serendipity

“Wha– What are you doing?” He has you fumbling and it only embarrasses you further. “Get off me.”

“Tell me why you’ve been avoiding me or I’ll literally never get off you, in fact… I will only get closer,” one of his hands moves to grab at your waist but you slap him away.

His head weighted on your thighs has you remembering your explicit dream of him and you can’t help but grow a few degrees warmer in temperature. “I can’t tell you.”

Gojo frowns at that and you hate how you’re noticing just how attractive he is even though he’s growing annoyed, “It involves me directly, but you can’t tell me?”

“That’s right,” you cement, like it shouldn’t even be an issue.

He sits up again and stares at you dead on, “Tell me or I’ll tell all our friends about… the incident.”

A small breath of disbelief leaving you, “You wouldn’t dare.”

“Try me,” his eyes stern, he’s completely serious.

You try bargaining, “It’s not that deep, Satoru… give me another week or two and I’ll be completely over it.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“So, you’re blackmailing me?!”

“I wouldn’t call it that, that’s such an ugly word,” he shakes his head.

Your brow raises at him, “What would you call it then?”

“I don’t know but not that,” he shrugs easily.

“You’re so annoying, I can’t believe I even—” you cut yourself off, realising you were about to freely give away that you couldn’t believe you had a sex dream about him. It’s frustrating that it was such a good dream too because he’s so annoying in real life.

Despite you stopping yourself, he clings to your words, “‘You can’t believe you even’ what?”

Playing dumb is your only defence but to be fair, you aren’t entirely convinced you’re playing anymore, “I don’t know.”

He stares at you for a moment before speaking again, “Okay, well, I’m calling it blackmail now, I’m officially blackmailing you.”

“Evil, evil man,” you accuse.

He motions at himself with his hands, dismissing your words, “Mhm, now tell ‘Toru all your problems.”

“Ew,” you grimace at him, “that was almost as bad as when you referred to yourself as ‘daddy’.”

Smirk on his face at your response, “Would you prefer that? I didn’t know you were into—”

“—I said almost as bad!”

“Sure, whatever,” he rolls his eyes, “now tell me what’s going on, I won’t let you wiggle your way out of the main issue at hand.”

“Fine,” you groan, giving in, “but you have to promise to not be weird or make it a big deal.”

His head tilts at you, “What? Like you mean how you’ve been doing?”

“Just promise, stupid,” you grumble at him.

“I promise,” he pauses, “sort of.”

“Seriously?”

“I said I promise, now come on,” he leans in, ready to listen, “lay it on me.”

Ignoring his giddy attitude, you take in a deep breath before carefully letting it out, “Well… the other night, I was sleeping—”

“—Truly groundbreaking stuff.”

“Don’t interrupt me or I will never tell you,” you glare at him.

“My bad,” he raises his hands in surrender.

“Anyways,” your heart is hammering in your chest because it’s so embarrassing to be looking at him as you try to confess. It feels like you’re being crushed under his intense gaze, it’s making you even more nervous.

He must be able to tell you’re working yourself up, “Geez, calm down, sweetheart, whatever it is it’s not that big of a deal.” He moves to pat your head as a means to comfort you, but you flinch away.

And before you can control it, you’re suddenly blurting out, “I had a sex dream about you the other night and now I feel really funny around you.”

The reaction from him isn’t immediate, only blinking back at you for a moment before suddenly turning his head to the side as he tries to hide his laugh but the snort he lets out gives it away. Your lips are downturned as you suffer through the agonising moments of mostly silence, the embarrassment you’d already been feeling growing tenfold at his reaction.

Wordlessly, you rise from the couch and go to walk away, to go away to anywhere but here in this moment. Gojo stops you though, his hand on your wrist pulling you back to the sofa. Now closer to him than you had been before, something you’re overly conscious over. Keeping your head turned from him, annoyed at his reaction and also your lack of tact.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he apologises, “I’m not laughing at you, I swear.”

“You need to get out of my apartment.”

“Don’t be so harsh,” he whines, “I have follow up questions.”

You pull your wrist from his grasp, still refusing to look at him, “I don’t wanna answer them, you only want to torture me.”

“Not true!”

He tries to get back in your line of sight, but you keep turning your head away. Your arms cross over your chest, almost like you’re trying to shrink in on yourself.

“I’m curious about a few things now though,” he hums at you, “since your reaction to having sex with me has been so cute.”

His phrasing is so poor that it has your head whipping to look at him and his overly pleased expression, “I did not have sex with you.”

“Right, right,” he waves off, “you dreamt about having sex with me.”

“I dislike you so deeply right now.”

“If you agree to answer my questions, I will literally never bring up the fact that you had a wet dream about me ever again.”

You point at him angrily, “It was not a wet dream! What the hell is wrong with your phrasing of things?!”

He smiles sweetly as he grabs your finger, using the hold he has on you to unfurl your hand and loop your fingers together to hold hands, “Are you gonna answer my questions or not?”

“If I do… you’ll never speak about this again, right?” You try pulling your hand from his but his hold on you is firm.

“Sure,” he agrees all too easily.

You glance down and away from him, “Fine.”

“Perfect!”

And at his incredibly joyful tone, you can’t help but feel like you’ve made a misstep somewhere along the way. Maybe you shouldn’t have told him… or maybe you should’ve concealed your reactions more effectively… or better yet, your stupid brain shouldn’t have conjured the image of you and him having sex to begin with.

Glancing at your interlocked fingers, you ask, “Can you let go of my hand now?”

“Why? Is it making you uncomfortable?” His tone isn’t upset or accusatory, only curious.

Sighing at him in response, “I’m embarrassed to even look at you right now, of course it’s making me uncomfortable.”

He, thankfully, releases his grip on you. Choosing not to taunt you any further but you have a feeling it’s only a small reprieve. Just as your heartrate is finally calming, he asks, “Was I good?”

You’re completely taken aback, knowing what he’s asking but still confused by his bluntness, “What?”

“Was I good?” He repeats shamelessly. “I’d be a little offended if I weren’t.”

If you have to answer his ridiculous questions then you’re going to be purposefully vague, “You were… fine.”

He hums thoughtfully, “You won’t even look me in my eyes, and you said you’re feeling funny around me so I was either horrendously bad or really great, which is it?”

“I don’t like your questions,” you grumble at him.

“I wanna know though,” he whines, “It’s your fault for being so weird about it.”

Your body droops into the couch, head resting against the back of it, “A normal person and good friend would take this information at face value and let me live quietly with my shame.”

“I disagree,” you can feel his eyes on you, but you still won’t look at him, your own eyes closed. He continues on, “I’ll let you live quietly after you tell me everything I want to know… probably.”

You squint your eyes open at him, “There is literally nothing in this for me, you’re blackmailing this information out of me.”

He grins at you, “Are you saying you’d respond better to positive reinforcement?”

“I’m saying I’m still reluctant to answer your embarrassing questions and it’s starting to feel like if I do, I’m only giving you future blackmail material.”

“This is untrue, I’m blackmailing you, yes but I also agreed to never bring it up again if you answer my questions.”

“Oh my god!” this is getting annoying, steeling your nerves, you decide you’re just going to answer everything so you can end this quickly, “You were good, it was a good dream.”

A stupid and happy smile takes over his face, you don’t bother reading too far into it. “You said you were feeling ‘funny’, what do you mean by that?”

“Huh?”

“Funny could mean any number of things, I’m asking for specifics here,” he’s still too happy and it’s annoying you because you don’t really understand why.

“Hmm, like…” you look at him intently to better think about how you feel, your heart fluttering as you do, causing you to close your eyes as if you’re in thought, “…I feel embarrassed to have had a dream like that about you.”

He pushes back on your answer, “That’s all?”

Cracking an eye open at him as you chirp, “Yep.”

His gaze is already trained on you, apparently never having stopped looking at you, “You’re such a bad liar.”

You deflate at your failed deception, “I think we’ve just known each other too long…”

“You’ve always been a bad liar though?” He claps his hands together suddenly and it makes your heart skip a beat, “Now, out with it.”

Quiet as you start your explanation, “Every time I look at you…” he nods his head as if to encourage you, “…I think about the dream and it makes me feel funny, that’s all, can you leave me alone now?”

His lips purse as he mulls over what you’ve just said, “You sure you’re not just horny?”

“Satoru!” you chastise him, shocked and also frustrated that he’s pretty much hit the nail on the head. Ever since your dream you can’t help but look at him differently. Mind feeding you images of what having sex with him might be like—what having sex with him was like.

“I’m being genuine.”

“That makes it worse,” kicking your legs a little about it all.

He starts giggling, “You had a dream about getting fucked by me so good that just being around me turns you on.”

“Stop!” you move to sit in front of him properly, face clearly unhappy, “I did not say that.”

“You basically did,” he dismisses, “So… what did I do to you?”

It’s a bit ridiculous that he’s going in this direction, but you should’ve known he was going to do this. You need to shut him down because just his words alone are affecting you more than you care to admit, “I’m done answering your questions.”

It’s his turn to groan and grumble, “Aww, but it was just getting good.”

Rolling your eyes at him, you say with the intention of ending this interaction, “Satoru… It doesn’t matter what you did in my dream because there’s no way you’d be that good in real life.”

The smile on his face drops, “I can’t help but take that personally.”

“Take it how you will,” you shrug, “there’s no way you could live up to the dream version of you, it’s not logical.”

“Wanna find out?”

“Don’t be childish,” you brush him off, overlooking the way those words send a shock through you.

He pushes, “Treat it like an experiment, I wanna know what’s better.”

Blinking back at him, “You’re so weird.”

Quickly pointing out, “Maybe, but you’re the one who dreamt about fucking this weirdo.”

“Yeah, dreamt, it was a dream.” You shake your head in disbelief at him, “Why are you acting like you’re jealous of dream you?”

“Maybe I am jealous of dream me.”

“That’d be stupid.”

“You’re always telling me I’m stupid.”

Gojo’s eyes keep flitting to your lips every time you speak, the look in them suddenly much darker than the glee that was held in them when he was teasing you earlier. Trying to be stern but not entirely convincing when you state, “I’m not going to have sex with you for a reason as stupid as that, grow up.”

“But you’ll have sex with me for a good reason?”

“Stop putting words in my mouth,” you tilt your head at him in exasperation, “why are you even acting like this?”

Ignoring your question and instead posing his own, “You sure you’re not curious, not even a little bit?” His hand cups the side of your face, his thumb pulling down on your lower lip, “I know I am.”

That simple touch has your heart leaping bounds, suddenly so hyper aware of how deep the effect he has on you is. It scares you, how much you want him, how much you want to say yes. You shouldn’t get carried away, he’s being ridiculous, this is all so ridiculous. Your years long and best friendship could be ruined because of this moment.

All things you’re worried about, all valid concerns, all thoughts that slip from you so quickly when he leans in and licks teasingly at your lower lip. The gasp you let out is his entrance into your mouth, his lips plush and demanding against yours. Eyes falling shut as you let yourself get lost in his kiss, full and delightful and something you’ve never felt before.  

It’s messy and uncoordinated, like he’s not really focusing on how to kiss you and more on the fact that he gets to kiss you. You’re getting dizzy, body buzzing pleasantly at how he sucks on your tongue. String of saliva keeping your lips connected when he pulls back, snapping as he wipes his lower lip with his thumb, only to then push it into your mouth. Your immediate response to suck, feeling depraved but enjoying the look on his face you get when you do.

He speaks under his breath, eyes a little dazed, “Fuck.”

As soon as your tongue licks against the tip of his thumb, he’s pulling it from your mouth and hurriedly slotting his mouth over yours again. Barely giving you a moment to think before he’s kissing you so completely, consumed by his need and the delicious way he partakes in your lips.

It’s so overwhelming, to be desired like this is foreign and has your thighs clenching together. Gaining confidence when you finally wrap your arms around his neck, a move he appreciates if his groan and grabby hands are anything to go off of.

The way he parts from you is full of huffed and short breaths that only ends in him kissing you again, like he’s fighting with himself to say something, to do something more but ending up not strong enough to move on from your lips.

A pathetic moan that you don’t even recognise as your own leaving you, the sound only spurring Gojo on. Using his body to push against yours until your back is on the couch, not bothering to explain what he’s doing, far too busy and far too fixated on how you taste.

Filled to the brim with thoughts about how good his kiss is, how kissing can’t possibly be this good, how you’d let him do more. Fingers threading through his hair, nails scratching against his scalp in a way that pulls a shudder from him.

What feels like far too soon he’s properly pulling back, quickly putting distance between you both so he’s not immediately gravitating back. Arms holding himself up, hovering over you, taking his sweet time to appreciate the look on your face. Pride exuding from him at what he’s reduced you to with a few kisses.

“Stop staring, Satoru,” your voice comes out more whinged and unfortunate than you were hoping.

“No.”

It’s a simple response, one that’s weighted with meaning and intention. Maybe if you weren’t only concerned with how good of a kisser he is, of how you want more, of how he looks indescribably good over you, you’d ask him why he’s acting this way. Maybe you’d even ask what this means for your friendship but when you’re in this deep and enjoying it this much, thinking that deep slips from you all too easily.

“I’m gonna touch you,” his gaze wanders over your body before looking back to you, “okay?”

Already nodding back at him, “Okay.”

And only when you verbally affirm him does he let his greedy hands travel your body, sitting back on his knees so he can grope at your thighs and hips. You can tell he’s enjoying your squirming immensely, eyes simultaneously lidded low and lit up.

Quickly glancing to meet your eyes when he asks, “What did I do to you?”

It takes your brain a second to catch up to his words, stuck on his big hands resting against your hips, his fingers digging into your plush skin. “You mean…”

“In your dream,” he slips into your waistband and starts to slowly pull your pants off, “what did I do to you in your dream, sweetheart?”

You feel your skin heat, his fingers tickling against your thighs. “I’m not answering that.”

A low hum sounds from him as your pants are finally removed and tossed to the side, “Why not?”

Keeping your legs together, self-conscious of the fact you’re in your underwear below him. Though he’s not bothered at all, groping and massaging at your thighs, “What happened in that dream is private.”

“That hardly seems fair,” his eyes bore into your own, “since I was there and all.” Paying no mind to your small protests as he manoeuvres one of your legs to rest against his side, feeling much more exposed now that he’s spread your legs.

“Satoru, you can’t just!– mmph—”

Further protesting cut off abruptly when he places his palm on your lower stomach, thumb drawing over your covered slit. His touch there was unexpected but not unwelcome, small shocks of pleasure thrumming through you.

“Did I use my fingers?” he keeps stroking your cunt, touch light and nowhere near enough to satisfy. “How about my mouth?” pausing to blatantly stare at your pussy, not even really addressing you when he adds, “please tell me I used my mouth,” his last words come out pitchy, almost like he’s begging for it to be true.

“I don’t know,” you’re feeling overwhelmed, head foggy, “I can’t remember.”

“I don’t know why you keep bothering to lie to me,” he murmurs low, using both thumbs to pull apart your folds, pressing into your hole only to be stopped by the material of your panties.

His action has you shooting up, face to his chest, your hands grab onto his shirt and all he does is chuckle at you. “Stop playing with me,” you huff at him.

Leaning down, he drags his lips over your skin gently. Leaving behind soft kisses all over your neck and chest, blowing air by your ear just to make you twitch. Voice almost a whisper when he asks again, “What did I do to you?”

“You’re embarrassing me,” you look through your lashes at him.

His smile is pleased, “Yeah, well, you’re turning me on.” Grabbing you by your hips and pulling you into his lap, your cunt pressing right into his erection, “Feel that?” He can’t help the way he gives small grinds into you, your warmth too enticing, “All your fault, so tell me what I did to you.”

The grinds he’s giving you feel too good, he’s big and so hard and couldn’t he just, “Can’t you just put it in?”

He laughs airily, surprised by your need and shifted focus, “I think you can feel enough to know that I can’t.”

“You were nicer to me in my dream,” you pout at him.

“Somehow, I doubt that—” his head drops back and a soft groan leaves him, getting lost in how you’ve started to rut down into him.

