A cough. A voice rasped from the other side of the screen. Of course, as the sun began to rise, granting your warmth-deprived form a sliver of sunlight, a tempest came and blocked the clear skies with dark, impenetrable clouds.

“I seem to have come down with a… predicament.”

Your eyebrows scrunched in perplexion. Something sounded… wrong.

“Are you okay, Sy?”

Another cough. Albeit a little… too dry.

“I’m sick.”

Sick? For some reason, you did not feel as if that were the whole truth. You had seen him sick before. Multiple times at that—you had fed him soup, tucked him in, dampened his forehead with a wet cloth—and never before had he been so… you couldn’t put a word to it.

“Should I bring soup?”

“No,” he was quick to dismiss. You waited for him to continue.

“You’ve just received your big reward, sweetie. I don’t want to be the reason you’re couped up in your hole again, infected with whatever I have.” Before you could counter, he interjected— “Besides, being the leader of Onychinus doesn’t come with breaks. I still have work to catch up on. I’ll be leaving in an hour. And—”

“Sylus.” You reprimanded. Something was certainly off. He had never scrambled to explain himself before.

“Let me come over. I don’t care if I only see you on the way out.”

Besides, wasn’t he just about to fall asleep? He never worked in broad daylight.

The speaker on the other end was silent for a while. A beat passed, then two, before a sigh emerged from the speaker.

“Fine.”

[…]

Sylus wasn’t in his room when you arrived. The room was dark, with blankets thrown messily about the bed. A gun rested on his bedside table.

Preferring to not waste time embarking on an expedition across his colossal labyrinth of a home, you passed by Luke and Kieran lounging in the kitchen and resorted to inquiring them instead.

Downstairs, they’d said. In the ring.

What sick, diseased fool prefers boxing over a cup of tea and a night spent under the blankets?

“Boss can’t sleep, so he’s down blowing off some steam.”

With your suspicion amplified tenfold, you proceeded down to the ring, heart twisting for answers.

The punching bag swayed violently with every hit. The chain that tethered it to the ceiling clinked, threatening to fly off its hinges if only a little more force was applied. The perpetrator knew well enough to control his strength, but even then, his punches were not light. You could only ponder what it was that got him so worked up. Surely not your stubbornness, right?

You stood in the entrance, knowing he had sensed your presence long before, arms folded over your chest with a tight posture and a head held high, silently demanding an explanation for his sudden unruliness.

You watched sweat fly off the muscles on his back. His face was flushed, whether from fever or from the exercise weighing upon his skin. You couldn’t help but stare at how his shirt stretched taut against his back, leaving little to the imagination.

Focus.

The last punch sent the bag recoiling so far back that you almost jumped when it barely grazed his nose. But in time, Sylus managed to swerve away before snatching a water bottle from a bench and collapsing on it.

With every bit of restraint you had snapping like taut elastic, you marched up to the slouched figure and loomed over his panting form.

“Mr Sylus.”

“Well,” he purred, “Hello to you too, kitten.”

Despite his snarky remarks, his gaze averted from yours like a plague. His head was turned away 90 degrees, eyes staring off to the distance, legs uncharacteristically pressed together instead of splayed.

You scoffed. “So, when you’re sick, your first instinct is to…”

Sylus glanced back at the ring with a proud smile. “I have interesting hobbies. Would you not rather be with an intriguing man than a boring one?”

Your hand reached out to touch his cheek, but before it could make contact, he moved away.

You weren’t sure whether to feel dejected or enraged.

“Sylus!”

“Sweetie.”

This man.

“Sylus.”

“…”

A defeated sigh escaped his lips, though soft, and not bearing any vexation or malice. “Yes, sweetie?” His eyes finally met yours.

You offered him an outstretched hand. “Let’s go to bed, please?” You looked at him, eyes pleading, with a gaze that assured, I won’t ask, I won’t pry; just trust me.

And trust for you, he had plenty.

