like he wanted you to but Sukuna was far too quick of a learner, swatting his thick thumb around in search before his ears twitch at the way your voice gets stuck in your throat.

“Here?” He has the nerve to whisper gently, “Rub here, right? Y’like that?” Sukuna asks as he matches his thrusts with the flick of his thumb, drinking in the way your back arches up off of the couch and your eyes roll back.

You’re nodding, “Yes yes-, r-right there ‘Kuna, fuck…”

His eyes rake over your face all over again and then he’s doing that thing where he speaks without thinking, “So fuckin’ pretty like this.”

Of course, those softly uttered words pull you out of your cockdrunken stupor for only a moment, “H-Huh?” You breathe out as your eyes meet his.

“I hate you,” Sukuna lies straight through his teeth, “Hate how pretty you look beneath me,” He’s babbling at this point, picking up his pace and trying to angle his cock into somewhere specific, “How fuckin’—god you’re squeezin’ me s’tight, hahh—h-how you sound moaning my name, taking my cock.” With that last sentence comes a particularly harsh thrust.

Your nails scrape at his back again and he moans in pleasure. Gloss covers your eyes as he finally finds that spot that has you seeing stars, “Sukuna,” You moan sweetly, feeling him hit that very spot over and over and over again.

“Again,” He huffs, leaning down even closer and pressing more of his weight onto you, “Moan my name again, brat.”

“Sukuna,” You’re moaning without the need for his instruction. To hell if the man is a virgin, he knows how to use his cock.

What he doesn’t realize is how big he is in comparison to anyone else you’ve been with. Stretching you open with every thrust, fucking you ridiculously full of all his thick inches, knocking his dripping tip right against your sweet spot, making your legs tingle in numbness, and rolling skillful circles around your clit as if he’d practiced doing so before.

“Fuckin’ perfect,” Sukuna rasps out, his eyes locked dead onto yours as usual.

He was so focused on you, so eager to make you cum. Obviously, he’d never felt anything like this before so he never wants it to end. And perhaps that’s the only reason why he hasn’t emptied himself into you yet.

Every time you’re felt leaving another bright red mark on his back, he lets out a low hiss before flashing a smirk down at you, thrusts growing harder. Then there’s the way you just gape up at him, jaw dangling as you’re so clearly lost in pleasure, and pussy swallowing him in whole each time he fucks himself back into you.

And your little gasps of, “Feels s-so good Kuna, don’t stop.” Have him reeling back on purpose, pretending to mistakenly slip his cock out of you for a moment only to slap his fat cockhead against your needy hole and then push all of himself right back in.

With a smug expression on his face, “Don’t tell me what t’do,” He responds.

“I jus’ did,” You argue back all in one breath.

God, he- , “I hate you,” The words are leaving his lips yet again but he can’t stop driving his dick inside you. You’re so fucking warm, so welcoming for him, so honeyed and sweet inside. Hell, for a second he wonders what you’d taste like on his tongue—despite never even going down on someone before.

“Yeah,” You flash a fucked-out little smile up at him and your walls grip onto him tighter, making his brows twist up, “But you love fuckin’ me.” Your little whisper makes him shudder.

He nearly cums at that, releasing a strangled groan before he just nods almost obediently, “Uhuh.” Sukuna mumbles, his hate for you growing with every passing second.

There you are under him, still teasing him despite the expression of pleasure plastered across your face, “Yeah?”

“M-Mhm,” He grumbles in response.

He can’t help but just agree with you. Of course he adores fucking you. If anything, he doesn’t think he’d prefer it be anyone else. After watching your cute ass all composed every week in class, listening to the way you lecture him for not paying attention as if you actually care about him, watching you grow surprised today at the way he can get things done when he puts in an effort-

Shit, of course he wanted to see you like this—splayed out like a pretty little slut for him, gasping his name, looking him in the eye, and allowing him to fuck you. God, his mind is spinning. He can’t think at all.