Thinking back to your dream, you decide to mention, “You did.”

Distracted reply coming from him, “Hmm?”

“Use your mouth, I mean—”

Just as you’d gotten the words out, he’s pushing you flat on your back again, not even pausing to think as he pulls your panties off in one movement. Settling between your thighs impatiently, eyeing up your cunt, “You been holding out on me.”

Your legs thrown haphazardly over his broad shoulders, “Wait just a sec—”

“—Why?” Tongue already hanging from his mouth and hovering over your pussy, just about drooling onto it.

The sight of him has your brain rebooting, “No– nothing.”

Keeping his eyes intently on you when he licks your whole pussy, smiling at how your mouth drops opens and hips squirm, “You’re cute.”

“You– you’re– hnn—” you don’t get to retort properly, his tongue flicking at your clit each time you try to say something.

“Mhm,” he’s enjoying this, you can tell, his tone too amused. “You’re so wet, practically begging for me to put my mouth on you.”

And then he shoves his tongue inside you, holding your hips down so he can fuck you with it. Delighting in the moans tumbling from your lips, cunt syrupy sweet and begging for him to stuff it full. Swallowing down all you have to give him, shudders running down his spine as his cock jerks in his pants. He’s been horny ever since you admitted to having had a sex dream about him. And if he’s being completely honest, maybe since he had his head in your lap.

It feels a little cruel that you kept it from him for so long, he would’ve gotten on his knees for you the second you asked him to. Groaning into your pussy when your hole tightens around his tongue, pressing his face closer to you. Nose stimulating your clit with how desperate he is to taste your cunt.

He’s messy in how he’s devouring you, sloppily making out with your pussy. Small groans leaving him as he relishes in it, like he’s getting just as much out of this as you are. It’s too good, back arching and thighs fighting to close, held open by his wide frame between your legs. This is the first time someone has gotten you so close so quickly, it’s almost embarrassing how easily he’s about to make you cum.

Gojo knows you’re close, it excites him, he wants your cum in his mouth, he wants to feel how you shake underneath him. But there’s something wicked inside him that wants to tease you a little more. Choosing instead to wait until you’re just about to finish before suddenly pulling back.

You whine at him, eyes wet when you look at him in confusion. He only smiles back at you, tongue licking his lower lip before he asks innocently, “I forgot to ask, did you cum like this?”

Brain taking a moment to catch up before realising he’s still asking about that damn dream, “I don’t– I think so?”

Pressing open mouthed and wet kisses over your inner thighs, remarking, “Not very memorable, was it?”

Somehow, it feels like he’s trying to compete with his dream counterpart, and the thought is just ridiculous. “It was very memorable,” you’re only hoping to be a little teasing but by the look in his eyes he takes it personally. Opening his mouth wide and chomping down onto your thigh, biting you enough to nearly break skin. You jump at the shock, “Hey!”

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he murmurs into your skin, licking over the impression of his teeth before pressing a kiss to it, “try remembering this instead, yeah?”

It’s a little bit cute of him to be so jealous of your dream, “You’re stupid.”

He knows he’s stupid, he’s all too aware of it but that changes nothing to him, “I’d be more careful with your words if you wanna cum,” blowing air onto your clit, reminding you of how close you were.

“Satoru…” you don’t really like how he’s got you backed into a corner right now.

He hums in acknowledgement at you, “Need something?” Head leaning against your thigh as he smiles smugly up at you.

How frustrating of him, to know exactly what you want but choosing not to give it to you for his own enjoyment. “You’re a tease,” you huff at him.

“Hmm… not usually,” his hand slides up your inner thigh, single digit slipping inside your hole, “I think that’s something you bring out of me,” pleased with the small sounds you let out at his finger stuffing you.

Gasped moan leaving your lungs, trying to tell him how unbearable he is, “You’re– hnn!—”

A sound of awe leaving him as he drags his finger out, “How obscene, you really are so fucking wet.” He says it like you should be ashamed of yourself but he’s smiling too big, eyes full of loving obsession. Clearly incredibly happy with how dripping and soaked your cunt is, “Basically drooling for it, sweetie. How embarrassing~”

You might have to kill him because he really is embarrassing you. Hell, it was already embarrassing doing this with your best friend and now he’s teasing you for his own sick pleasure, “Stop…” not able to help the completely pathetic look on your face, “…stop being so mean to me.”

Gojo feels his heart drop and then start beating a million miles an hour, you’re so cute that he can’t help but breathlessly laugh, “My bad, will making you cum make up for it?”

“Yes,” you assert.

Ah, his head is spinning, you might be too much for his poor heart to handle. He can’t bear having you upset with him though, pressing soft kisses to your pussy lovingly. It’s as if he’s apologising for being so cruel to you, deepening his kiss to your cunt by stuffing you full of his tongue again.

The way you twitch and moan under him really does drive him wild, how he’s going to stay sane while fucking you is beyond him. Lapping at your sopping cunt so devotedly, eyes dazed and pussy drunk as he watches how your eyes roll and brows pinch. Giggling to himself at how surreal it is to be tongue deep inside you, to have you this needy for him.

When he suddenly pushes your legs back, you squeak. Damn near folded in half and bent for him, “Satoru, you can’t just– mmph!—”

He doesn’t grace you with the kindess of listening properly, simply going back to eating your pussy like it’s his last meal. The way he’s holding you is pornographic in nature, a position you’ve never even thought to be in, and he’s easily manhandled you into it. Lower back no longer even touching the couch, held up by Gojo.

With how he’s positioned you now, all your dewy slick and his saliva slides from your cunt and drips crudely onto your poor couch. Head dizzied as he gets you closer and closer to finishing, building you up so much faster after the loss of your last orgasm.

“I– ah!– so close– mmph—” you don’t want him to stop, hand holding onto one of his on your hip tightly, begging that he doesn’t pull away again.

Lucky for you, he desperately wants you cumming for him. He barely brought himself to deny you the first time, there’s no way he could do it a second. Completely and whole heartedly dedicated to making your pussy cream for him, salivating at the thought alone.

Moans you don’t even register pulling from your lungs as he finally pushes you over the edge, hips shaking as you try to ride out your own high with little success. The position you’re folded in keeping you at his mercy. Orgasm feeling oh so sweet after he denied you, lashes fluttering as it washes over you.

Gojo hums happily into your pussy, drinking down all your creamy slick and then still not parting from you. Too addicted to your scent, to your taste, ignoring all rationality as he keeps licking and sucking at your cunt. Whining when your weak fingers dig into his hair and pull him back by force, shaking underneath him from how he’s nearly forced you into overstimulation.

“Too much,” your voice trembles with your words.

His lower face is a complete mess of you and you’d feel bad but the stupid smile and dazed look he’s wearing tells you that you don’t have to. “You got a great pussy,” he compliments, moving his thumbs so he can lewdly pull your cunt wider for his greedy eyes.

“Ah!– stop staring, have you no shame?”

Eyes flicking to yours when he states seriously, “None.”

You’re feeling far too exposed in this position, “Can you let me move—”

Ignoring you and instead musing aloud, “—How many fingers do you think you could take?”

“What?”

“Your hole was tight around my tongue so maybe only one?” Slipping a single finger inside you and stroking against your walls. Your back fights to arch and a soft mewl sounds from you, “ahh, that’s a nice reaction. Let’s stretch you out yeah?”

“You’re so– hnn!—” barely biting out, “You’re such a pervert.”

His head tilts at you, “Did you expect anything else?”

Managing to babble out, “Weren’t so– hah– perverted– hnn– in my dream– mmph—”

“I take pride in that,” his chest vibrates with his words. Of course he takes pride in it, why wouldn’t he? Stuffing another finger inside your snug cunt and scissoring them, trying to open you up enough to be able take him, “This sweet pussy might fucking kill me, I don’t know how you’re gonna take me.”

Could he have a bigger ego? “Don’t be ridiculous– hah!—”

“I’m not just being cocky, sweetie.” Fingers brushing up against so many spots you can never quite reach on your own, “You might actually struggle to take it all.”

Eventually giving you a third finger, spread wide around his digits and leaking into the palm of his hand. He’s got you a squirming and moaning mess under him, mind melting from the mouth-wateringly sinful way he’s playing with you.

“Satoru– hnn!—”

“Something wrong?”

Now he knows damn well… “Please, just– hah—”

He laughs at your whimpered neediness, completely aware of how bad you want him inside of you. “Being real cute right now.”

“Don’t—”

“—Don’t what?” Using his fingers to tease your most intimate spots.

“‘Toru– hnn– please,” lower lip wobbling as you pout at him, “I want you…”

That’s not fair, you’re not playing fair at all. “You’re evil,” he mumbles at you, cheeks and tips of his ears flushing red with how turned on he is, “but I’ll give you what you want, since you’re so adorable.”

Thick fingers drawing from your cunt, the loss of him pulling a whine from you; it makes him smile. You’re genuinely so pathetic right now and aside from how horny it’s got him; it’s also got his heart stuttering in his chest.

“Take your shirt off,” he points at you, letting you finally lower your bottom half to the couch.

Grumpily following his instruction, feeling especially docile right now, “You’re being too bossy.”

His words come out a little muffled as he pulls his own shirt off, “Your pouting would have more effect if you weren’t also listening so well.”

“Maybe I’ll stop listening then.”

He stands from the couch to tug down his pants and boxers, brows drawn together and head tilting, “When you’re this close to finally taking it all?” Holding the base of his hard cock, tone smug.

Embarrassed for yourself at how your cunt throbs for him, desperate in a pitiful way that you’ve never imagined yourself being over him or anyone. “Are you in any position to be this big of a tease?”

“For you? Always,” he taps your thigh and leans onto the couch again, “now spread your legs for me.”

Already opening up to give him room before really thinking twice on it, hating that you’re this willing to follow his instruction. His hands on you are gentle, almost reverent in how they trail along your inner thighs.

Gojo can’t help himself, touching you as much as he can, wanting to prolong this whole experience. Your skin so soft and delicate under his touch, fingers digging into your flesh just to see proof of him touching you. Completely bare and willing under him, heart hammering in his chest at this fact.

Dragging his cock through your sopping wet pussy, shivering at just how gooey your cunt is. Not intentionally trying to torture you but doing so anyways, squirming and impatient under him the more he plays with you.

“Satoru,” voice pitchy, “please.”

Not moving immediately, only cursing as he gazes at you all lost.

You wrap a single leg around his waist and pull him forward, encouraging, “C’mon.”

Smug expression suddenly back on his face, “Alright, here we go,” tapping at your entrance a few times first. “Ohh, biiig stretch,” word drawn out and provocative as his cock head slowly slips inside you.

Big stretch is fucking right, chest squeezing as you struggle to adjust. Hands gripping onto his biceps for dear life, needing to be grounded.

One of his hands reach out and strokes against your head, you keen into his touch and he chuckles. Leaning down to whisper, “You need to breathe, sweetheart.”

His hips have stopped moving forward but it hardly seems like it, already feeling obscenely full. “H–how much– hnn– more?”

Gojo dips his head down to look at where your cunt is bulging around him, teeth digging into his lower lip as he stifles a strained laugh, “Not much at all.”

“Are you lying?” Unable to help the way your lip wobbles a bit with your question.

“Yeah,” he thrusts just a little bit more into you, “but you’re doing so well, feel fffucking fantastic.”

You’re clawing at his shoulders, feeling like you’re being stretched to your limits, “Why– ah!– why is it so big?” Somehow, you feel annoyed at him for it.

“I’m God’s favourite,” is how he chooses to reply, ego growing tenfold at how you’re falling apart just from the shallow thrusts he’s delivering.

How the hell are you meant to take all of him, “How– hah– how much?”

He can’t take his eyes off how you’re sucking him in, hands gripping your hips and thumbs drawing circles into your skin soothingly, “Why don’t you just watch for yourself?”

You shake your head at him, eyes scrunched shut, “No.”

“And why not?” Still, he’s feeding you more of his cock, your pussy pulsing around him making him dizzy, “It’s a good fuckin view.”

“Don’t– hnn– don’t torment me.”

Blinking your eyes open to give your best glare, it only comes across half hearted. Completely taken with the look on Gojo’s face, flushed pink with his pupils blown wide, teeth digging into his lower lip again to stop from whining. Eyes flicking to yours and he’s completely melting when seeing just how pathetic you are under him, moan stumbling from his lips so suddenly that it takes him by surprise.

He's just as big of a mess as you and it has your cunt positively creaming around him, turned on by the fucked out horny look on your best friends’ face. Gojo shudders at your pussy getting slicker around him, his dick jerking inside you.

“Getting this– hah– wet over your best friend…” fucking his hips quickly, pelvis now flush to yours, “…how shameless of you.”

You’re quivering around him and writhing under him, the feeling of being completely stuffed full overwhelming on its own. His taunting cruel and mocking and unfortunately turning you on that much more, upset that you’re letting him get away with it.

Lips downturned when you fire back, “You’re more shameless– hnn– pervert.”

Gojo can only be charmed by your weak insult, especially since he’s pretty sure you’re unaware of how your hips are twitching under the weight of his hold. Fighting upwards for the hope of getting fucked but kept frustratingly still by him. Your neediness has piqued his interest, now wondering how long he can stay still until you’re shedding tears out of pure frustration. Quickly growing addicted to the idea of teasing you like this.

He's so still it’s driving you crazy, able to feel his dick twitching inside you, veins throbbing against your sensitive walls. Obviously wanting it just as bad as you but still not moving, shifting one of your hands to tap at his on your hip, gaining his attention.

Eyes on his, “What are you waiting– mmph– for?”

God, the look on your face is killing him, so sweet under him. It’s almost like you’re coming apart already, his hands dig into your thighs and it has you keening under him. Pitiful whine leaving you as your hips start grinding into him quickly, trying to alleviate some of the desire you’re feeling.

“Now why on earth…” he straightens his back up more, pulling your lower half up with him, not giving the chance for his cock to slip from you, “…are you this touch starved?”

“Huh?” it’s the only response you’re capable of giving, having finally seen just how he’s shoved inside you. Cunt stretched obscene around his fat dick, dripping happily and syrupy sweet around him. Chest fluttering at the shock and excitement.

“I’m so sorry for not noticing, sweetie,” he coos at you, “I would’ve helped you if you’d told me.”

Complaining back at him, “I am not touch starved.”

“You definitely are,” he trails his hand from your hip, up your side, just to show you how you twitch into it, “it’s okay though, I’ll take good care of you.”

Pussy shivering involuntarily around him, giving away that you’re lying. How he managed to know you were deprived, you have no idea but the fact he did is embarrassing to you. He doesn’t need to be aware of how long it’s been since you were last touched so intimately.

“I—”

“—Don’t bother lying again,” he keeps caressing you where he can reach, “I’d much rather hear about how much you like when I touch you.”

Maybe he’ll start moving if you’re honest, “I like when– hah– you touch me,” pouting slightly and barely fighting off the shudder running down your spine at his touch.

“Good,” he smiles at you, all glib, “‘Cause I’m gonna touch you. Lots.”

Eyes sparkling at him, hoping, “Does that mean you’re– ah– hnn– actually going to fuck me now?”

“Why?” his head tilts at you, “Do you want it?”

Giving your best glare back at him, he’s proven to you sufficiently by now that he can read you incredibly well, much to your dismay. Muttering out, “Dream you was– hah– much more indulgent of me.”

“Ouch,” though he says that, he doesn’t seem hurt at all, “Dream me was a fool then ‘cause you’re much more fun to play with like this.”

He’s being so evil, “Can’t you just give me what I want?”

“I might,” his gaze is lecherous as his eyes rake over your body, “if you ask for it properly.”

“Satoru…” you try to call out to him as sweetly as possible, “…please fuck me?” lip quivering slightly as your neediness bleeds through your façade of togetherness, “please?”

Gojo’s heart squeezes in his chest, he’d planned on tormenting you a little more but he’s not sure he’ll be able to keep his sanity any longer. Already he feels like he’s a second away from cumming, caught between wanting to give you everything you want and teasing you until you cry. He guesses he’ll just have to settle for fucking you until you cry this time, next time, he promises himself he’ll tease you properly next time.  