When his palm slotted against yours, your body flinched at the immense heat radiating from his skin. Scorching, burgeoning heat. Sylus was burning up. And perhaps, the exercise made it worse.

But still, true to your vows, you did not pry.

You snatched Sylus away into his room. You tugged the sweatshirt off his body, helped him to change into something nice, practically glued him to his own bed with your soft words and pleading eyes, before tucking him in beneath the blankets. You cancelled all his plans on his behalf, asked the chef to cook up a soup, all despite his relentless protests. Sometimes, you likened him to a stubborn child.

Still, you could not shake off the feeling that something was seriously wrong. That his fever wasn’t normal. That something else lurked beneath the surface.

After all, Sylus had barely ever lied to you like this. It wasn’t difficult to discover that he did not, in fact, have any work that would need attending beneath daylight, that he had attempted to keep you away for a reason beyond your comprehension.

But, if you thought about it, the latter made sense. Perhaps, he simply did not want to bother you on your much-needed day off. But that didn’t explain the lies, the dodging you like curveballs aiming for his face.

At first, it had taken you three wars and one conquest to convince him to let you touch him. You watched him flinch as your fingernail barely grazed his skin, as your hand barely touched his as you spread the blankets over him.

That was how it started. And now?

You were wrapped so tightly in his embrace that, despite your best attempts, you could not identify a single way to flee. He left no space to wiggle out, rising chest pressed firmly against your back, while, in his sleep, he rumbled softly like a slumbering dragon. And what was weirder was how he refused to let you face him. You never cuddled back-to-chest, with his clinginess desiring to have you facing him at all times.

But the bigger question was… what the hell?

He wouldn’t let you see him, but caved the moment you reprimanded him a little. He would rather die than bask in your touch, but melted the moment he began to drift to sleep. All the while, despite all the medication you’d shoved down his throat, despite all the attempts at cooling him down, his temperature only rose. And as the flesh of his chest pressed against your neck, you felt it rise at least three degrees. Surely, this wasn’t a normal fever?

You had never seen your lover act so odd.

Well, with nothing left to do, wrapped snugly in his embrace, perhaps, you should find out.

You gently nudged him with an elbow. “Sylus.” You whispered. And then, again, a little louder.

A groggy groan brushed against your ear.

Impatient, you tried again.

“Syluuus.”

“Mm… I’m awake.”

You breathed a sigh of relief. He wasn’t fully awake yet, meaning you could technically coax a few secrets out of him while his brain hadn’t fully started running.

“Your fever doesn’t seem normal. Sy?”

He spoke after a few seconds of silence. “No?”

“No. In fact, I don’t think it’s a sickness at all. What is it?”

“Hm… It’s my aether core.” You felt him nuzzle into your neck. The sudden warmth sent shivers down your spine. His mouth opened, nibbling softly on the flesh.

“Your aether core?”

“Mhm.” He did not elaborate. You waited for a minute before pushing. “Sylus, what about your aether core?”

You felt his hand snake around your waist, pulling you closer against him. Teeth sank into your flesh. You jumped instinctively. “Sylus!”

His eyes blew open. Immediately, his warmth retracted, leaving you with a soft sting in your shoulder blade. “I… apologize. I was in a haze.” His eyes frantically scanned over your form, at the arc of teeth marks embedded into your skin, over the way the fabric hugged your form, before resuming its scan to check for any signs of discomfort.

“Did I… do anything?”

“Do what?” You rolled over to face him before propping yourself up using your arms.

Sylus exhaled heavily. His fingers threaded through his unkept hair. “You should leave.”

“What?” Your brows furrowed. Had you crossed a line? “Sylus, I—”

“Please. For your own sake.”

“…”

You did not reply. Instead, you gently cupped his face, dodging his attempts to push you away.

“You said something interesting in your sleep.”

He cocked a brow, but still, he did not look at you. With a shaky breath, he inquired, “What?”

“You said that your fever is a result of your aether core. But you didn’t continue.” Your thumb brushed gently over his jaw, and at the faint touch, his temperature rose. “Will you tell me about it, please?”