So lost in his head, you’re left spasming below him because he’s still thumbing at your clit and his cock is as unforgiving as ever, “Sukuna,” His name rolls off of your tongue beautifully and he’s left in awe above you.

Tilting his head, “What?” Sukuna breathes as he’s pulled from his daze and back to the present.

“Make me cum,” You order so suddenly.

As that third word leaves those lips of yours, Sukuna smirks knowingly and he leans up a little just to angle himself better inside you. He glances down at your cunt, biting his lip at the sight of his cock bulging inside you, watching himself push in and out for a second before his smirk turns into a lazy little smile.

“Already did’,” He scoffs, flicking his eyes back up to you.

Your brows twist up, “Wha-“

“Are you that dumb when cock is inside ya’?” He utters meanly and earns an immediate squeeze of your gummy walls around his veiny shaft, “You came a few minutes ago, brat.”

“I…” Your expression becomes dumbfounded and in an instant, you’re the one left embarrassed.

Which he finds all too cute, “Felt good though.” He comments smugly, looking back down to where you’re connected and tilting his head at the sight.

Fuck, he was so sexy above you. Even on his chest, bright red scratches decorated his skin. When did you do that? His nipples were still as flushed as his face and you wanted so badly to reach out and flick your fingers against them again.

Pouting, “Sukuna-“

“Do it again f’me,” The man cuts off.

You can’t even get a response out before he’s leaning down again, “I-“

This time you’re cut off by him pressing your legs together and against your chest, loving the pretty sight of you folded and bent to his will like this. All he can do is stare down and watch himself fuck you, seeing your swollen lips take in his fat length so fucking beautifully. It’s like you were made for him or something.

Your cunt only molds around his cock, sucking him in whenever he pulls out like you never wanted him to leave you. He could feel every throb of your pussy when he spoke to you, every squeeze of your warmth when he reached deeper than before, and fuck was he enamored by every second of it.

“Please,” He says breathlessly all of a sudden, itching to watch you cum on his cock this time around.

His begging is followed by him moving his hand back down to your pussy, his thumb sliding back in search of your clit. Rubbing those maddening little circles once he finds it, Sukuna focuses most of his attention on your body. Every little jump you make when he swats his thumb to the left, every pitch in your moan when he thrusts inside you at a certain pace—Sukuna soon smiles once he’s got you all figured out.

“Oh fuck,” You whimper, tossing your head back against the couch as your eyes loll to the back of your hand.

With that knowing smile on his face, the couch creaks with his rough thrusts inside you, “Stop makin’ me beg you for shit,” Sukuna grunts before gifting your throbbing pussy with a little smack, “Jus’ give it t’me.”

“Sukuna-, ah,” You’re choking at the sensation and your cunt narrows even more around him.

His toned pelvis smacks against you over and over, heavy balls hitting your ass with each shove of his fat cock inside your warmth, “Fuck,” The man heaves as he feels himself steadily growing addicted.

Why the hell didn’t he have sex with someone sooner?

“M’gonna cum,” You soon whine out to the man.

To which he clashes into you faster, feining for it, “Please, fuckin’ need it,” Sukuna groans before pressing down against you again.

His thrusts grow uneven and jagged, eyes rolling back when he feels you finally cumming around his cock for a second time. You were squeezing him so tight. All he could do was moan at how perfect you were.

“Shiit,” He huffs, his cock twitching wildly inside you before his mind goes completely blank, “I love you-“

Your brows immediately twist up, “Wha-“

And then he’s painting your walls white. Grunting, groaning, moaning-, hell, you name it and the sound was leaving his lips as he fucks his orgasm into you.

Then he’s babbling mindless little praises of, “Love this fuckin’ pussy,” Lost in filling you with his cum and listening to you whimper from overstimulation.

Gifting you with praise after praise about how beautiful you are under him like this, how much he adores his name rolling off your tongue. He can’t even fathom how much cum is spilling into you, velvety thick ropes painting your walls a creamy white to the point where it spills out of you and coats his hefty base with a filthy ring of white.