“Satoru?”

Your voice breaks him out of his reverie, grin back on his face, “I heard you, pretty. I’ll give you what you want.”

Dragging his cock from you slowly, so slowly, the heavy weight of him pulling out driving you up a wall, insides shuddering. Broken and gasped moans leaving you, rushing out quick, “Thank you, thank you, thank you, oh—”

The laugh that leaves him is too attractive, amused by your gratitude for something like this. It’s cute how the thank-yous just keep tumbling from your lips over and over as he keeps pulling back to the tip of him.

“Don’t thank me for that…” his hands dig into your hips more, “…thank me for this,” slamming into you all at once with his last word.

The wind is completely knocked from your lungs, shocked whine louder than you’d want it to be. Desperately clawing at any part of him you can reach, struggling to take it and keep it together. Feeling like you’re completely melting, head spinning as pleasure thumps through your veins.

“Mmph– I– ahh—” barely coherent as your eyes fight to not roll to the back of your head, “thank hnn– you.”

Small giggle leaving him at just how adorable you’re being, heart hammering in his chest as he sets a consistently mind ruining pace. He can’t wipe the fucked out smile off his face as he keeps pounding into you, giddy with how he gets to have you under him like this.

Babbling varied compliments, “You’re so adorable,” he huffs out a whimper, “hnn– and you’re so fucking tight around me,” less coherent as he carries on, “God, and so fffucking wet– hah– what the– so hot– I—”

He feels insane, how you’re this warm and perfect around him has him at a loss. Almost like you were made just for his cock, something he’ll let himself believe because the idea of you being with anyone but him breaks his heart a little bit.

Hypnotised by how you’re sucking him back in, clinging onto his dick desperately. It’s almost like every time he pulls out, you’re begging him to fuck right back in, and of course he’ll comply. The idea of pulling out before he’s finished with you a painful thought, not willing to give up this moment even if someone walked in on the two of you.

Such a genuine thought, he’s completely certain that someone could walk in on you both and his thrusts wouldn’t even slow down. If anything, they’d speed up, finally he’d get to show off how you’re his. Possessiveness tumbling around restlessly in his head, his dick only getting harder.

All you can do is take it, take all of the jaw slacking and toe-curling pleasure he’s delivering you. Your pussy making obscene sounds as he fucks into you, skin hot from how depraved it all feels. Gojo looks so completely wrecked, eyes glazed over, lips still moving as he continues to mutter out sweet praise. Praise that would probably have your insides flipping and body growing hotter, but you can’t hear anything but your heart thumping in your own ears.

Delirious grin making its way onto his face as he’s struck with a wicked realisation, large hand sliding its way from your thigh to your stomach. Pressing down the littlest bit and watching how you squirm and shudder under him, gasping for breath and hands slapping at him, trying to speak.

“Don’t– hnn– don’t do that– ah!– too much– it feels too—”

“What? Good?” He hisses out, still managing to be taunting.

“It’s too much– hah– mmph– I’m too sensitive,” your eyelashes feel wet, like you might’ve started crying but you can’t even be sure of that right now.

His hand presses down more into your tummy, “I know you are~” he giggles a little, “it’s turning me on.”

“Seriously– hnn– don’t– I’m gonna– ah!—”

He’d completely ignored your pleas causing you to cut yourself off with a moan, orgasm suddenly washing over you. Spasming hot and snug around him, so sinful that he’s shocked by his own high, cumming deep inside you as you shake and shiver around him.

“Ohh, you’re– haah– you’re killing me sweetly,” Gojo’s head feels like it’s spinning, swimming in so much euphoria as he grinds into you.

You’ve slumped under him, trusting him to keep a hold of you, not even thinking to chew him out for making a mess of both your cunt and sofa. Brain feeling all fuzzy and melted in your skull, blissed out from how good you’re currently feeling.

Busy basking in the afterglow when your world is suddenly spinning, Gojo’s taken advantage of your rag-dolled state and flipped you over onto your stomach. Quickly realising that he’s still hard when your hips are being pulled up and his cock is sliding through your folds.

“You gotta stay with me, pretty,” he groans, positioning his tip at your hole, “we’re– hnn– not done yet.”

“Satoru– ah!—”

Both your moans are debauched and loud as he stuffs you so fucking full all at once, lungs seizing in your chest. If he weren’t holding your hips so tight, you would’ve collapsed to the couch. Your fingers dig into the cushions below you, biting back pitiful sounds that so desperately want to leave you.

“Don’t– don’t do that,” he shoves inside you somehow that little bit more, “let me hear you, sweetie.”

Sulking back, “Noo– hah– it’s embarrassing—”

“—It’s arousing,” he counters, skin on fire with how badly he wants to hear you moan for him.

He supposes it’s fine though, he’ll just have to drag those sweet sounds from you himself. Giving sharp and angled thrusts, purposefully driving right into all those delicious spots he found earlier while playing with you. Grinning wide, overly pleased with himself when you squeak out the cutest moan he’s ever heard.

He’s falling apart inside you, wrapped around your little finger and you don’t even realise it. He didn’t even intend to cum earlier, you just felt too good. All sticky cum and clingy walls, he couldn’t help himself.

Able to feel how his cum leaks out around his shaft, hear how your pussy gushes with his cock inside you. He feels borderline feral, something deeply possessive dancing around in his heart at how your cunt squelches around him, stuffed full of his hot semen.

The desire to see his face hits you, remembering just how good he looked as he got lost in how pleasurable everything felt. Whining pitifully below him into the couch, feeling far too shy to tell him how much you enjoy looking at him while he fucks you stupid.

“Satoru– hnn– it’s—” drooling onto the couch as you moan out to him, “it’s good– hah– it’s too good– it’s good~” nearly sobbing with just how damn good it feels.

“I bet,” he chuckles, loving your reaction.

Biting at him, “Hnn– shuddup—”

Easily ignoring you, “Now be honest… what’s better?”

Your eyes are rolling to the back of your head; you can’t focus on whatever the hell he’s saying when he’s fucking your gooey sweet spot so perfectly that you’re in bliss.

“Focus,” he fills you completely and stills his hips, refusing to move, “what’s better? This or your dream.”

Cunt so creamy and cock drunk for him, throbbing and pulsing so lovingly on him. He’s a little bit annoyed that he has to stop but he needs your answer. Hips twitching back into him, small noises of frustrated and deprived pleasure slipping from your lips.

He purrs low at you, “If you want me to move then you gotta answer me,” hand smoothing down your back, “you know I will torment you until you do.”

If you weren’t so turned on and delirious you’d recognise it as the bluff it is, he may have been able to torment you earlier, but his patience is barely hanging on by a fucking thread at this point. But you are that turned on and delirious, so instead you answer earnestly, “This, this is better. It’s lots better, now please. Move.”

“There ya go,” he pats your ass a couple times, “such a sweet little thing when you’re fucked full of my fat dick.”

Words meant as a warning but failing to hold any weight, “‘Toru– don’t—”

“—Don’t stress, pretty,” giving you a single thrust, “I’ll give you what you and your pussy are begging me for.”

Your response is smothered into the couch cushions, “Please.”

Groaning a giggle at how you reply, finding it cute that you’re displaying manners you don’t usually bother to with him. You must have it bad for him right now because otherwise you would not be so docile under him.

Fucking into you so you can feel it, really feel it. Intending to pull you apart so perfectly, wanting you to feel this just as much he is. Pelvis smacking into your ass obscenely, admiring the way your back arches for him, damn near presenting yourself to him.

“More– hah—” you stutter out at him, trying to explain what you need, “I want– hnn– I want you to touch me more.”

His eyes close and he intakes a deep breath, controlling himself as he registers your words. Arm reaching around you to pull you up, his chest to your back. He’s pressed so close to you, warm and comforting. You’re keening into him again, relishing how close he is to you, how much of him you can feel. Butterflies dancing in your stomach at how intimate it is and how it’s so much better because of it.

His hands grope at you, your hips, stomach, tits, anywhere he can grab, “Someone’s being greedy.”

Huffing back at him, “Hah– I am not.”

“I wasn’t talking about you,” amused with himself as he breathes into your ear, thrusting desperately into your dripping cunt.

You grab hold of his hands and tug, encouraging him to wrap his arms around you properly. All too easily, he gives into your will, holding you tight. His face tucked into your neck and breathing in your scent, lips delicate as they trace your skin.

Brain hazy and muddled as you babble out your feelings to him, “It’s good– I like your dick– hnn– I like– hah– I like you.” Head turning to the side to press a small kiss to his head.

He’s quick to move so he can capture your lips with his, groaning into it. His dick grows impossibly larger inside you at your small confession, throbbing and leaking inside your tight heat.

Pulling back with a last suck to your lower lip, “Don’t say such sweet things to me, pretty,” tongue licking your ear, teeth nipping you, “or I’ll never leave you alone.”

“You– hah– you– hnn– do that anyways– ah!—”

“I’m about to become much worse,” it’s more of a promise than anything else, you thought of him as clingy before but he’s about to become so so much more worse.

The idea of that alone should probably be less appealing but while stuffed full of his aching cock, you can’t find it in yourself to feel anything other than pathetically whipped for him. Pussy weeping around him, begging for more, for it to never stop.

His dick so deep it feels like he’s in your lungs, spasming around him as your high gets closer and closer. Pleasure climbing up your spine as you melt around him, loving his touch on your body, his breath by your ear.

Gojo moans, head tipping back before he leans forwards again, “You’ve got me obsessed with you, sweetheart,” voice cracking with a whine, “both you– hnn– and this sopping wet pussy of yours.”

Sobbing out your warning, “‘Toru– hah– ah!– I’m gonna cum—”

“Hmm?” his chest vibrates against your back, “Gonna cum because I told you I’m obsessed with you? That’s pretty lewd of you.”

Cheeks wet with your shed tears, “Don’t– hng– don’t tease.”

“Just let yourself enjoy it,” hand pressing into your stomach like he had earlier, “your cunt sure does.”

Long and pitchy moan leaving you, orgasm knocking into you like a tonne of bricks. Trying to curl forward but unable to, Gojo’s arms are firm around you, not letting you go anywhere as he keeps fucking into you. His pace suddenly much quicker as he doubles his efforts from behind, chasing his own high.

It doesn’t take him long at all to follow behind you, face burying into your neck, teeth biting into you as he shudders. Muffled whimpers vibrating against your skin, his hips jerking shallowly, he can’t bring himself to stop fucking into you. You’re too stupid to think about telling him off, not even sure you’re able to process thoughts let alone talk coherently.

Eventually he stills to a complete stop, planting kisses over his bite mark. He doesn’t want to let you go, content to hold you up like this but you’re on the verge of passing out. Gentle in how he lowers you down onto the couch, the pair of you groaning when his cock slips from you. Shared cum connecting his dick to your stuffed hole obscenely, he has to bite his lip to stifle the most pathetic sound at the sight.

While you gather yourself, he kneads your back, his large hands digging into the knots there. The massage nice and calming, helping to soothe your aching muscles after the way he manhandled you to his hearts content. Almost feeling like you could fall asleep like this, feeling so safe and warm under his ministrations.

He leans over to check you, “Stay awake,” fingers brushing against your cheek, “you’re gonna need a shower.”

“No moving,” you protest.

“Yes moving, I know if you fall asleep like this you will be pissed when you wake up,” he brushes down your spine delicately, “and you’ll be pissed at me… which I’d personally like to prevent.”

“Can’t do it.”

“I’ll help you,” he hops off the couch, “Come on.”

Groaning dramatically the whole time as you sit up, standing in front of him with the help of his hands on you. Legs wobbling under you, balance precarious. As soon as you’re on your feet, his cum leaks from your cunt and down your inner thighs. It catches Gojo’s attention who crouches down to get a better look.

“Wooow,” he comments.

Shy at his reaction, “Wh– what?”

He glances up at you and looks deep into your eyes, “I came a lot inside you,” eyes dropping to stare at your pussy obviously, “sorry but this is really turning me on…”

Barely finishing his sentence before his tongue is lolling out of his mouth, head tipping forward to lick up the mess. Mouth swapping sides to travel up each of your thighs, eyes locked onto yours as he does. It’s overwhelming you, feeling beyond embarrassed at the lewd display. His grip the only thing keeping your wobbly legs from completely giving out from under you.

Gojo’s actions are ravenous and simultaneously dazed, somehow both feral and on autopilot. Moaning into your pussy as he licks and sucks your cunt clean, tongue hitting so many over-sensitive places. Your hands dig into his hair to pull him back only to see the completely pussy drunk look in his eyes. If it had been possible, he’d probably have hearts in his eyes, so far gone.

“Stop– hnn– you need to stop,” legs shaking much more now, “too sensitive,” grip more forceful with your last tug.

He pouts back at you, “But you’re so cute when you’re overstimulated.”

Pulling back from you to stand to his full height, smirking down at you. All self-satisfied and also blissed out on the taste of your shared cum. Your tummy is full of butterflies from how he’s been treating you today, legs still weak under you as your knees cave. Thankfully, he’s quick and catches you, effortlessly picking you up and carrying you to the bathroom to wash the both of you up.

Letting yourself be wiped down by him in the bathroom, sitting on the sink as he uses a warm cloth to clean you up better than his tongue could. “I was serious you know,” he says unprompted.

Head fuzzy and a little lost on what he means, “About?”

“I’m obsessed with you.”

α.η. THIS IS A REPOST .. a repost from my old account @/lovelivision, if you feel like you've read it before, maybe you have !

a-knee-wayssss .. i hope you liked it ! i didn't change much about this one since it was basically just pure smut and also i still fucked with it teehee (๑•̀؂ <๑) ✧

The neighborhood you were in was seedy as hell. Worse than usual, even for this side of town. It was polluted with graffiti-tagged shutters, broken bottles glittering under the streetlights, guys posted up on corners who watched every car like they were pricing parts. You could practically taste your bad decisions in the air. That was the after-session glow, after all: regretting every single decision. Would you do anything for money? Even ruining your dignity and esteem? You answered that question an hour ago.

They’d promised you $2,000 cash for one video. One particularly extreme scene with two guys who already had decent followings, big enough that their names alone would pull views. You’d seen their pages before the fuck; they were rather professional despite how rough they were. Two grand could fix a lot. It could fill the fridge, pay the electric bill before they cut it again, and maybe even let you breathe for a week without panic.

Before you left home, you were staring into a freezer that was basically a graveyard: half a bag of freezer-burned chicken thighs you could not trust anymore, a single lonely ice pop, and that weird block of ground beef you swore you’d use three months ago. Pantry wasn’t much better. A couple of instant ramen bricks, those little seaweed snack packs Mari liked to pretend were chips, an almost-empty bag of rice, and the steel-cut oats you bought for what was supposed to be oatmeal cookies. Breakfast had been pathetic: plain rice with torn-up seaweed sheets on top, packed into the scratched-up bento box you’d had since high school. You’d kissed her forehead, told her it was “special sushi,” and sent her off to her grandma’s with a smile that felt like it might crack your face.

Jesus fucking Christ, you felt like the worst mother on the planet.

The guilt sat heavy, like wet concrete in your chest. For the last week, you’d been surviving on gas-station energy drinks and whatever was cheapest on the McDonald’s app. Mari’s dinners had been Happy Meals or ten-piece nuggets with fries almost every night, plus those little bags of pre-cut apples or baby carrots when you remembered to grab them so you could at least pretend there was “a vegetable.” You kept telling yourself it was temporary. You kept telling yourself the overnight bar shifts would end soon, that the scouting email would be the one, that you weren’t slowly poisoning your kid.

You were so goddamn tired. The kind of tired that made your bones ache, that turned simple shit like remembering to buy milk into an impossible task. You’d come home at dawn, reeking of spilled beer and cheap perfume, collapse for three hours, then drag yourself up to scroll through porn booking sites while Mari was at school. Grocery shopping kept getting pushed. Always tomorrow. Always after the next shift. Always after the check that was supposed to clear last Tuesday.