A minute passed. Perhaps two. You watched in his eyes as Sylus battled within himself, fighting the urge to run to you and spill his heart, and the urge to do otherwise. Before finally, he relented with a sigh, face melting into your touch.

“A spatial anomaly appeared nearby. It’s making my aether core a little… agitated.”

“Agitated?” You tilted your head.

Sylus continued. “The further I am from it, the less its effects. My fever will subside in a few days.”

You narrowed your eyes, not buying it. “Agitated how?”

You watched how his jaw tensed, how his palms curled on his sides. “It… amplifies desires.”

“Desires?”

“Its greed is insatiable. Sometimes, it demands material goods. Other times, the power of a whole planet.”

“So,” you perked up, “all we must do is satisfy its cravings. What does it desire now?”

A large lump of saliva travelled down Sylus’s throat. He did not speak, hoping his silence was the answer you needed.

“Sylus? What does it desire?”

As if you knew any better.

“What if…” his hand snaked up to yours. “It desires something unattainable? Something almost entirely off the charts in every universe and every possibility?”

You bit the inside of your cheek. “You said almost. Almost entirely unattainable. That means, there’s still a chance. You aren’t the type to lose hope, Sylus.”

Finally, his eyes bore into yours. The faint glimmer of the aether core was unmistakable now that it had been accentuated. “What if… what it desires,” His lips pressed against your wrist, your pulse writhing against his skin, “Is you?”

Your heart stopped.

Suddenly, everything made sense. The lies, the exaggerated efforts to keep you at arm’s length, the conflicting clinginess, the bite on your shoulder, the way his hands wrapped around you in his sleep-induced daze. It all made sense. He was protecting you from the threat that is himself.

All this time, he had been…

Your eyes travelled below. Sure enough, an erection strained at his pants, bulging through the fabric.

How could you have been so dense?

It had been a few months since you’d come out to Sylus as ace-spec. Ever since, he had been the most supportive partner you could dream of. He never pushed you for sex, never made any offensive advances, never made you feel like you had a duty to fulfil. You didn’t owe him your body, and he was sure to make that abundantly clear. The pair of you agreed upon a low-sex relationship, but as of late, you hadn’t done it yet.

You knew Sylus wasn’t like you. He, like most, had desires. He had made advances on you prior to your coming out, and it was clear that he felt attraction towards you. That was no secret, for anyone with a decent pair of eyes could make it out from a distance.

You couldn’t imagine how hard it would have been on him as well. For lingering patiently, awaiting a day that may never come, knowingly at that.

If you hadn’t come over, he would have just sucked up the pain and lived with it. He would bear with the agony until it eventually subsided. Your heart clenched at the thought.

Slowly, you inched closer to Sylus.

“Sylus… I think I’m ready.”

As if your words hadn’t surprised him, he shook his head. “There is no need. The fever will subside in a few days.”

“Sylus,” you whispered his name, eyes pleadingly staring at his, “Don’t do this to yourself.”

“Kitten…” He retreated from your proximity. “I don’t want intimacy if it emerges from guilt or obligation.”

You closed your eyes and sighed. You knew this conversation would emerge eventually, and that you had to face another lengthy explanation sooner or later.

“Sylus.” You cupped his cheeks. “I want this. I’ve been wanting this for a while. A lot of us aren’t repulsed by it.”

Perplexion blossomed behind his eyes, as well as a flicker of understanding.

“I know this sounds weird, but many like me can enjoy the sensation. And, personally, I find that if shared with the right person,” you interlocked your hands with his, “in the right time,” you leaned in to press a kiss on his lips, “Intimacy can be beautiful. Even if I don’t feel a need for it. Do you remember what I said back then?”

Sylus reminisced. A smile emerged on his face. Even then, he had found the analogy most amusing.

You narrated your previous words. “It’s like chips. I don’t crave it, and it isn’t one of my favourites. I don’t get hungry when I see a bag of chips. But if someone offered me one, I’d try it, and I’d relish in its taste.”