All while he continued to praise you, going as far as thank you in quiet little whispers. God, he was out of his mind. He wasn’t thinking in the slightest, his mouth was just saying shit.

So much so that he’s barely lucid as his high comes down, doesn’t process a thing he said to you moments ago, and just lays there for a while with his cock resting inside you. All he can do is pant heavily as he rests his body on top of you, not yet pulling out and leaving his softened cock inside you.

You’re completely still beneath him for a while, trying to catch your breath as your legs feel temporarily numb. You couldn’t get those three words he spoke to you out of your head.

His tone was so damn soft and vulnerable, just replaying it in your head made you smile. Before he notices your expression though, you wipe the smirk off of your face and coo his name softly, “Sukuna…?”

“Don’t.” Is all he has to say to you. He was well aware of what he’d said to you.

He didn’t mean it, of course. He was simply… lost in the moment.

“Aww,” You purr, an obvious breathlessness to your tone, “You said you loved me cause I took your virginit-“

Sukuna lets out a mean groan before moving your legs apart so he can meet your eyes again, “I’m gonna fucking kill you.”

You flash a pout to mock him, “Why? ‘Cause I didn’t say it back?”

His face is all different shades of blush but he still looks as mean and grumpy as ever, “No…”

“You sure?” You tease further.

All he can do is roll his eyes at you, “Fuck you.”

And, naturally, you only continue, “I think you did that already…”

Sukuna sighs, “Just.. Don’t tell anyone about this.”

“As long as you promise we’ll do this more often.”

“I-, hah,” He smirks, “What are you, some kinda cockhungry slut?”

“No…” Your eyes drag themselves elsewhere for a moment, “But for you, maybe.”

“Mh.” Sukuna hums deeply, an unavoidable smile spreading across his face, “I think I like that.”

“I think you love it-“

“M’gonna ‘love’ fucking the snarky responses outta’ your mouth in a second if you keep it up,” He says flawlessly.

All you can do is swallow down whatever it is you were going to respond to that with.

To which he smiles, “Uhuh, that’s what I thought.”

perm sukuna tags (1/2):

@crude-saint @cupidstrace @iiakithegoat @hellodeeyanna @navyllll @grignardsreagent @kingofpiratesiguess @aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa444 @etsuniiru @starsryi

@not-a-glad-gladiator @audiblez @2kool4skoolll @o4tmilf @elliescumtubeslut @daxphoriax @gorouenjoyer @oookore @whore4hobie @blubearxy

@wonderfullymickey @iaintblockinnobody @anothergojostan @kitassecretgf @iam-souless @nanamitiddiechomper @ohreallyfriend @kunababy @withersworld @lilacsforveins

@suguphile @megottheswaskikacooooke @kvsqkiii @yourlocalcatscammer @lucy-lulu @sukubusss @sweetieelilii @lisabelhyhn @bellesiy @serenadesvt

Surely you could finish the shadowing program without having Park see you in another hospital bed. The first time was a workplace incident and you knew he was at work so that really couldn't be helped. This?

Oh, no. The universe was seriously trying to push some sort of something. You don't know what though.

Hell you weren't even supposed to be in the hospital today its your day off! You're supposed to be having fun. Not thinking about the scrubs and the charting and the operating rooms and all that.

Having fun costs.

You were out with your friends just about an hour ago. Brunching it up with your favorite people. Laughing because you were on someone else's tab and even if the mimosas weren't bottomless, they sure felt like it.

You hadn't even begun working on your third when it happened.

Like clockwork your day turned into something sour. You can't quite remember because it all went so fast. First you were walking your friend the the bathroom. Then you where on the floor. Someone walking past had clipped your friend, she twisted and now here you are.

Your wrist looks fucking purple. You know its not that bad. You know you'll have function of it after this. But you don't know how long its going to take to heal.