You needed that deposit to arrive. Two thousand dollars for one scene you finished in an hour. One night of letting two men use you in ways that left you here, sore and sticky afterward, cum drying uncomfortably between your thighs, sweat matting your hair to your forehead and neck, the faint metallic taste lingering in your mouth long after you’d rinsed. Now, perhaps, you could finally walk into the grocery store pushing a real cart instead of clutching a handbasket and mentally tallying every item against the pennies left in your account. Perhaps the slow, grinding feeling that every decision was costing pieces of you, and worse, pieces of Mari, might loosen its grip, even just a fraction.

You wished the money would come already.

You stood on the corner with your phone and car keys in hand, thumb hovering uselessly over your bank app, refreshing it as it might magically change if you stared hard enough. The men allowed you to stay as long as you wanted, but if you spent another hour in that apartment, you would be considered to have committed serious self-harm. The fresh air was a necessity. You were too focused to notice anything else… the rush of wind, the shadow of a bird cutting across the pavement, the way the street felt suddenly too quiet.

Then it happened.

Rough hands slammed into yours without warning, fingers closing around your keys with brutal precision. A shocked gasp tore from your throat as your attention snapped violently away from the screen. Across the street, your car sat waiting, the shitty old minivan you’d bought after months of saving from your first job at eighteen. The car that smelled like fast food and baby wipes. The car that carried groceries, late-night drives, and your daughter’s laughter.

One man stood beside it, eyes wide and panicked, while the other sprinted past you with your keys.

“Hey—!” you screamed, but it was already too late.

The doors unlocked with a sharp click. He jumped inside. The engine roared to life.

For a moment, you were frozen, shock pinning you in place as the van peeled away from the curb. Then your body caught up with reality. You ran. You screamed. Your feet pounded against the pavement as tears streamed down your face, blurring everything.

“Get back here!” you sobbed. “You evil fucks! How dare you!”

Your voice broke apart with each step. That car held nearly as many memories as your home. You needed it to get Mari to school, to get to work, to survive. When the van disappeared down the street, moving too fast and too far to chase, your legs finally gave out beneath you. You collapsed to your knees on the concrete, shaking, gasping, wrecked, and you didn’t care who saw.

They might as well have run off with your fucking heart.

You stayed there on your knees, the pavement biting into soft flesh, uncaring. You were sure you looked like hell. Smelled like it too. You’d filmed one scene, multiple takes, too many props, too many hands. Now you felt like a disappointment to your entire bloodline. You folded forward and sobbed into your palms, the world around you fading into noise and movement you barely registered.

Barely.

“Ma’am?” a voice cut through the haze. “Ma’am, are you alright?”

A masculine hand settled on your shoulder, warm and steady, gripping gently but firmly, real enough to anchor you. After a moment, he helped pull you to your feet. You swayed, then lifted your hands from your face, eyes burning, vision blurred with tears.

He was staring at you with such warmth. Such openness and patience. 

The silence stretched. His expression shifted, confusion giving way to something softer, something unsettled. His cheeks warmed, color rising as if he’d suddenly realized the intimacy of the moment.

“Can I help you?” he asked, concerned. “I don’t feel right leaving a crying woman on the ground like that.” He could swear he recognized you. 

Your breath hitched painfully as your gaze traced him. He was taller, broader, and impossibly composed. White hair styled carefully now, instead of perpetually messy, catching the streetlight like it always had. Sterling-blue eyes, unchanged in color but sharpened by years of distance and experience. He was beautiful in a way that felt unreal, like the kind of man people stopped for. Not to mention the jawline that could slice bread on it, he was a God to mortal eyes. Even when he was a stupid sixteen-year-old boy, he was beautiful. 

Satoru.

He looked at you like a stranger. Polite concern where familiarity should have been. That was what finally broke you. Not the car. Not the night. Him.

A sob tore out of you before you could stop it.

You hadn’t stalked his Instagram or watched his shows since you were twenty (you’d learned the hard way how much that hurt), but that didn’t mean the world had let him go. Coworkers talked about him. Friends pointed him out on screens. His name surfaced constantly, casually, like he wasn’t something that had once been yours.

And still… still, you could never forget those eyes.

They were the same oneswhot had once looked at you like you were everything. Intense and unyielding, but warm, protective, enveloping. The eyes that had memorized your face in childhood, that had promised you forever without hesitation.

Now they searched yours for answers he didn’t even know he was missing.

And you stood there, unraveling, staring at the man who used to be your home.

“Satoru,” your voice rasped, broken and unfamiliar even to you. “Fuck, of all nights, this could happen. Why? Why are you here?” The words tumbled out through tears as you dragged your sleeve across your face, smearing wetness you couldn’t keep up with.

He froze.

For a split second, he looked genuinely confused, eyes narrowing as he tried to place you. At first, you could see it: the assumption. A fan. Someone who recognized him in the wild. But then your words caught up to him, sharp and unkind in a way admiration never was.

His expression shifted.

He stepped back, instinctively, guarded. An awkward smirk tugged at his mouth, defensive rather than amused. “Look, ma’am,” he said carefully, a hint of irritation slipping through, “I was just trying to help. But if this is a problem, I can leave.”

You noticed it then, the details you hadn’t let yourself see before. The black hoodie was pulled low, barely hiding his white hair. The sunglasses perched uselessly on his head, like he’d forgotten them in a hurry. His eyes were wide, alert, darting too often down the street. He looked like someone who didn’t want to be recognized. Someone in a rush. Someone hiding.

And suddenly, you felt small.

You apologized almost immediately, the word tumbling out thin and useless. But the hurt lingered, heavy and sharp. He didn’t recognize you. Not your face. Not your voice. Nothing. He was everything you’d ever loved, everything you’d lost, and to him, you were just another stranger. Another mess on the sidewalk. A woman crying too loudly, too openly.

You didn’t explain or defend yourself. You only said one thing. Your name.

He didn’t react at first, just taking in the words he’d heard. He was hanging onto a different version of you for years. How could he have known? How could he recognize you? You were so mature now, skin tighter, eyes darker, stressed.

Your name hung between you, fragile and exposed, like you’d set something precious down in the dirt and were waiting to see if it would be crushed.

He blinked once and then again.

You watched it happen in real time, the way his brow furrowed, the faint crease forming between his eyes as something shifted behind them. His mouth parted slightly, like he meant to say something and couldn’t find the air for it. The irritation drained from his face, replaced by a strange, hollow stillness.

“…What?” he asked quietly.

–

At the police station, the fluorescent lights buzzed overhead like they were judging you. A kind-faced officer, older, with tired eyes that had probably seen worse, led you to a small bathroom in the back. They handed you a plastic bag of basics: travel-sized wipes, a cheap comb, a packet of tissues, even a spare hoodie from lost-and-found that smelled faintly of laundry detergent and someone else’s life. You told them a half-truth: the men who took your keys had gotten rough when you tried to grab them back, shoved you hard enough to leave you winded and shaken. You left out the rest, the dried sweat and cum still clinging to your skin, the ache between your legs from the afternoon’s work, the way your body still felt borrowed and returned in pieces. They didn’t need that part. No one ever did.

Satoru sat on the hard plastic chair beside you in the waiting area, elbows on his knees, hands clasped so tightly his knuckles blanched. He looked like he was fighting a war inside his own head. Every few minutes, his gaze slid toward you, quick, searching scans that lingered on your face, your hands, the way you kept tugging the borrowed hoodie sleeves over your wrists. You could almost name the emotions flashing across his features: guilt like a fresh bruise, fear that tightened his jaw, regret that made his shoulders curve inward, and something softer, deeper, that might still have been love if you let yourself believe it. He didn’t speak while you gave your statement, license plate number, make and model of the van, vague descriptions of the two men (one wiry, one stockier, both moving fast and practiced). He just listened, silent and coiled, like he was holding his breath until the room stopped spinning.

“Thank you, sir,” you murmured when the officer finished, voice small. He nodded, promised they’d run the plate, put out a BOLO, and do everything they could. You nodded back, numb. At least Mari was at her grandmother’s for the week. You could go home, lock the door, and fall apart without an audience. Cry until your eyes swelled shut, scream into a pillow, stare at the empty fridge,e and wonder how the hell you were going to fix this. One more curveball in a life that already felt like a bad joke.

Your phone buzzed in your pocket. You pulled it out, glanced at the screen, and let out a long, shaky breath. The deposit had finally cleared. Two thousand dollars, sitting there like it was mocking you. Relief hit first, sharp and stupid, then the groan followed right behind it. Great. Money for groceries and bills, but no car. You were already running the math in your head: how long it would take to save for another vehicle, how many more scenes you’d have to take, how many nights you’d spend walking home in the dark because rideshares were a luxury you couldn’t afford anymore.

Satoru’s eyes flicked to the phone, then to your face. He stayed quiet for a long beat, the silence stretching thin between you. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, careful, like he was afraid the wrong word might shatter something.

“How’s your life been?”

The question landed softly, almost hesitantly. Not demanding answers. Not accusing. Just… asking. Like he was testing the water after years of drought, unsure if it would burn or soothe. His eyes held yours, those same piercing blue that used to make everything else disappear, and for the first time since the sidewalk, you saw the boy you used to know buried somewhere beneath the man he’d become. Waiting. Maybe even hoping.

You let out a dry, humorless chuckle, holding his gaze longer than felt safe. The fluorescent lights caught the exhaustion in your eyes, the faint smudges of yesterday’s makeup that the wipes hadn’t fully erased. “Look at me, Satoru,” you said, voice low, careful not to let the bitterness crack through too hard. “I’m pretty sure you can guess how my life’s been.”

He was sitting there in that black hoodie, hair still somehow perfect despite the late hour, skin clear, shoulders relaxed in the way only someone who hadn’t spent years scraping by could be. Clean. Polished. Untouched by the kind of dirt that stuck to you, no matter how hard you scrubbed. The contrast burned, quiet and vicious, right under your ribs.

The ghost of a smile touched his lips, small, almost sad. “Right,” he murmured, running a hand through that white hair, pushing it back only for it to fall forward again in that careless way it always had. “What did they say about the car?”

You exhaled through your nose. “What they always say. They’ll do what they can. Run the plate, check for cameras, and put out alerts. But until something turns up… until someone sees it or they catch a break, there’s nothing.” Your fingers tightened around your phone. You opened the messaging app, thumbs moving automatically to text your mother: Car got stolen. Can Mari stay a few extra days? I’ll explain later. You hit send before the guilt could fully settle. At least your daughter was safe, warm, and probably eating real food instead of whatever sad scraps you’d been cobbling together.

Satoru shifted beside you, restless. You could feel how badly he wanted to fill the silence, how desperately he was grasping for any thread of conversation that wasn’t this cold, sterile waiting room. Like if he could just keep talking, the years might fold back on themselves.

“How’s your mom?” he asked quietly. Then he stopped, eyes dropping to the scuffed linoleum between his sneakers. “Last time I…” He swallowed. “Fuck. I’m so sorry.”

You waved it off with a quick, sharp motion of your hand. Last time he’d seen her had been after he slipped that thin promise ring onto your finger, a glistening diamond that felt like everything. She’d pulled him into a hug, told him she trusted him with your life, her voice thick with the kind of hope mothers carry for their daughters. You didn’t want to revisit it. Not here. Not now.

“Look,” you said, sharper than you meant to, stomach twisting from sitting so close to the only person who’d ever made you feel like the center of the universe. “I don’t want to talk about anything that isn’t a car that can get me home tonight.”

He went still for a second. Then he stood, his frame unfolding until he loomed over you, lanky and tall in a way that still made your pulse skip even after all this time. The hoodie did nothing to hide the familiar lines of him: the long limbs, the easy grace that used to make every room feel smaller when he walked into it.

“Then let me give you a ride,” he said, voice more pitched, but careful. His eyes bore into yours, awaiting an answer. And it’s not like you had a car of your own at that moment…

–

The entire ride was suffocating. The kind of quiet that pressed in from all sides, thick and uncomfortable, broken only by the low purr of the engine and the occasional soft click of the turn signal. Satoru kept trying to talk. Small things at first, like he was dipping a toe in hot water to see if it would burn.

"You still live in the same city?" he asked after a few blocks, voice careful. He immediately felt like such a question was tone-deaf, because, unlike him, you had no reason to leave that shitty city. No reason, no desire, no funds to do so.

You stared out the passenger window at the passing streetlights. "Yeah."

He nodded once, like that answered everything. A minute later: "Your mom still working overnights?" Fuck, another tone-deaf question.

"She's retired now." You didn't elaborate.

"Right. That's... good." He swallowed audibly. "She always worked too hard."

No response. The silence stretched again.

About thirty minutes from your complex, the low-fuel light blinked on. He pulled into a brightly lit drive-thru without asking, the same cheap burger place you two used to hit after school when money was tight for you and bountiful for him. He ordered without hesitation: double cheeseburger (no onions), large fries, vanilla shake. Your exact old order. When the warm paper bag landed in your lap, the smell of grease and salt hit you like a tsunami of unwanted nostalgia. You weren’t a foolish fifteen-year-old girl head over heels for someone out of her tax bracket anymore. You were a woman face-to-face with reality on the regular.

You stared at it for a long second. "Thanks," you muttered, pulling out a few fries to nibble. The burger stayed wrapped; motion sickness was already creeping in from the late hour and the car's smooth glide.

He glanced over as you ate, eyes flicking between the road and your face. "Given all the chaos tonight... you look great," he said quietly at first, almost like he was testing the words. Then louder, trying for confidence, he repeated himself. "Seriously. You do."

You gave him a flat "Thanks," again, voice dry. Inside, something bitter uncoiled. You were still right where he'd left you. Same neighborhood. Same, if not worse, struggles. Same invisible weight. Meanwhile, he rolled up in this absurdly expensive car, butterfly doors that lifted like wings when he'd helped you in earlier, interior glowing with soft ambient lights, custom coasters etched with some minimalist design, and a stupid center console drawer still crammed full of sweet gummies and some hard candies. 

He tried again after a few more miles of silence. "I really did miss you," he said, softer now, shoulders visibly tense under the hoodie. "Seeing you tonight... I froze up. I'm sorry I didn't recognize you right away. Fuck. My brain just... it blanks out a lot of stuff from back then.”

He eased the car into your apartment complex, following the clipped directions you'd given him earlier. The headlights swept across faded brick and cracked sidewalks as he pulled up in front of your unit.

His words hung there, fragile and useless. Your head throbbed harder, a dull pulse behind your eyes.

"You wanted to forget about me," you said, voice low and edged. "I get it. Loud and clear."

He flinched as if you'd slapped him. "That's not what I meant.”

You were already unbuckling, yanking the door handle. The butterfly door rose with a smooth, expensive hiss, letting in a rush of cool night air that smelled faintly of garbage bins and rain.

"Don't," you cut him off, grabbing the fast-food bag and stepping out. Your sneakers hit the pavement with more force than necessary. "Don't explain. Don't apologize. Just... don't.”

You didn't look back as you walked to your door, keys jingling in your shaking hand, the paper bag crinkling against your side. Behind you, the engine idled for several long seconds, headlights still washing over the building like he was waiting for something; permission, forgiveness, a glance… anything.

The second the door clicked shut behind you, the dam broke. A raw, ugly sob ripped out of your chest as your knees buckled. You slid down the wood, back pressed hard against it, until you were sitting on the cold floor with your face buried in your trembling hands. Tears poured hot and endless, soaking your palms, dripping onto the hardwood beneath you. The apartment felt too quiet and small, like the walls were closing in to watch you fall apart.

Who was going to help you now? The police had barely looked up from their forms. A broke single mom from the wrong side of town. They probably filed your report in the same pile as every other lost cause. No car meant no way to pick up Mari, no way to get to the bar, no way to book another shoot without begging for rides like some helpless kid. The bus could take you to work, but getting Mari to school would be a problem.

And then, on top of everything, Satoru. The one person you never wanted to see you like this. Your stupid heart had still fluttered the moment those blue eyes locked on yours, like your body hadn’t gotten the memo that he’d shattered you eight years ago. Like it still remembers how gently he used to hold you, how those pale hands once traced your skin like you were something precious. You hated it. You hated him. You hated yourself most of all for still feeling anything.