The pair of you burst into a giggle. Back then, why you chose a bag of chips to describe your innermost turmoil remained a mystery. But the fact remained, and now, you were sure he understood.

“Can we…?” You pressed your forehead against his. Your hips straddled his waist.

“Is this your first time?”

With a shaky breath, you nodded.

“Let me guide you.” With your consent, his lips captured yours in a fervent kiss. The two of you stumbled back onto the bed, your back hitting the plush mattress with a soft thud, his own arms scrambling to steady you both. His hands travelled down your body, palming your sides up and down. Unsure what to do in response, you threaded your fingers through his hair.

As you pulled back, panting, warm breaths mingling, swirling into one, you managed to murmur—”I… don’t actually know what to do. I’m sorry if I—”

Sylus hushed you by pressing his lips more passionately against yours, drowning your voice in his throat. “Don’t apologize,” he rasped; it was the same hoarseness his voice bore when you’d called him earlier that day. Heat crept up your neck. Had he been…

When you pulled apart once more, your eyes locked into his.

“Can you… help take off my clothes?”

A knot of saliva clotted at both your throats. Suddenly, the weight of it all began tugging at your heart. You didn’t doubt your decisions—never. But still, you pondered how it would feel. Would the sensation please you? Would you really enjoy it as you’d promised? If he were to discover that you hadn’t, and if you had not, he surely would, then you imagine he would not be so enthusiastic. You had always craved the feeling of release. Curiosity about the sensations that came with the act plagued your mind. But what if, just what if, against all odds, it defied your positive expectations?

Sensing your unease, Sylus interjected your string of thoughts. “Are you sure about this, kitten? We can always—”

“Please.” You pleaded. Because a part of you truly did want this, whether out of childlike curiosity, the urge for a satisfying release, or to please him. If you didn’t do this now, you pondered when you would receive that fleeting, inconsistent burst of desire once more. Perhaps, it would never come again, never at the right time. You had to do this now.

Gulping, Sylus’s fingers wrapped around the hem of your dress. With one final affirmation, he tugged the fabric over your torso and tossed it to the ground.

“Fuck…”

The cold air hit your bare skin, sending shivers down your spine. Sylus stared shamelessly, eyes raking over your torso, down your exposed thighs, before lingering dangerously on the subtle curve of your cleavage hidden beneath your bra. His hands trembled in stasis, twitching, yearning to touch: the desire was written all over his face. And yet, he revered you like a sacred Goddess, reluctant to touch as if the act itself was blasphemous.

Deft fingers unhooked your bra slowly, letting the fabric crumple as it fell upon your lap. Instinctively, your hands scrambled to shield yourself. If he saw you now, utterly bare and vulnerable, would he reconsider his devotion?

Sylus reached out to obstruct you in your path. His fingers clasped around your wrist, pulling apart your veil with the gentlest pressure. “Don’t hide from me.” His words spewed a hunger unlike himself. His right eye glowed a deeper shade. The redness on his cheeks blossomed. Though he had not said much, his unwavering gaze had made it clear—let me bear witness to your flaws, let me trace the bumps on your skin, let me love you still.

“Let me see you. All of you.”

His arms hooked under your thighs. He hoisted you up with his strength, guiding your legs around his waist. His bulge pressed against your clothed sex. The alone friction sent you over the moon.

“Pretty girl…”

The first kiss was planted atop your forehead.

“My beloved.”

The second met your collarbone, coaxing the supple, sensitive flesh with soft licks.

“My dove.”

The third landed atop the apex of your breast. His mouth slipped open, the peak into his mouth, swirling it around as you writhed from the pleasure.

“My dearest.”

The last remnant of his warmth lingered below your belly button, mouth teasing near the dip, yet refusing to venture further. Not yet.

You wondered how, in his current state, he could still have the patience to stall. But patience was always one of his virtues, and perhaps, tonight, that would be your undoing.

“I’ve been dreaming about this….” His eyes glazed over. “For so long.”