In order to get your friends off your back about going to an urgent care, you said you'd just swing by the hospital and have them look at it. Urgent care to you was the first aid kit that sits in your apartment. You were never planning to not see someone you trusted.

Lupe saw you check in and bumped you up. Which you told her not to do because there were other people who could've been seen before you. Like the guy with the serious cough. Or the little boy with the beads stuck up his nose.

Still you were given the fast track. It of course had to be Dana who saw you first once you were in. She basically called the whole ED into your room. Whitaker came and checked out your wrist and told you everything you already know. Possible sprain or highly doubtful but a hairline fracture could've happened.

Page Ortho someone says in the room. Abbot. You recognize his voice.

Mohan pages whoever is on call. You have half a mind to think its going to be Park. Until Mohan tells you on the way out that she didn't ask for him specifically, but someone should be coming down for the consult soon.

Abbot, who was supposed to be on his way you but somehow magically stuck around to get a good look at you, makes a face. A face you know is saying 'I know more than the rest of them'. You silently wave him off with your good hand.

Dr. Meyer comes in. She recognizes you instantly. And dives head first. Does an ultra sound to make sure there's enough blood flow to your hand to get you in for a scan.

What you don't expect, fifteen minutes later Park comes walking though the door of your room. You had thought since Meyer was on it that he was busy. In a surgery or something.

"Why didn't you tell me my resident was the consult?" he asks.

Dr. Meyer says something to the affect of 'you were busy' as she turns your wrist over slowly. You grimace when she pulls it the wrong way. Even though you know she's only trying to get a better read on the injury.

Park though, he gets to your side faster than you can even fucking blink. He's on the side with your good hand. And he looks at your wrist from there.

"Any meds for the pain?" he asks.

"Can't, blood alcohol level is a bit high for it." Meyers answers.

Brendon turns to you with a look. You feel like he's scolding you a bit. Your day off and you're day drinking. It probably didn't look good but what you did outside of this hospital and off the clock was no one's business.

"My friends were treating me to brunch, I couldn't say no." you answer his unasked question with a pout.

He scoffs playfully, "What happened?"

"I got my hand twisted, was holding onto my friend who got body checked on our way to the bathroom."

He looks ticked off. To say the least. You're not sure why that bothers you so much. No, that's not completely honest. You know why it bothers you. You don't want to be a nuisance to the man that you like.

Fuck. What a great time to realize that.

"I'm thinking its a simple pop and pinch." Meyers says casually.

Your eyes widen, "Wait! I don't wanna to do that!"

Automatically your body shoots away from her. In order to do that you move closer to Park. So close that your back in resting against his front. You feel his hands rest your hips in an instant. Probably to get you to steady so you won't fall off the bed.

"I think we should wait for scans. Don't wanna play fast and loose with one of the best new hands in the OD." Park says.

You crane you head up to look at him. He doesn't look down. He starts straight ahead at his colleague. A woman that is maybe a few years older than him. He's going against her...for you.

Because you've seen him do a pop and pinch before. You remember the first time you saw it happen you went and threw up a few minutes later in the bathroom. You hate seeing it happen to patients.

You've gotten better and don't have to heave when you see it happen. It takes a little bit out of you every time but you have gotten better and watching it happen. There was no way you were getting that move pulled on you though.

So you look back at Meyer.

"I can't stand it anyway. Would probably pass out." you comment.

Meyers looks at Park, "Wait, how have you stayed on to shadow the man who basically perfected it?"

"Oh, Dr. Park doesn't do those as much."

You watch Meyer raise her eyebrow in disbelief. Something in you tells you you've may have said a bit too much. You're just not too sure what. Then you watch as she gets up and snaps her gloves off.

Park removes his hands from your hips. You move away from Park and sit up against the bed again. You notice how cold the bed is compared to him fairly quickly. You shouldn't notice that.

"When the scans come back, we'll take next steps." she says as she walks out the room.

The door closes and leaves you and Park alone. You watch with careful eyes as he brings over a rolling chair and plants himself by your side. He looks worried. He never looks worried.