A soft buzz from your phone snapped you out of it. You wiped your face on the sleeve of the borrowed hoodie, blinking through swollen, stinging eyes to read the screen.

Just got here. Coming up the stairs now.

Shit. You’d completely forgotten it was your night. Once every couple of weeks, you and Toji made it work. He dropped his son off with his ex, you left Mari with your mom, and the two of you just… existed together. A few years ago, after too many beers, things had almost gone further. You’d been kissing, clumsy and laughing, his hands warm under your shirt, but you’d pulled back fast, heart pounding with old memories. “I can’t,” you’d whispered. He’d just nodded, no questions, no hurt feelings. “It’s okay, beautiful,” he’d said, and that was that. The tradition remained after.

Three soft knocks sounded at the door, right by your ear. You froze.

“Hey,” Toji called through the door. “It’s me.”

You swallowed, forcing your voice to steady. “Yeah. I know.”

You pushed yourself up off the floor, legs trembling slightly as you reached for the door handle, bracing yourself. You didn’t have the energy to explain everything tonight, but you also didn’t want to be alone.

The door swung open, and you stepped aside to let him in.

Toji didn’t need an explanation. One look at you told him everything he needed to know, or at least, everything he thought he knew. He was aware of your work that night, had known where you were headed and why. In his mind, that alone was enough to explain the hollowed look in your eyes, and the way your shoulders sagged like you’d been carrying too much for too long.

But the dried tear tracks on your cheeks nearly did him in.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, eyes narrowing as he took you in properly this time. “Was it really that bad?”

He set the case of beer down by the counter and dropped a Ziploc bag of loud, unmistakably pungent weed onto the coffee table like it was routine. Like this was just another night you needed numbing.

You opened your mouth to answer, but your face betrayed you first. Fresh tears slipped free, blurring your vision all over again. You didn’t even have time to apologize before Toji was already there, arms wrapping around you, solid and grounding. He didn’t say anything, didn’t rush you, didn’t ask questions. He just held you while your body shook, letting you cry it out into his chest.

For a moment, the world narrowed to that.

Then there was a knock on the door. The sound snapped through the room, sharp and unwelcome. You both stiffened. You pulled back instinctively, brows knitting together as confusion cut through the haze. Toji reacted faster, swearing under his breath as he reached for the coffee table and hastily slid the zip of weed out of sight, shoving it beneath a cushion.

“Of course,” he muttered. “No damn peephole.”

He stepped in front of you before you could protest, one hand lifting slightly as a silent command to stay back.

“I’ve got it,” he said, voice calm, confident, and protective. “I’ll handle this.”

Before you could argue, he opened the door.

Satoru stood on the other side. A paper bag hung loosely from his hand, the unmistakable scent of greasy fast food drifting into the apartment. He looked out of place against the dim hallway, too clean, too polished, even now.

The shift in Satoru’s expression was instant and brutal.

One heartbeat, he was still wearing that careful, apologetic mask he’d walked in with, all soft eyes and lowered voice. The next, something cold and sharp slid across his face like a shadow crossing the moon. His gaze flicked from the greasy bag in his hand, to Toji filling the doorway, to you standing half-hidden behind Toji’s broad shoulder, eyes swollen, cheeks blotchy, hoodie sleeves tugged over your knuckles like a kid trying to disappear.

His jaw locked. The blue of his irises seemed to deepen, darken, until it looked almost black under the harsh hallway light. It wasn’t anger exactly. He was understanding that someone else had been the one holding you while you cried tonight, just like someone else had to be around to hold you every night since he’d left.

The polite concern he’d worn on the way up the stairs cracked, revealing something colder underneath. Jealousy, maybe. Or hurt. Or the sudden, unwelcome realization that eight years had passed and you hadn’t waited in some frozen shrine to his memory. Even though he was literally on his way to getting engaged.

Even if he had no right to feel any of it, the way his eyes darkened said he did.

Toji noticed too. You could feel it in the way his stance shifted, shoulders squaring a fraction more, chin lifting just enough to exude domination. 

Pragmatism was your double-edged sword. You didn't marry with the expectation of love, but you had also wished for a bearable marriage, so that you could appease your widowed father. It was never your dream to be someone else's wife. Your father's recent insistence on marriage had puzzled you, as he had never before seemed eager to send his only daughter away. Yet, sensing an unspoken burden weighing upon him, you reluctantly acquiesced to his request. Believing in your father's good judgment, you clung to a sliver of optimism that this arrangement could be tolerable. But now, it was clear as day that it would be far from it.

True love was a rarity in this world. If given the choice, you would have continued living life as you always had. Those lucky enough to find it in their marriage were considered fortunate but most people, yourself included, would never be so blessed. If there was one luxury that neither commoners nor nobles alike could afford: it was true love.

What you hadn't anticipated, however, was marrying someone of this caliber. Your family was middle class, an awkward in-between among the elites and the common folk. Among the commoners, you were regarded as noble, but among true nobles, you were merely a commoner. The vast disparity in status made it utterly inconceivable to find yourself here, exchanging vows with none other than the King's general, his right-hand man: Suguru Geto.

The Geto household was well-known throughout the lands, their name implicitly holding power equivalent to the King's own. House Geto produced the most seasoned general of each generation, their legacy etched into history, and destined to endure for many more generations to come. Many believed the God of War had smiled upon their bloodline, bestowing upon them his favor and blessings. Suguru Geto, however, stood out from the great warriors before him, and was said to have far surpassed his predecessors, emerging as the strongest general to have ever come from House Geto.

Those who witnessed Suguru on the battlefield described him as more beast than human. He was cold, precise, and calculating—whether in the war room or amid bloodshed on the battlefield. Fear and defeat were foreign concepts to him. He never faltered in the face of war and destruction. Everyone knows that the young general is the King's most prized weapon—sharper and more lethal than any blade. Where His Majesty sought control, Suguru was there to guarantee it. With Suguru by his side, King Sato had become the most influential monarch anyone had ever seen in centuries. Thus, the King himself named Suguru Geto the Conqueror of Stars.

Now, the glaring question remained: how had you, the daughter of a mere palace judge, come to marry the Conqueror of Stars?

Even if your father were to give up his entire fortune and pull out all the stops, it shouldn't have been possible to match you with the King's general. Suguru Geto could have had anyone, yet by some twisted fate, he ended up with someone far below his station.

The King himself attended the wedding, offering his blessings and well-wishes, reinforcing the importance and power Suguru held. Strangers swarmed to congratulate you both, acting as if they'd known you their whole lives. Suguru did most of the talking, his hand steady on your back—a gesture that might seem tender to others, but to you, it felt like a collar. His voice was firm but gentle as he played the part of a lovestruck husband to perfection. It should be no surprise to you that Suguru was able to don this mask of pretense so easily, after all, being convincing was an important art of war.

"Congratulations, General Geto and Lady Geto. May your marriage be blessed with love and everlasting happiness," a serene voice greeted the both of you. It was the King's fourth daughter, Princess Ayaka.

Growing up, you had heard rumors of your husband and Princess Ayaka's relationship. A tragic story of star-crossed lovers. The two were once regarded as the perfect pair, and there were high hopes that once they had come of age, a union would form. This union would have also meant elevating the formidable Geto family into royalty. But after tragedy struck within House Geto, Ayaka was forbidden from spending time with Suguru ever again. As the years went by, the two would occasionally see each other in passing within the palace walls, only able to silently convey their feelings with stolen glances and lingering touches. It was said that Suguru had loved her deeply, but the two were never destined to be together.

Everyone in the upper echelons of society had been aware of the tragedy that struck ten years ago, nearly making the Geto bloodline go extinct overnight. You remember your father bringing you to their funeral—though the two of you remained hidden in the crowd of nobles. You recalled the young Suguru's face because it had haunted you, it was your first time truly seeing what it meant for someone to have nothing left. You will never forget the hollowness in his eyes, the paleness of his skin, the dark circles under his eyes, yet he stood tall and remained emotionless, not a single tear strayed from his eyes even though no one would have blamed him for crying.

Suguru was the sole survivor of a meticulously planned assassination, and bore the weight of the Geto legacy on his shoulders at just the mere age of eighteen. Those who had to witness the aftermath of the assassination described it as an unprecedented brutality—one that was not even witnessed in battlefields. A cruelty so sadistic that even the King himself had to decree that no one is to speak of the heinous atrocity they had witnessed, in order to avoid inciting public fear. Nothing was spared, not even the servants, not even the animals, not even his younger sister who had not come of age yet. Suguru's survival, however, only seemed to solidify everyone's beliefs that he was destined for greatness, that the God of War had smiled upon him specifically, which you thought was an absurd belief.

"Thank you for your well-wishes, Your Highness," you politely bowed your head. "It is an honor to have you attend our celebration."

"I would not miss it for the world," Princess Ayaka smiled, but it didn't quite reach her eyes. "General Geto is a treasured friend. I am relieved to see for myself that he has found a respectable woman to stand by his side."

"Indeed," Suguru replied, his grip tightening around your waist. "I could not have asked for a more suitable spouse."

His words, as convincing as they sounded, only served to heighten your discomfort as you noticed the darkened expression that momentarily clouded Princess Ayaka's features. Those sweet words were deadly daggers in disguise. You couldn't help but wonder what thoughts were running through Ayaka's mind as she witnessed this exchange.

You don’t recall the rest of your wedding celebration. Everything was grand and much too overwhelming, leaving you feeling like an utter stranger looking through the window of your own wedding, rather than experiencing it yourself. As the festivities continued around you, a sense of detachment grew, which felt like a foreshadow–a precursor to the challenges that lay ahead in your new role as Lady Geto.

—

The guests begin to trickle out of the Geto Estate one by one as nightfall approached, the silence enveloping the once lively grounds. Though the summer air was warm, a chilling stillness settled over the estate. You looked to your husband under the clear moonlight, whose face was now like a winter storm—cold and devoid of life. His hand immediately retracts from your back, as if you were made of thorns.

“Suguru–”

“Do not address me so casually,” he said, looking at you with the same disdain he had carried earlier, “Let me make myself clear: you and I are only husband and wife in the public eye. Behind closed doors, do not expect us to be anything more than strangers.” 

You were momentarily stunned by the hostility. Though you had not expected your husband to treat you with adoration, you at least expected some common decency. 

“Haibara will show you to your chambers,” Suguru said without so much as sparing another glance at you, and then he hurriedly left, as if breathing the same air as you was poison.

Haibara had been the first person to greet you when you arrived in the Geto Estate. You had arrived by carriage after several days’ ride. Unlike Suguru, he was very warm and charming, but you recognized that at the end of the day, he was still Suguru’s right-hand man—you couldn’t completely trust him or let your guard down. And since your husband had made it abundantly clear that he will not respect you, it was inevitable that even the servants will follow suit, everyone within these walls was an enemy. It wasn’t just a small obstacle ahead of you, it was a mountain you’d have to climb.

You walked behind Haibara as he ushered you to your chamber, but something felt amiss, because you realized that the two of you were straying farther and farther away from the main house. There was a hint of nervousness and pity in Haibara’s usual cheery demeanor that didn’t escape your notice, but you continued to remain silent, allowing him to lead you to your destination. The two of you crossed a bridge that spanned over a small garden pond, the wood creaking under your steps, and at the opposite end of the bridge stood a modest guest house.

Ah. You thought to yourself. So this was how it was going to be. 

“This will be your new accommodation, Lady Geto,” Haibara nervously chuckled, “Lord Geto made sure this was built before your arrival. He wanted to make sure you had plenty of peace and space.” 

You nodded as you took in your surroundings. You could understand how most people would be insulted by the arrangement, but it was peaceful. It felt like summer here. A wisteria tree stood by the entrance of the guest house, you noticed the koi fish in the pond, and beautiful blooms decorated your surroundings.

This, you realized, was probably the highlight of your day.

“Thank you, Haibara,” you smiled, “It has been a long day for you. Please, get some rest.”

—

The harsh reality descended upon you as you sat alone at the edge of your bed, the moonlight trickling in from your window. Most men would have given into their primal desires—disguised as marital duties—even if only for the first night. But your husband abandoned you, cold and untouched, and made his disgust with you abundantly clear. With each moment that passed, you found your pride and dignity chipping away. You couldn't control the way your body involuntarily trembled, and the tightness in your chest growing with every reminder of his blatant disregard for you. 

You wanted to go home, you wanted to be with your father. The thought of him alone in your old family home pained you. He had not attended the wedding ceremony, his reasoning was because you were now another man's wife, you belonged to the Geto family.

This entire arrangement felt like a cruel game—its rules unclear, and its players driven by motives you didn’t understand. First, your father's sudden insistence on handing you off to another man. And then, it was your husband's immediate hatred towards you. If he had loathed the idea of marriage, then why did he go through with it? Why did he choose you?

As you lay in your bed, you resolve to reclaim your dignity. You had done nothing to deserve Suguru's unjust wrath. He had chosen you. No one had coerced him into marrying you. Which could only mean one thing: you had more leverage than you thought. Something he most likely hoped you wouldn’t come to realize. The revelation ignited a small hope within you.

It will be a long and grueling conquest, but you refuse to let him walk all over you. You do not require love, but you require respect. 

The guest house will be the strategy room, the Geto Estate is the battlefield, and your husband is the enemy general. 

After all, he isn’t the only one who is well-versed in war.

Writing © xechu - please do not redistribute, translate, or repost any of my works.

Hello! My name is Mani, thank you for reading.

The first chapter includes implied child abuse and references to bruises and depression, so please be mindful of the trigger warnings. The story will also contain time skips, an age gap later on, darker themes, and eventual smut. Please review the tags before proceeding. My update schedule may be inconsistent. I’m currently in university and working full-time, so chapters may be released every couple of weeks or once a month. Thank you so much for your patience and understanding.

I hope you enjoy :3

CHAPTER ONE: Seasaw

18+, child abuse, implied abuse, domestic violence, harsh language, mentions of sex, pregnancy,

CHAPTER TWO… tba

CHAPTER THREE… tba

CHAPTER FOUR… tba

CHAPTER FIVE… tba

CHAPTER SIX… tba

CHAPTER SEVEN… tba

CHAPTER EIGHT… tba

CHAPTER NINE… tba

CHAPTER TEN… tba

do not copy, repost, plagiarize, edit, or translate any of my works.

dividers by: @sweetmelodygraphics

You learned from a young age how to exist quietly.

You learned it in the way your shoes scuffed softly against the pavement as you walked beside your mother, head bowed, shoulders drawn in, careful not to draw attention in a neighborhood that was never meant to be yours. You learned it in how you folded yourself small, curling into corners, shrinking inward until you barely took up space, never allowing anyone to witness you simply existing as a human being.

Silence became your default. You spoke little, even at home. Your father demanded a house that was respectable and hushed, where laughter was suspect, and joy was a provocation. If he so much as thought you were enjoying yourself, his temper flared, bottled rage spilling over, his hand always ready to remind you of the cost of being seen. Life felt shameful before you ever understood why. Your earliest memories were of your mother being pushed to the margins of the world, shunned, spat at, struck, insulted, and her dignity being treated like a joke for other people’s amusement. Those images never left you.

Eventually, you began singing to yourself for comfort. It started small; soft, barely-there melodies whispered into the dark. Nights bled into days as your tiny body curled inward, knees pulled to your chest, lullabies slipping from your lips like prayers. With every song, you wished the yelling would stop. That the pain would soften. That the world would finally go quiet.

Your mother was never far. Even in the thick of chaos, she heard you. Your voice cut through the noise. So sweet, gentle, and impossibly pure. It broke something open in her chest every time. She knew then that it was something fragile, a gift the universe bestowed upon you for comfort. For your sake, she had to preserve it.

Through it all, she was gentle with you in ways that felt almost impossible given everything the world had already taken from her. She held you as though you might shatter, spoke to you in hushed tones meant only for safety, and loved you with a devotion that asked for nothing in return. Sometimes, though, her voice would turn brittle, edged with fear rather than anger, as she warned you what not to become.