His thumb flicked over your nipple, rolling it around as it pebbled beneath his touch. Your back arched, soft noises escaping from your mouth like strings of an enchanted melody. To Sylus, it was all the more evidence he needed to continue.

“Please…” You hated how desperate you sounded. Heat pooled between your legs, the sensation sticky and uncomfortable, but welcome nonetheless. “Please, Sylus.”

His fingers trailed down the valley between your breasts, down the curve of your stomach, over your clothed crotch, before teasing at the entrance, palming the sensitive skin up and down.

Your teeth sank into your lips, legs coiling tighter about his waist.

“Hah…”

With the innocence of a man oblivious, you watched as Sylus tilted his head, grinning softly at the reactions he elicited. “What?” he teased, rolling his fingertip over your bundle of nerves, “Too much, or not enough?”

You wrapped your arms closer around his, nails digging into his back, clawing at the fabric. He hadn’t undressed. Perhaps, this would be a longer night for you than it would be for him.

Wasn’t his pleasure the whole point of tonight?

And still, he held you on a pedestal; both of you stood atop equal ground, yet he knelt for you, his hands mapping out every dip and curve of your skin. Yet, as it would with other Goddesses, his eyes did not stare up at you with scrutiny—with reverence unbecoming of even the most devoted priests, your partner admired, worshipped. His patience was immaculate as his fingers rubbed slowly down your slit, his lust contained as he felt his own sex throb with need, threatening to rip his pants, and his heart abundant, consisting only of you, with the way he began to coax your first orgasm, ensuring it remained gentle on your body for your inexperienced first time.

The minute your toes curled, the pace of his fingers quickened, rubbing in a harsher rhythm against your clit. A knot tightened itself in your stomach. The pleasure built. It rose, swerved, and finally erupted in a climax. You convulsed around nothing, nails nearly ripping his clothes. All the while, Sylus cradled you gently. The heat from his fever intensified the sensations.

You buried your crimson face into the crook of his neck, panting, the vibrations of your small whimpers and moans tickling his skin. Your palms were all over him—one burying its hard nails into his flesh, the other cupping the back of his neck for support.

You winced as Sylus pushed aside the strap of your soaked panties, stretching taut over your pussy. His eyes wandered to it shamelessly, watching the skin mould as his finger toyed with the entrance.

You submerged your face once more. You couldn’t meet his gaze—the one so abundant of desire, raking over your form like a predator—and you couldn’t bear the vulgarity any further.

Pain jolted you as you felt his finger slip inside, slowly stretching you out, before it began to pump gingerly. Your teeth sank into his flesh.

“Hm… so quiet.”

Suddenly, Sylus curled his finger, making you gasp into his ear.

He caught the palm gripping onto him for support, prying it away from his skin. Almost immediately, both of you tumbled onto the bed. A smug look crossed his face. “What an unruly kitten.” His words bore no bite, and yet, they made your heart race nonetheless. “Turning my back into your personal scratch toy. You’re getting better at being greedy.”

Your face flushed red. “I didn’t mean to—”

You were silenced with a thrust.

“Don’t apologize when using me.”

His large palm encompassed both of yours, bringing them over your head and locking them in place.

“May I?”

You felt the tendrils of his evol nip at your wrists. With a shaky breath, you nodded, red dust coating your cheeks. They felt cold against your skin as they tightened and held your arms in place.

Slowly, Sylus lowered himself to your legs. His lips trailed a path up your thighs, hands squeezing the supple flesh, grabbing as much of you as he could. As the kisses neared your crotch, your anticipation grew. Beneath the dim ombre lighting of his room, Sylus’s eyes twinkled. His right eye glimmered, the glow intensifying with his desires. Even now, face half sunken in darkness, a gentle smile tugging at his lips, he looked so beautiful, you wanted to cry.

“Sylus…”

He rubbed your thigh in soft circles. “Relax. I’ll make you feel good.” He pulled off your panties and lowered himself to your core. “I promise.”