"I'm not gonna lose my hand, Park. It's probably just a sprain." you try to soothe over his fears.

He shakes his head, "I won't have you get anything but the best care. Your hands are important."

You lift up your bad hand and wiggle your fingers in front of him. The faint sense of pain still there but not so much from moving your fingers.

Then you lift your good hand up and compare them. One wrist more swollen than the other. A purple color lining it like a bracelet that goes all the way around.

"Because I chart the way you like." you joke.

"Because you're going to be a brilliant doctor one day." he counters.

At that you put both of your hands down slowly. Trying not to aggravate your bad one. Once rested, you turn to face him. The man never has a problem saying how he truly feels. Even when it knocks the wind right out of you.

You clear your throat. Your fears getting the better of you now. After looking at his face for a few moments the worrying starts to settle in. Maybe this could be a hairline fracture. Or a muscle tear. How much PT would it take to get back to normal?

Would you even get back to normal?

"If its something bad, I'd like you to be the one to fix me." you say.

He nods once. Like you had barked an order at him or something. You had thought he would say something. Like thank you because you basically just called him a great doctor. Or that you were in good hands because he knows he's a great doctor.

"You don't need fixing, Pinkie, but I've got you."

And at that very moment you think that that universe is conspiring to put butterflies in your stomach. Because Brendon Park has never looked more human than when he says that he's got you. And you don't know what it feels like to have him 'get' you, but you wanna find out now.

Surely you could finish the shadowing program without having Park see you in another hospital bed. The first time was a workplace incident and you knew he was at work so that really couldn't be helped. This?

Oh, no. The universe was seriously trying to push some sort of something. You don't know what though.

Hell you weren't even supposed to be in the hospital today its your day off! You're supposed to be having fun. Not thinking about the scrubs and the charting and the operating rooms and all that.

Having fun costs.

You were out with your friends just about an hour ago. Brunching it up with your favorite people. Laughing because you were on someone else's tab and even if the mimosas weren't bottomless, they sure felt like it.

You hadn't even begun working on your third when it happened.

Like clockwork your day turned into something sour. You can't quite remember because it all went so fast. First you were walking your friend the the bathroom. Then you where on the floor. Someone walking past had clipped your friend, she twisted and now here you are.

Your wrist looks fucking purple. You know its not that bad. You know you'll have function of it after this. But you don't know how long its going to take to heal.

In order to get your friends off your back about going to an urgent care, you said you'd just swing by the hospital and have them look at it. Urgent care to you was the first aid kit that sits in your apartment. You were never planning to not see someone you trusted.

Lupe saw you check in and bumped you up. Which you told her not to do because there were other people who could've been seen before you. Like the guy with the serious cough. Or the little boy with the beads stuck up his nose.

Still you were given the fast track. It of course had to be Dana who saw you first once you were in. She basically called the whole ED into your room. Whitaker came and checked out your wrist and told you everything you already know. Possible sprain or highly doubtful but a hairline fracture could've happened.

Page Ortho someone says in the room. Abbot. You recognize his voice.

Mohan pages whoever is on call. You have half a mind to think its going to be Park. Until Mohan tells you on the way out that she didn't ask for him specifically, but someone should be coming down for the consult soon.

Abbot, who was supposed to be on his way you but somehow magically stuck around to get a good look at you, makes a face. A face you know is saying 'I know more than the rest of them'. You silently wave him off with your good hand.

Dr. Meyer comes in. She recognizes you instantly. And dives head first. Does an ultra sound to make sure there's enough blood flow to your hand to get you in for a scan.

What you don't expect, fifteen minutes later Park comes walking though the door of your room. You had thought since Meyer was on it that he was busy. In a surgery or something.

"Why didn't you tell me my resident was the consult?" he asks.

Dr. Meyer says something to the affect of 'you were busy' as she turns your wrist over slowly. You grimace when she pulls it the wrong way. Even though you know she's only trying to get a better read on the injury.