She told you never to marry the first man who showed you attention. Never sell your dignity. Never to mistake survival for love.

“You’re meant for more than this,” she would say, sobbing quietly into your tiny shoulder, as if saying it enough times might make it true.

And so began acting school. Only six years old, and already your future was being shaped desperately by hands that loved you too much to let the world decide for you.

Somehow, your mother managed to convince your father that you could become something great, if only by promising him the benefits he would reap. She showed him proof: interviews, headlines, the carefully curated success stories of child actors who’d supposedly made it out unscathed. That was what finally swayed him. At the time, it felt like a last resort, a gamble disguised as hope, a way to claw toward a future that didn’t look so bleak.

He paid for acting classes, singing lessons, and the tuition required to send you to the best arts school they could afford. You weren’t rich, but your family lived comfortably enough. Your father was a successful salaryman; he just happened to spend most of his paychecks in bars, slipping bills to women in fishnets and garter belts, coming home smelling like alcohol and someone else’s perfume.

School was never your favorite part of the day. While your peers were handed opportunities and encouragement, you walked through those doors each morning under the weight of judging eyes. Eyes that lingered too long on the purple bruises blooming along your exposed arms. On the exhaustion carved into your face, the shadows beneath your eyes, no amount of sleep could erase. You smiled anyway, forced it, perfected it, because not smiling only invited more scrutiny. No matter how tired you felt, your mother was worse. She moved through life like a woman already half-buried, her body worn thin by sacrifice, yet she bloomed despite it all. Watching her endure changed something inside you. Your practiced smiles grew a little wider. Your voice carried a little more light.

Though you were grateful for the opportunity, regret followed close behind. You wished your mother had never asked that evil man to pay for your schooling. From the moment he covered your tuition, he began breathing down your neck, his presence heavy and inescapable. He punished you if your voice wavered even slightly during lessons, if your pitch cracked, if your grades slipped by a single point. Excellence wasn’t enough. It had to be flawless, and even then, it never satisfied him.

What began as an opportunity slowly revealed itself as a curse. When you were ten, freshly graduated from your fifth year, he finally parted with a few words meant to follow you for the rest of your life.

“You will never amount to anything,” he said. “Just like your mother.”

He was supposed to pay for your sixth year at a new school. Without him, your mother couldn’t afford it. The future you’d been pushed toward vanished overnight, as easily as it had been promised. And that was the day you sobbed into Satoru’s arms for the first time.

He had never been to your house. Whenever you were together outside of school, it was always the park or his place. You preferred it that way, mostly because he lived in what felt like a miniature mansion. You loved running through the long halls, your feet slapping against cool marble as the two of you flung water at each other, laughter echoing loud enough to earn sharp looks from his mother.

He had never seen you like that before, so unguarded, so broken open. Even on the days you went to school after witnessing things no child should ever have to see, you carried a soft smile on your face. You held it carefully, kept it intact.

Just for him.

“It’s okay,” he said softly, hopeful in the way only a child could be. “I’m sure your papa will be back.”

You couldn’t speak. The lump in your throat made breathing difficult, but it wasn’t the only thing silencing you. To tell him the truth, to say that you knew your papa wasn’t coming back, would have meant explaining everything. Your situation. The shame of it. The constant bruises blooming on your mother’s face, the matching ones hidden beneath your own clothes. It would have required honesty and a level of vulnerability you weren’t ready for. You were only ten, after all.

Instead, you stayed quiet.

That day became the sweetest you could remember. He begged his mother to let you stay the night, clinging to her arm with earnest insistence. You like to think she understood then, the weight of a father leaving, for good. Perhaps even the cruelest creatures are capable of sympathy, if only in small, fleeting doses.

Most of the night was spent with Satoru doing everything he could to distract you. He baked cookies with reckless enthusiasm, flour dusting the counters and his hair, dragged out the action figures from his favorite television shows, the ones your mother had given him for his eighth birthday (and could barely afford), and insisted on reenacting entire scenes with exaggerated sound effects. When the kitchen grew quiet, he flipped on the television, sprawled across the floor like the world was light again.

Satoru’s love for television ran deep. He gravitated toward playful characters, especially the ones who spoke too loudly or laughed too much, the ones who filled every moment with noise. He learned early that he wasn’t meant for impressions or dramatic voices, no matter how hard he tried. What he was, though, was a natural performer, effortlessly funny, and magnetic in a way that drew people in without trying. Even then, it was clear he belonged in front of an audience.

His mother was buried in debt long before you ever met her, debt left behind by a husband who died when Satoru was only two. He never spoke about his father, or the absence of one, but now and then you caught glimpses of it anyway: the flicker of jealousy when other kids talked about theirs, the way he lingered a second too long when someone mentioned family traditions he’d never known.

His mother took over the struggling company after her husband’s death and rebuilt it with sheer force of will, turning it into something stronger and more profitable than it had ever been under his father’s care. Still, it was never enough. It could never be enough. She needed security, needed Satoru to become part of the solution someday, or better yet, to generate his own success entirely.

When she noticed his love for comedy and theatre, she acted immediately. She paid for his schooling without hesitation, investing in him the way one might invest in a future asset. That was how he met you.

Unlike you, Satoru was handed wider doors. Better opportunities. He had star appeal in a way that couldn’t be taught, money, confidence, and a face that felt unreal. Beautiful white hair, crystal-blue eyes on a Japanese child, no less. He was an anomaly, unmistakable and impossible to overlook. The commercials he booked leaned heavily into it, framing him as something ethereal, something rare.

Even then, it was clear the world was already reaching for him.

At twelve, you had your first kiss.

By then, the starlight had already begun to fade. Your mother could no longer afford fine arts schools or music lessons, and just like that, the future that had once felt so carefully planned slipped through your fingers. You were quietly pushed out of auditions, out of classrooms that smelled like stage makeup and hope, back into a world that demanded practicality over possibility. The industry moved on quickly. Too quickly for a child who had never been taught how to stop dreaming.

You booked one commercial that summer, right before your birthday. It was for a company that felt off in ways you didn’t yet have the language for. The set was cramped, the smiles too forced, the adults too eager. The pay was enough to keep the lights on for a little while, enough to make your mother cry with relief, but nowhere near what she’d been promised. Nowhere near enough to buy your way back in.

Meanwhile, Satoru was everywhere.

Commercial after commercial. Voice acting gigs that stacked up like proof the world wanted him. His mother’s pockets filled, his future accelerating faster than anyone could keep up with. You watched it all happen from the sidelines, never once feeling jealousy take root. Only pride. A quiet, aching kind of pride for the boy who had always been meant for something bigger.

The night of the party, his mother threw a celebration for his newest voice acting job. The house buzzed with laughter and adult voices, the clink of glasses drifting up the stairs. You stayed in his room instead, lying on the edge of his bed, staring at the ceiling.

Lately, you’d been depressed as hell.

You didn’t have a better word for it back then, just a constant heaviness that pressed down on your chest. You were tired all the time. Food tasted like nothing. Even breathing felt like an effort some days. Still, you’d come. You wanted to be there for him, even if all you could offer was your presence.

The door creaked open.

Satoru stepped inside, light spilling in behind him, before he nudged the door mostly shut. He crossed the room quietly, like he was afraid of startling you.

“Hey,” he said softly, reaching down to brush his fingers through your hair. “Mom’s cutting the cake. You want some?”

You turned your head slightly, meeting his eyes. They were gentle. Always had been.

You shook your head. “Nah,” you admitted after a pause. “I haven’t felt hungry in a while.”

Something shifted in his expression, concern settling in, deeper than before. He didn’t fully understand what was happening to you lately. He just knew you were quieter. Smaller somehow. That you laughed less and slept more and looked like you might drift away if he didn’t hold on tightly enough.

He knelt beside the bed, still tall even then, his presence grounding in a way you hadn’t realized you needed.

“Don’t be scared to talk to me,” he said, voice earnest, almost pleading. “I’m serious. I don’t care if you think you’re annoying me or whatever.” His hand came up, warm and careful as it cupped your cheek. “I… like you. I want to take care of you. You’re my best friend.”

Your heart began to race, the words sinking in slowly, painfully. He was looking at you differently, focused, intense, like you were the only thing in the room that mattered.

“Sato…” you started, your voice catching.

You didn’t get to finish.

His lips brushed against yours, tentative and soft, like he was asking permission even as he crossed the line. For a second, the world went silent. No shouting. No expectations. No fear of being left behind.

Just warmth.

You pressed into his lips harder, clumsier than you meant to, the kiss turning desperate before either of you understood why. He adjusted instinctively, tilting his head, meeting you where you were, and for a moment the world narrowed to warmth and breath and the quiet sound of your heart in your ears. Then he pulled away, slowly… reluctantly, like he’d only been promised a taste of you, like he wasn’t sure he was allowed to want more.

He rested his forehead against yours, breathing unevenly.

“Is that okay?” he asked, voice softer than you’d ever heard it.

You nodded, unable to speak yet, still suspended somewhere between fear and relief.

From that day on, your relationship deepened in quiet, stolen ways. Your kisses multiplied, behind bleachers where the air smelled like grass and metal, in the corners of empty classrooms after the bell rang for lunch, in his room with the door locked and the world held at bay. Sometimes it was just his lips against yours, slow and careful. Other times, it was your hands on his cheeks, grounding yourself in the proof that he was real, that he was choosing you.

That winter, he asked you to be his girlfriend as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

“You don’t have to think about it,” he said, trying to play it cool and failing miserably. “I mean, unless you want to. But I already know what I want.”

You laughed through nerves, through the way your chest felt too full. You said yes without hesitation. You couldn’t imagine saying anything else.

At fifteen, you realized you loved him and the life he provided. You had so many firsts with him.

His first movie premiere, the first one he ever voice acted in, was also your first. You were fifteen, standing beside him as his plus one, surrounded by other voice actors and industry people who spoke in polished tones and practiced smiles. The lights were blinding. Cameras flashed. You wore a borrowed dress that fit just well enough, your hands shaking as you clutched his sleeve.

“You okay?” he whispered, leaning down so only you could hear.

“Yeah,” you lied softly. “I just… don’t want to embarrass you.”

He frowned. “You couldn’t.”

But you felt it anyway, the weight of the room, the way you didn’t belong. You watched him laugh with producers, watched strangers praise him like he was already something untouchable. You felt proud, achingly so, and terrified in the same breath. Like you were standing beside a rising star, already wondering how long before gravity caught up with you.

Still, those years were happy. Happier than you’d ever known. Even your mother began to look healthier, the lines in her face softening as hope crept back in. For a while, it felt like maybe things really were changing. Maybe this life, this version of you, could last.

You didn’t know what was happening beneath the surface.

Satoru’s mother had always tolerated you when you were younger. Hating a child outright would’ve looked cartoonishly cruel. But once you turned twelve, the patience evaporated. The complaints started quietly at first, offhand remarks, heavy sighs, pointed looks.

“She’s always sad,” she’d say to him. “It’s exhausting.”

“She drags the mood down.”

“She’s going to hold you back.”

She told him you were miserable and wanted the same fate for him. That your sadness was contagious. That loving you meant choosing a smaller life.

Satoru argued with her constantly.

“You don’t know her,” he’d snap late at night, voice raised, door slammed shut. “You don’t get to talk about her like that.”

“She’s a liability,” his mother would fire back. “And you are too young to see it.”

Those fights bled into your nights. You sat on his bed afterward, knees pulled to your chest, listening as he paced the room, furious and restless.

“She’s ridiculous,” he’d say bitterly.

You shook your head, throat tight. “No. She’s just… right.”

He stopped. “Don’t say that.”

“She is,” you insisted quietly. “I see it. I’m not blind, Satoru. I don’t have anything to offer you like she wants.”

He knelt in front of you then, hands gripping your knees. “You’re not dragging me down.”

“You don’t know that,” you whispered. “You’re flying, and I’m—” You swallowed. “I’m barely staying afloat.”

He shook his head hard. “I choose you. I’ve always chosen you.”

When he finally told his mother you were dating, really dating, she exploded.

“I don’t know why you insist on disobeying me!” she screamed, her voice carrying down the halls. “She is ruining your future. Either get rid of her, or you won’t hear the end of it!”

He didn’t back down.

At sixteen, he bought you a promise ring.

It was a thin, beautiful band with a princess-cut diamond that caught the light every time you moved your hand. The fact that he could afford it at all was insane. The fact that he chose to spend that money on you made your chest ache.

“I know it’s stupid,” he said, slipping it onto your finger with hands that trembled just slightly. “But I want you to know I’m serious. About us. About everything.”

You stared at it, overwhelmed, terrified, loved beyond reason.

Your heart felt like it might burst in that moment, and you knew you would have been okay with it, so long as his love still surrounded you. His eyes held yours, kindness swirling in those impossible shades of blue, steady and unwavering. When he looked at you like that, the world felt safe.

“You’re mine,” he whispered, like it was something sacred. “You’ll always be mine. I promise I’ll always be here for you, no matter what.”

He rested his forehead against yours, the room falling into stillness around you. For a moment, nothing else existed. No expectations. No futures pressing in. Just the two of you, breathing in sync, suspended in a fragile, perfect now.

That night marked another first.

It wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t reckless. He was kind and gentle with you, hands on your hips as he drove deep inside, rambling on about how he loved you so much. How you were his, forever. Long, strong hands on your soft skin,n squeezing, feeling you up, and drinking every single moan that dared to escape your lips. You carried that night with you long after it ended. It lingered in the warmth of your cheeks when you thought about it later, in the way your chest tightened whenever you remembered how carefully he’d held you, how sure he’d sounded when he spoke about forever. Even years later, the memory remained gentle.

--

You never could have predicted what came next.

A week passed with no word from Satoru. Not just missing school, missing you. No texts. No half-asleep calls. No rambling voice notes sent too late at night. The two of you spoke every single day, even when he was busy, even when he was exhausted, even when he’d barely slept. Silence like this wasn’t just unusual. It was wrong.

By the eighth day, the worry had eaten through you completely.

You told yourself there had to be a reason. A shoot running late. A phone was taken away. Something temporary. But your chest wouldn’t loosen, and your hands wouldn’t stop shaking as you walked to his house after school, rehearsing explanations you didn’t believe in.

You saw the moving truck before you saw anything else.

A large van sat parked in front of the house, its back doors open wide. Furniture lined the driveway, couches wrapped in plastic, boxes stacked and labeled, pieces of a life being dismantled in broad daylight. Your breath caught painfully in your throat.

Moving?

No. That couldn’t be right. He’d lived here his entire life. He’d told you once he couldn’t imagine leaving this place, said his mother wouldn’t even think of it.

You knocked anyway. Harder than you meant to.

The door opened almost immediately.

His mother stepped out first, sharp heels clicking against the pavement as she barked orders over her shoulder. “Satoru, bring the rest of the boxes out. Now!”

You heard his voice inside then. Raised. Strained. Furious.

“I told you I needed time,” he snapped.

“We don’t have time,” his mother shot back. “The role starts filming in two weeks. This is not a discussion.”

Your heart hammered.

When she finally noticed you, it was like watching something ugly surface. Whatever thin layer of civility she’d ever bothered with vanished, her expression twisting into something openly hostile.

“What do you want?” she demanded, eyes narrowing to slits.

You froze. You’d seen her cold before, dismissive and sharp, but never like this. Never so openly cruel.

“I—I was just—” Your voice faltered. “I was looking for Satoru.”

Something flickered across her face. Recognition. Then satisfaction.

“Oh,” she said slowly, lips curling. “Did Satoru not tell you?”

Your stomach dropped.

Behind her, you could hear him pacing, his movements restless, angry. He hadn’t been at school because he’d been shuttled between studios and auditions, locked in windowless rooms with producers and directors who spoke about his future like it was already theirs. He’d spent days recording lines, reshooting scenes, being molded into something sharper, bigger, more marketable. Nights dissolved into arguments, his voice raw from shouting, his hands clenched at his sides as he demanded to know why his entire life was being uprooted without his consent.