Park though, he gets to your side faster than you can even fucking blink. He's on the side with your good hand. And he looks at your wrist from there.

"Any meds for the pain?" he asks.

"Can't, blood alcohol level is a bit high for it." Meyers answers.

Brendon turns to you with a look. You feel like he's scolding you a bit. Your day off and you're day drinking. It probably didn't look good but what you did outside of this hospital and off the clock was no one's business.

"My friends were treating me to brunch, I couldn't say no." you answer his unasked question with a pout.

He scoffs playfully, "What happened?"

"I got my hand twisted, was holding onto my friend who got body checked on our way to the bathroom."

He looks ticked off. To say the least. You're not sure why that bothers you so much. No, that's not completely honest. You know why it bothers you. You don't want to be a nuisance to the man that you like.

Fuck. What a great time to realize that.

"I'm thinking its a simple pop and pinch." Meyers says casually.

Your eyes widen, "Wait! I don't wanna to do that!"

Automatically your body shoots away from her. In order to do that you move closer to Park. So close that your back in resting against his front. You feel his hands rest your hips in an instant. Probably to get you to steady so you won't fall off the bed.

"I think we should wait for scans. Don't wanna play fast and loose with one of the best new hands in the OD." Park says.

You crane you head up to look at him. He doesn't look down. He starts straight ahead at his colleague. A woman that is maybe a few years older than him. He's going against her...for you.

Because you've seen him do a pop and pinch before. You remember the first time you saw it happen you went and threw up a few minutes later in the bathroom. You hate seeing it happen to patients.

You've gotten better and don't have to heave when you see it happen. It takes a little bit out of you every time but you have gotten better and watching it happen. There was no way you were getting that move pulled on you though.

So you look back at Meyer.

"I can't stand it anyway. Would probably pass out." you comment.

Meyers looks at Park, "Wait, how have you stayed on to shadow the man who basically perfected it?"

"Oh, Dr. Park doesn't do those as much."

You watch Meyer raise her eyebrow in disbelief. Something in you tells you you've may have said a bit too much. You're just not too sure what. Then you watch as she gets up and snaps her gloves off.

Park removes his hands from your hips. You move away from Park and sit up against the bed again. You notice how cold the bed is compared to him fairly quickly. You shouldn't notice that.

"When the scans come back, we'll take next steps." she says as she walks out the room.

The door closes and leaves you and Park alone. You watch with careful eyes as he brings over a rolling chair and plants himself by your side. He looks worried. He never looks worried.

"I'm not gonna lose my hand, Park. It's probably just a sprain." you try to soothe over his fears.

He shakes his head, "I won't have you get anything but the best care. Your hands are important."

You lift up your bad hand and wiggle your fingers in front of him. The faint sense of pain still there but not so much from moving your fingers.

Then you lift your good hand up and compare them. One wrist more swollen than the other. A purple color lining it like a bracelet that goes all the way around.

"Because I chart the way you like." you joke.

"Because you're going to be a brilliant doctor one day." he counters.

At that you put both of your hands down slowly. Trying not to aggravate your bad one. Once rested, you turn to face him. The man never has a problem saying how he truly feels. Even when it knocks the wind right out of you.

You clear your throat. Your fears getting the better of you now. After looking at his face for a few moments the worrying starts to settle in. Maybe this could be a hairline fracture. Or a muscle tear. How much PT would it take to get back to normal?

Would you even get back to normal?

"If its something bad, I'd like you to be the one to fix me." you say.

He nods once. Like you had barked an order at him or something. You had thought he would say something. Like thank you because you basically just called him a great doctor. Or that you were in good hands because he knows he's a great doctor.

"You don't need fixing, Pinkie, but I've got you."

And at that very moment you think that that universe is conspiring to put butterflies in your stomach. Because Brendon Park has never looked more human than when he says that he's got you. And you don't know what it feels like to have him 'get' you, but you wanna find out now.