“You can’t just take me away from everything,” he’d yelled. “From her.”

“She’s a distraction,” his mother had replied coldly. “And you’re proving my point.”

He thought about you constantly during those days. Thought about texting you a hundred times, fingers hovering over his phone before dropping it again. He didn’t know how to explain this over a screen. Didn’t know how to tell you that the ground had shifted beneath his feet, that everything was being decided for him again. He was terrified you’d hear it from someone else. Terrified you’d look at him and think he’d chosen this.

He hadn’t chosen anything.

And now you were standing there, watching his life being packed away piece by piece, realization dawning far too late.

His mother’s voice cut through your thoughts, sharp and satisfied.

“We’re moving,” she said. “You should go home.”

Before you could respond, footsteps sounded behind her. Satoru came through the doorway slowly, like his body was heavier than usual. His eyes were red, rimmed and glassy, his face drawn tight with something close to panic. He looked like he’d been crying, something you had never seen in the ten years you’d known him. Not once. The sight alone knocked the air from your lungs. When his gaze found yours, it softened instantly. Those bright, familiar eyes filled with something raw and desperate. He looked at you like he was already apologizing. Like he was asking for forgiveness without knowing how to say the words out loud.

“I told her today,” he said quietly, voice rough. “I meant to tell you last week. I just—” He swallowed. “I didn’t know how.”

You didn’t answer. Your mind felt numb, lagging behind the moment.

Instead, you reached for your phone with shaking hands. There it was. A message sent hours ago.

So small it felt cruel.

We’re moving. Don’t text me, don’t respond to this. Lose my number. I’m so sorry.

Your chest tightened painfully. All that history, all those promises, reduced to a handful of words that did not explain, no goodbye. It felt almost insulting, how little context he’d given, how easily it could be misunderstood. Like he’d erased you with a single message.

You looked back up at him, your throat burning. And for the first time, you couldn’t tell whether he was asking you to stay, or letting you go.

His eyes were wet again, long lashes heavy with tears, his gaze unfocused like he was trying not to break in front of you. In his mind, he had already lived a hundred futures with you. He saw himself marrying you after college, fumbling with the ring because his hands would be shaking too badly. He saw himself buying you your first car, your first apartment, something small and imperfect, but yours. From the day he held you while you sobbed about your father, your body trembling against his, he had known it wasn’t just love. It was a responsibility. It was devotion. It was forever.

“I’m so sorry,” he said, voice cracking. “I…”

He couldn’t finish.

Instead, he looked away.

He stepped out of the doorway with a large cardboard box in his arms, jaw clenched, shoulders tight, walking past you like it physically hurt to do so. He didn’t meet your eyes again. That hurt worse than anything else.

“You’re a distraction to him,” his mother said sharply, stepping forward. “I think it’s time you leave.”

Her words landed like a shove.

Your cheeks were wet. You weren’t even sure when you’d started crying. Your feet felt rooted to the pavement, heavy, sinking, like the ground itself was trying to swallow you whole. Time stretched thin and meaningless as you stood there, folding inward, shrinking the way you always had when things became too much.

Then your legs moved on their own.

You ran.

You sobbed as you ran home, breath hitching painfully with each step, the wind slicing against your face like punishment. Your chest burned, your heart aching so fiercely it felt like it might split open. Tears blurred your vision until the world became nothing but streaks of light and shadow, grief pressing in from all sides.

How could she do that?

How could he let it happen?

No explanation. No chance to speak. Just cruelty. Sudden and sharp, like he hadn’t kissed you only a week ago, or as if you were the last girl alive.

Like none of it had ever mattered.

Your mother had always loved Satoru like he was her own son. You didn’t spend much time together at your home; there were too many reasons for that, but the few moments she had shared with him were enough. She saw how careful he was with you. How he listened. How he made space for you without ever asking you to shrink. That was all she needed to know she could trust him.

Now, she held you while you cried, arms wrapped tightly around your shaking body, one hand rubbing slow circles into your back. You stared down at the ring on your finger, the diamond catching the light like a cruel joke. Her grip tightened when she noticed it, a quiet sound breaking from her chest.

Even she had believed the two of you would be together forever.

–-

About eight months after everything fell apart, you made the mistake you’d been avoiding for far too long: you checked his Instagram.

You’d texted him more times than you cared to admit after he moved. Messages sent late at night. Messages deleted and rewritten. Messages that went unanswered until, eventually, they stopped delivering altogether. He’d changed his number without telling you, leaving you suspended in silence. He never blocked you on social media, though, whether out of forgetfulness or mercy, you didn’t know. It felt like both a blessing and a curse.

It was the night before a party your friend was throwing, her parents out of town, the house meant to be loud and distracting. You don’t know what possessed you. Maybe it was the quiet. Maybe it was the way his name still sat in your chest like unfinished business. Whatever the reason, you looked.

And there it was. The answer you’d been dreading.

Had he moved on already?

If the feed was any indication, the answer was yes.

Picture after picture filled the space where you used to be. A pretty girl with long, dark hair and an easy smile. A ring on her finger, too similar to yours to bea coincidence. Photos of them kissing, holding hands, leaning into each other, as it came naturally. Photos of them on set together, bathed in professional lighting, playing roles that bled too easily into real life. They were starring in the new television show he’d been filming together.

Your stomach twisted violently.

You scrolled even though it hurt. Even though every image felt like a deliberate erasure. You felt sick with jealousy, with grief, with the humiliating realization that the future you’d imagined had been replaced so seamlessly. You closed the app too late, nausea rising in your throat, heart pounding like it was trying to escape your chest. For a moment, you wished your mom would come home from work early.

You stared into the abyss for so long you didn’t even hear the front door open.

“Hey, are you ready?” your friend called out, keys jangling as she stepped inside. “I asked Shoko to stop somewhere for food before we go back to my place to set up.”

You didn’t respond.

She paused, finally really looking at you. At the way your shoulders slumped, at the distant glaze in your eyes. She let out an exaggerated sigh and rolled her eyes.

“Oh, come on,” she said, already impatient. “You seriously need to get over him. Yeah, okay, he was your childhood best friend, and sure, he was probably the only rich guy you’ll ever be with.” She waved a hand dismissively. “But there’ll be more guys like that. Trust me.”

There was no softness in her voice. No attempt to understand. Just annoyance, thinly veiled as encouragement.

Before you could protest or explain that it wasn’t about money or status, she grabbed your wrist and tugged you toward the door.

“Let’s go,” she said. “You’re not staying home tonight.”

–-

The party swallowed you whole.

Music blared so loudly it rattled your ribs, bass thudding against your chest until it felt like your heart might give out. The house was packed, too many bodies, too much heat, too many voices shouting over one another. Someone pressed a cup into your hand. Then another. Liquor burned down your throat, loosening something reckless inside you.

You drifted through the night in fragments.

Dancing too hard with friends you barely registered. Laughing until it hurt, then crying without warning. Stuffing handfuls of potato chips into your mouth on the kitchen floor, salt sticking to your fingers. Kissing strangers whose names you forgot the moment they pulled away. Everything blurred together in sound, touch, and light.

You just wanted the pain to stop.

But it didn’t. It pulsed beneath everything, relentless. Every image of him with her replayed behind your eyes, bright and merciless. You could still see the ring. Still hear his voice in your head. The ache in your chest refused to dull, no matter how much you drank.

You told yourself you needed to move on as he had. So when a familiar hand belonging to a boy from your class tugged gently at your wrist and guided you toward the stairs, you didn’t resist. When he led you into a quiet room away from the noise, you didn’t stop him. You immediately pushed him against the wall, kissing your classmate deeply, whimpering into his mouth, ripping his shirt off, and unbuckling his pants. You played along, hoping that if you leaned into the moment hard enough, it might finally drown out the ghost of Satoru. Deluding yourself intimaginingne each thrust of his hips was really Satoru’s. That his fingers igniting fires beneath your skin belonged to your true love.

It wasn’t long before you found out you were with child.

The realization came quietly. A missed cycle you tried to ignore. Nausea that lingered too long to be a coincidence. When you saw those two lines on your pregnancy test, it felt unreal, like something that had happened to you rather than something you were living through. You were terrified. Ashamed. Certain that this was the moment everything finally collapsed.

Telling him was worse.

The boy, the one who’d fucked you through your drunken stupor, went pale when you said the words. He stammered excuses, promises that unraveled almost immediately. He said he wasn’t ready. That it couldn’t be his responsibility. That he had plans. Within weeks, he’d moved neighborhoods and changed schools, his mother calling you every name but your own. He didn’t look back.

It was his brother, Toji, who stayed. Toji was his older brother, about five years older than him, and he truly hated his brother’s irresponsibility and their mother’s decision to aid it.

Toji wasn’t gentle, not in the way people expected comfort to look like. He didn’t sugarcoat anything. He didn’t pretend this would be easy. But he showed up. He drove you to appointments when your mother couldn’t leave work. He fixed the things around the house that had been broken for years. He handed you grocery bags without comment and money without pride, making it clear you didn’t owe him gratitude, just honesty.

“This isn’t your fault,” he told you once, blunt and unyielding. “And you’re not doing this alone.”

Your mother, though… your mother was your anchor.

When you finally told her, voice shaking, she didn’t yell. She didn’t cry. She pulled you into her arms and held you like she had when you were small, like the world hadn’t already taken too much from you. She told you she was proud of you for telling the truth. Proud of you for surviving. From that day on, she went with you to every doctor’s appointment, kept track of your vitamins, and cooked when your body ached too much to stand. She talked to your stomach softly at night, like she was welcoming someone she’d been waiting for all along.

You were seventeen when you gave birth. The peak of your teenage years was already reaching a fever pitch before it could begin.

Meanwhile, Satoru’s seventeen looked a lot different.

At seventeen, he was everywhere. His name is climbing, his face unavoidable. Interviews. Roles. Praise that felt endless. His relationship with a girl named Mio was announced publicly, with carefully curated photos flooding the internet. They looked flawless together. Young, talented, untouchable. The kind of life people earn.

You watched it all from a distance, your life already ruined, wondering how two lives that once fit so seamlessly together could end up so impossibly far apart.

He was becoming everything he was meant to be.

Your thighs trembled on either side of his head, muscles jumping every time he sucked the sensitive bud between his lips. You stared down at him through heavy lashes, cheeks flaming, whole body buzzing from too much cheap liquor and the impossible heat of his mouth. This was easily the drunkest you’d been in months; words kept slipping out slurred and broken.

Every pull of his lips drew another soft, hiccuping sob from your chest. You couldn’t stop them. Didn’t really want to.

After a few minutes, he slid lower, tongue pressing flat and hot against your entrance before pushing inside, thick, insistent, curling just enough to make your walls flutter. You gushed around him instantly, slick coating his chin, and he chuckled darkly into you.

“Oh, fuck yeah,” he growled, voice muffled and rough. He pulled back just enough to watch his fingers take over, long, pale digits sliding through your folds, middle finger rubbing slow, firm circles over your swollen clit while he admired the mess you were making. “Look at you. Dripping for me.”

He lined those same two fingers up with your entrance, pressing just the fingertips there, enough pressure to tease, not enough to breach. Your whole body tensed instinctively; shoulders hunching, breath catching.

“O-Oh, actually, no fingers please,” you whimpered, squirming under him, thighs twitching like you couldn’t decide whether to close or open wider.

He lifted his head, blue eyes glinting in the low light, lips glossy and smug. He studied your flushed face for a beat, wide eyes, parted lips, the way your chest rose and fell too fast, and clearly clocked the difference between real fear and shy, overwhelmed want.

“Yeah?” he said with a low chuckle, sounding amused and fond at the same time. “You’re a grown woman, you can take some fingers.”

He didn’t push in. Instead, he kept the tips right there, circling your slick entrance in lazy, feather-light strokes, teasing, never forcing. The more your eyes widened, and your bottom lip trembled, the wider his grin got.

He laughed softly, breath hot against your thigh. “Fuck, you look so scared. It’s cute.” His voice dropped lower, almost coaxing. “But your pussy’s clenching every time I get close. You’re dying for it, aren’t you? Just too shy to say it.”

You couldn’t form a proper sentence, too drunk, your cheeks burning so hot you thought they might glow in the dim fairy lights strung above the bed. But your hips gave you away: a tiny, helpless roll toward his hand, chasing the teasing pressure of his fingertips even as you squirmed. That small movement said everything your mouth couldn’t.

If there was ever a moment to finally lose your virginity, this hazy, reckless night felt like the one. Your last boyfriend had gotten frustrated waiting, always sighing like it was a personal insult whenever you hesitated. And now here you were, thighs spread for Satoru Gojo, a guy you’d only ever heard stories about, the kind of guy who showed up in campus gossip like he was a myth. The irony wasn’t lost on you, even through the alcohol fog.

He groaned low in approval at that little hip roll, the sound vibrating against your skin. His thumb kept up those steady, maddening circles over your clit while his two fingertips stayed right at your entrance, pressing, circling, never quite pushing in yet. “That’s it,” he murmured, voice rough and pleased. “Let me play a little longer like this. You’re so fucking wet I can hear it.”

The slick sounds were embarrassingly loud in the quiet room, every tiny shift of his fingers making an obscene little noise that had you biting your lip harder. Then his mouth returned, hot, wet suction on your clit again, tongue flicking in time with his thumb while those fingertips kept teasing your hole.

He pulled back after a long, slow pull, pressing soft, open-mouthed kisses along your inner thigh instead. The contrast made you shiver. “You gonna let me continue with what I want or?” he asked, voice lazy and teasing, breath warm against your skin.

You were too embarrassed to speak; words felt impossible, but a needy little whine slipped out anyway. After a beat, you managed a small, jerky nod, eyes squeezed shut like that would hide how badly you wanted it.

He didn’t hesitate. Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he slid his fingers inside, one inch at a time, letting you feel every bit of the stretch. Your walls fluttered and clenched around him instinctively, slick easing the way even as your breath hitched.

“If I didn’t know any better,” he teased, curling his fingers just slightly to test your reaction, “I’d say you were a virgin.”

You froze. Completely. Eyes snapping wide open, heart slamming against your ribs in sudden panic. The embarrassment hit like ice water. Your face must have given everything away because his own eyes widened too, surprise flashing across his features before it melted into something softer, almost careful.

“Oh, fuck,” he breathed, pausing with his fingers still buried halfway inside you. “You actually are?”

You nodded again, eyes still squeezed shut like admitting it out loud would make the embarrassment worse. Satoru blinked once, processing, then let out a soft huff of breath that was half laugh, half awe.

“Okay,” he murmured, mostly to himself. “Gentle. As gentle as I can be.” He said it like a promise, voice lower now, the cocky edge softened just enough to make your stomach flip differently.

He eased his fingers deeper, slow, deliberate pumps now, curling them slightly on each inward stroke so the pads brushed that spot inside you that made your thighs shake. He wasn’t slamming against your cervix; he was careful, testing, letting you adjust inch by inch. You’d touched yourself before, quick, fumbling sessions under the covers when the ache got too loud, but it had never felt like this. Never electric. Never overwhelming. His fingers were longer, thicker, warmer, and the way he watched you, blue eyes dark and focused, lips parted, made every slide feel like it lit up your nerves.

“Fuck,” he breathed, almost reverent. “Look at you taking me already. This little virgin pussy’s so tight… gripping like it doesn’t wanna let go.”

You whimpered, hips twitching up to meet him even as heat flooded your face. The slick sounds were obscene in the quiet room, every slow thrust making a wet, rhythmic noise that had you biting your lip hard enough to taste copper.

“Gonna look so good on my cock, fuck,” he growled, voice rougher now. “Shouldn’t have told me you were a virgin.” He leaned down again, mouth closing over your clit in a gentle suck, nothing too aggressive, just steady pressure and soft flicks of his tongue while his fingers kept that slow, deep rhythm.

“I’m gonna fuck you,” he promised. 

The combination hit you like a wave building too fast. Your back arched off the mattress, hands flying to his hair, fingers tangling in white strands as your whole body started to tremble. Soft, broken sobs spilled out—half pleasure, half overwhelmed begging.

“Satoru, please! Make me cum, I—I need—”

He groaned against you, the vibration sending sparks straight up your spine. His free hand slid up under your shirt, palm flat and warm on your stomach to hold you steady as you squirmed.

“Yeah?” he rasped, pulling off your clit just long enough to speak. His lips brushed the swollen bud with every word, sending little aftershocks through you. “Too bad I’m selfish.”

Before you could even process it, he slid his fingers out, slow at first, then all at once, leaving you clenching around nothing, aching and empty. The sudden loss made you whimper, hips twitching up instinctively. He didn’t give you time to settle. In one fluid motion, he shoved his jeans and boxers down his thighs, kicking them off the bed. His cock sprang free. Thick, flushed, and dark at the tip, already leaking a steady bead of precum that dripped down the underside in a slow, glistening line.

He looked at you then, really looked, like you were something he’d been starving for. Eyes dark, hungry, pupils blown wide in the low light. No gentle preamble this time; just raw want.

He wrapped a hand around the base, gave himself one slow stroke to spread the slick, then lined up with your entrance. The blunt head nudged your folds, parting them easily from how soaked you still were. Your breath hitched, fear and anticipation twisting together in your chest. You opened your mouth like you might say something, anything, but the words died when he pushed forward.

He didn’t slam in. Not quite. But he didn’t ease in inch by inch either. He sank steadily, stretching you open in one long, unrelenting glide until his hips met yours and the head of his cock pressed hard against your cervix. A deep groan tore from his throat, vibrating through his chest as he bottomed out.

Your eyes flew wide. The stretch burned, sharp and full and so much more than fingers ever could be. Your walls fluttered wildly around him, trying to adjust, trying to take all of him. It hurt, but underneath the sting was this overwhelming heat, this pressure that made your toes curl, and your breath come in short, shaky pants. You felt every ridge, every vein, the way he throbbed inside you like he was already close just from being buried to the hilt.

“Fuck,” he hissed through gritted teeth, forearms braced on either side of your head. His forehead dropped to yours for a second, white hair falling into your face. “So tight… squeezing me like a fucking vice. You okay?”

You couldn’t speak right away. Just nodded while your hands scrambled up to grip his shoulders, nails digging in. The pain was already easing, melting into something hotter, fuller. Your hips shifted experimentally, and the drag of him inside you made you gasp.

If this was what Haru got every day, this feeling, this stretch, this impossible fullness, she must’ve been insane to let him go. The thought flashed through your mind, petty and hazy and a little jealous, and it made your walls clench harder around him.

Satoru felt it. His hips jerked once on instinct, grinding deeper, and he let out a rough laugh that sounded almost pained. “Shit, do that again. Fuck yeah, just like that.”

He groaned low in his throat, the sound rough and broken as your walls fluttered and clenched around him, tight, hot, gripping like they were trying to pull him deeper with every thrust. He couldn’t hold back anymore. His hips snapped forward harder, burying himself to the hilt each time, the blunt head of his cock kissing your cervix with a dull, aching pressure that made your whole body jolt.

“Fuck, fuck,” he hissed through clenched teeth, hands clamping down on your hips to hold you exactly where he wanted you. The wet slap of skin on skin filled the room, obscene and rhythmic, mixing with the soft, slick sounds of how soaked you still were. You were making a mess and dripping down his shaft, as well as coating his stomach. Every rough thrust pushed more out of you.

He was already close. Way too close. The way you squeezed him, the way your body trembled under his, the little broken whimpers you couldn’t stop making, it was driving him insane. He leaned down, forearms braced on either side of your head, forehead almost touching yours so he could stare straight into your glassy, half-lidded eyes.

Your faces were inches apart; you could feel his ragged breath against your lips, smell the faint rum and sweat on his skin.

“Lucky ‘m not evil, baby,” he laughed, but there was no real humor in it, just strained, desperate edge. His hips kept snapping forward, aggressive and deep, no pause even as he felt how swollen and sensitive you’d gotten. Your pussy ached from the stretch, from how relentlessly he filled you, but the ache blurred into something hotter, something you chased with every helpless roll of your hips.

“Wanna make you cum too… most guys wouldn’t,” he said, softer now, almost gentle despite the way he was fucking you like he couldn’t stop. His hand slid between your bodies, fingers finding your clit, and he rubbed firm, fast circles that matched the brutal rhythm of his thrusts.

Your back arched hard off the mattress, a sharp gasp tearing from your throat. Eyes squeezed shut, mouth falling open in a silent cry as the pressure coiled tight and then snapped. You came around his cock with a shuddering sob, walls spasming, fluttering wildly, milking him in tight, rhythmic pulses that made stars burst behind your eyelids. Slick gushed around him again, soaking his hand, his hips, everything.

The sudden squeeze was too much. His rhythm stuttered, hips slamming forward one last time as he buried himself as deep as he could go. A guttural groan ripped out of him, half curse, half plea, and he came hard, spilling deep inside you in hot, pulsing spurts. His whole body trembled above you, cock twitching with every wave as he filled you up, forgetting entirely about pulling out.

For a long second, neither of you moved. Just heavy breathing, the faint thump of bass still leaking through the floor from downstairs, the sticky warmth spreading between your thighs.

He finally exhaled, shaky, and dropped his forehead to your shoulder. “Shit,” he muttered against your skin, voice wrecked. “Meant to… fuck. You okay?”

You nodded. Your legs were still loosely wrapped around him like you didn’t want him to move yet. Your body hummed with aftershocks, sore and full and strangely satisfied.

“Fuck, Kuroo!” you cried, locking your arms and legs around him as he slammed your back against the wall. He ground his clothed cock against your bare heat, groaning as he watched the crotch of his best pair of work pants grow damp beneath you.

“I did good, right Y/N? Waited patiently all day, didn’t I?” His breath fanned heavily across your face as he whispered the words. He pressed feverishly hot lips against the side of your neck, burying his face into your skin. “But I can’t take it anymore—fuck. I need you.” 

8 hours earlier

The morning train into the city was like an airlock between home and work. It was a bridge between the solitude of your one-bedroom apartment and the restless, simmering energy of the corporate world. After all these years on the job—as a sports promoter for one of the nation’s top companies—you’d come to love the hustle and the grind. You thrived on it. And you knew, better than most, how easy it was to lose yourself in the work. 

Perhaps that was why the quiet routine of your commute felt as comforting as it did. There was a unique tranquility in watching the landscape speed past the tinted windows, the suburban condos morphing into towering high-rises as you sped further downtown. Alongside the shifting scenery, you’d feel yourself shift, too: from muted, to expectant, to hungry for the challenge and the spoils of a new day. The train’s low, mechanical rumble was your only company as you transformed. This was your time to clear your mind—to cultivate the razor-sharp focus which made you so good at what you did—and you treasured it. 

Then, he came along. 

“Morning, Y/N,” Tetsuro Kuroo drawled, looking up from his laptop as you took the seat across from him. 

“Hi,” you replied. 

“Ready for the big day?” 

“As I’ll ever be.” 

His white button-up was crisply ironed, as always, but today there was also a suit jacket folded neatly over the arm of his chair. “That’s cute,” you said, pointing at it. “You got all dolled up.” His canine flashed in a crooked smile as he silently stared at his computer. 

You’d been at the company for a couple years already when the Promotional Division hired Kuroo. Quick enough, everyone realized that he was a fucking force of nature: charming, ambitious, and wickedly intelligent, he climbed the ranks faster than anyone you’d seen before, and soon enough, he held the same position as you. You saw a lot of him after that. He was a workaholic. Partnered with him on new projects, you recognized the perfectionism—his need to do more, do better, to prove himself. You had that in common, you supposed. It was the reason you found yourself building easy rapport with him all those months ago, and now, it was why you were glad he was the one presenting the big proposal with you today.  

“Wanna run through the script again?” he asked.

You groaned. “How many more times, Kuroo? You might as well tattoo it behind your fucking eyelids.” 

“Hey, I want to nail this, alright?” He snapped his laptop shut, leaning forward in his seat. “Y/N, if they like this idea, we’re gonna be—” 

“Promoted. Right. You keep saying that—”

“Unstoppable,” he corrected. “We’re gonna be unstoppable.” 

Gold-rimmed irises bore into you. They glittered with anticipation, with intent. You stared right back into them—knowing. Understanding. 

The hunger had crept in. 

After all this time, you’d come to realize just how alike you and Kuroo were. He, too, was married to his work and addicted to the drug that was success. You were both a little bit neurotic in exactly the same way, and you liked that about him. You liked him. 

Yeah, you were fucking—but you were friends too, of course. 

Neither of you had what it took to commit to a relationship right now. You were both prioritizing your careers, and the sex had become a way to release all that stress at the end of the day. So it had always been a casual thing: you went home together after late nights at the office, and Kuroo pounded you into your mattress. You fucked on his kitchen counter in the morning before work. Sometimes you gave him fast, messy head in an empty conference room during lunch break. You were both a bit insatiable. A bit.

But Kuroo was…more than just a fuck-buddy. He was a friend—a real friend. He made you laugh, he bitched about your other coworkers with you, and, more than anything, his ambition continued to inspire you. He understood you on a wavelength that few others did. You remembered the first time you saw him on this train—the first time you met on relaxed terms, outside the office. It was complete luck: you boarded the train that morning, having barely rubbed the sleep from your eyes, and there he was, already seated. You were both cordial at first, you talked work stuff. Then, “I’m so sick of driving to the office,” he’d finally admitted. “I was this close to becoming an actual menace on the road.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah, man,” he replied. “Rush hour in this city is insane. How’ve you not lost your mind yet?” 

You chuckled. “Well, I’ve been taking the train for years,” you sighed. “Honestly,” you lowered your voice to a conspiratorial whisper, “this is my way of giving car-dependent infrastructure the finger.” 

You remembered the way he smiled wolfishly at that. “Fuck car-dependent infrastructure,” he agreed. And you spent the rest of the ride talking anything but work stuff: college and the transition to the corporate world. How Kuroo used to play volleyball in high school and the fact that you wanted to adopt a cat one day. Colleagues melted into friends so quickly, and you wondered how you’d ever tolerated the lonely silence of the train ride before. 

Now, here he was before you: brimming with anticipation for the day ahead, when you’d finally hatch the brainchild you’d been creating together over weeks of planning and diligence. There was no one you’d rather have done it with than Kuroo. Together, you really were: 

“Unstoppable, then,” you said. 

Kuroo gazed at you with those gleaming eyes, a smile playing on his lips. You matched him with your own grin. Sunlight flashed through the window periodically, streaking across his face as the train sped along, and you couldn’t help but stare as it happened. He looked beautiful. 

Was it time? Finally? You thought it might be. You’d been waiting for the right moment to ask. And right now, it was perfectly calm and quiet; you were gazing at each other like you were the only two people in the world. It certainly felt right.

You clenched your palms in your lap, working up the nerve to say it. “Kuroo,” you began. “If the board likes the proposal…and if they decide it is worth a promotion—” 

“Not if,” he interrupted. “When.”

“Fine. When.” There it was—that brazen confidence that never failed to electrify you. It made you want to believe that everything would work out, that the odds would always turn in your favor eventually. Right now, it made you feel brave enough to ask the question you’d been afraid of for weeks. “A promotion would mean a management position, Kuroo. For both of us. And…there’s something I’ve been wanting to, um, ask you. In case that happens.” 

His eyes narrowed slightly, in a way that told you he noticed your hesitance. But he didn’t remark on it yet. “Alright,” he replied. “Shoot.”

You swallowed. “What if…what if we try to leverage a position as co-managers? Of the Promotional Division?” you finally said. “I just—I mean, Washijo’s had the job for years and he’s practically senile at this point. We might have a shot at replacing him, if we play it right. Co-Heads of Promotion, Kuroo. And then we could run this place the way we want.” 

His mouth hung open in surprise. He said nothing for a moment. 

“I know,” you blurted frantically, scared you’d laid it on too quickly. “I know. It’s ballsy—and I know we can't afford to make any mistakes in front of the Board, but I just. I have a good feeling about this. And, I mean, obviously there’s no one I’d rather share the position with than you—hey! Don’t smile at me like that,” you snapped, for his lip had quirked up a bit at that last part. “We’re the two most competent people in the whole fucking department, you know that…and we make a good team. At least, I think so. I’ve always thought so. I dunno. Fuck,” you said, feeling your face burn hotter the longer he stayed quiet. “Forget it, Kuroo. I…I’m sor—” 

“Y/N!” 

Your name burst from his mouth like water breaking a dam—like he’d been holding it back this whole time. “Jesus, Y/N. Slow down,” he said. The embarrassment could’ve lit you on fire. 

“What are you sorry for?” he demanded. 

Your gaze snapped to him. That—the crackle of concern that edged the words—that was not what you expected. You expected howling laughter in your face. Or a declaration that both you and your harebrained idea were insane. 

But Kuroo didn’t do any of that. Instead, he made a sound that was somewhere between a laugh and a scoff. “You’re incredible,” he said. “You know that?” 

You blinked. “What?” 

“You’re fuckin’—” Before you knew what was happening, Kuroo leaned in and cupped your face in his hands. He hovered mere inches away from you. “You’re unreal.”

There was nothing else in the world right now. Nothing but his warm breath, gusting across your skin. His warm palms against your cheeks. His warm, hazel eyes. He was close enough that you could bump the tip of your nose against his if you wanted to. Or you could lean in and kiss him. 

“Um,” you lisped out as Kuroo smushed your cheeks together. “Thanks. Wait. What?” 

“That is,” he breathed, “an exceptional idea. Holy fuck, Y/N. I’m mad I didn’t think of it first.” 

How did he do that? you thought. How did he manage to make everything okay, every time? He said yes. You could’ve leapt with joy. Now, in hindsight, you wondered why you’d even been afraid to ask him in the first place. You should’ve remembered that he and you were inextricably synced. He’d never have said no. 

“God, I could kiss you,” he murmured, stroking your skin tenderly with one thumb. For the first time this morning, you looked at him properly, without anything else on your mind—not the proposal, not what would come after. You gazed at his fawn skin, always so stark in contrast to that dark, ruffled hair. The smooth line of his throat bobbed slightly as you raked your eyes over him. All of a sudden, he shifted his grip—catching your jaw in one, large hand. 

What are you staring at? he asked with his brows. Electric tension sizzled in the air between you. 

Your gazes met. He had you pinned with that deep, smoldering stare, that look that you knew so well. God, it made you want to burn. 

“Kiss me then, Tetsuro,” you said.

He exhaled sharply. And—

“ATTENTION PASSENGERS!” 

The automated female voice rang out, and you both jolted. “The train will be arriving at its destination in approximately one minute.” You giggled, pulling yourself from Kuroo’s grasp. 

“Well, so much for that,” you sighed, leaning back in your seat. “C’mon. Time to put on that cute little jacket.” You began to gather your things. When you rose to your feet, he was still seated. 

Oh, wow, you liked this.

He was staring up at you stupidly: open-mouthed, with color darkening his cheeks. What a pretty fucking sight, you thought, and you knew what it stemmed from, of course. You rarely said his given name. Usually, he had to coax it out of you—spear you open on his cock until that name clogged your senses and rotted your mind from the inside out. 

“‘S’matter?” you murmured. “Go on now.” 

A moment passed in silence. He rose. His eyes never left yours, and you had to tilt your chin incrementally—up, up, and up until he stood at full height in front of you. He grabbed the jacket and looped his arms into it, slowly. Languidly. The train was skidding to a halt now, whining softly against the tracks, and he caught the upper guard handle to balance himself. You leaned against the armrest behind you. And as the force of slowing velocity sent him tipping gently into your body, you felt it. Rock-hard, brushing against your inner thigh. 

“Your fault,” he whispered in your ear. 

People began filing past you out the vestibule door, but the two of you stayed put, leaning into each other. 

“Eight hours, Kuroo,” you said, letting a grin break across your face. He mirrored it, those catlike canines glinting. “Then I’m all yours.”

Part 2 is coming soon!