His tongue lapped at your slick before latching onto your clit. His tongue flicked over it in soft kitty licks, stimulating you, driving you to the brink once more.

You came fast. Though this time, faster, your orgasm more vigorous than before. But he didn’t stop there. His tongue worked relentlessly, plunging in and out of you like a piston. His fingers were quick to join the act. Sylus did not halt until he coaxed another two to three orgasms out of you. All the while, you writhed against the constraints of his evol, overstimulation consuming your brain, leaving you in a daze. Your eyes watered, tears slipped down your cheeks. But it was never too much. You couldn’t help but want more. Your hips jerked, involuntarily arching towards his mouth.

By the time he parted from your cunt, you were left breathless, body flushed and squirming. Tears coated the corners of your eyes. Sylus rose. His form towered over yours. His hand came to wipe at the droplets glimmering on your pretty lashes.

“Sweetie, was it too much?”

You shook your head. A small smile adorned your face. In response, he tore off his own clothing. You couldn’t help but stare. His body had never been unattractive to you, and still, you would never feel any desire towards it. You admired his looks—his chiselled form, the curves of his body—and yet, no matter how much you tried, it would not turn you on.

But he showed you today that it didn’t matter. It mattered not whether you desired him in the way he desired you. It mattered not whether you agreed to let him be your first. Love was always a formless thing, expressed in a plethora of ways, each couple bearing their own unique display. And if you had simply wished for it, Sylus was happy to merely hold you at night. He was content with caressing your naked body during showers, never escalating to more. He was happy to hold your hand. He was content with merely your presence. And yet, you gave yourself to him willingly, and he could not be happier. You trusted him with this. And for as long as he lived, he would shower you with his affection for this very fact. But you knew that even if you hadn’t agreed to be intimate with him, he would’ve done that anyway, finding another way to treasure you for eternity.

You did not stare at his own genitals. You always likened those things to curious breeds of blobfish—repulsive, purely scientific, made only for reproductive purposes. And Sylus did not push you. You palmed his body, kissed it whole, peppered his visage with your affection, yet never looked at his sex. He couldn’t care less. You had agreed to let him penetrate you, and that was all he would use it for. A part of you couldn’t bear to look at it either. A part of you feared it. What if its size terrified you? What if it hurt a lot more? You saw the bulge, and you had an idea of how monstrous it may have been. Looking at it would only make it real. And you didn’t want to retract your consent just because you feared the inevitable pain.

But you didn’t know how much it’d hurt. At these times, you wished you’d touched yourself more. You wished you’d experimented with toys or tried sliding a finger in. But the brief pain always lured you away, and before long, you began to fear penetration almost entirely.

It’s not like you didn’t want it. You wanted it more than ever. You needed it. And you know that he did too.

So, with a deep breath, you braced yourself while he was busy slipping a condom on himself. The evol binding your wrists loosened, their presence now replaced by his hand.

“Close your eyes if you’re scared.”

You pursed your lips. “Will it hurt?” A rhetorical question—of course it would.

But Sylus did not say that. He only smiled, tucked a few loose strands of hair behind your ear, wiped the sweat beading at your temple, and kissed you softly. “I will be gentle. I promise.”

And with that, he began sliding in.

The pain was immense. It felt like your skin was tearing open, accomodating something that should never have been there. You felt your eyes water. Your hand gripped Sylus’s with immense strength, the sheer force causing it to tremble violently. Your boyfriend tried his best to take it slow. He pushed himself in slowly, stopping every time you winced too loud. His thumb rubbed circles over your clit, hoping to ease you as he let himself in.

The pain did not subside even when he was in. He waited for your consent to move. It came late. But when the pain lessened, only by a little, you gave him a nod.

Sylus held your body as he began to thrust. One palm clasped on yours, the other holding your legs above his hips. The pain slowly dissolved into pleasure. His cock caressed your inner walls, the friction causing them to clench. It was a foreign sensation. Paired with the thumb rubbing your clitoris in soft circles, it was unlike any pleasure or pain you could inflict upon yourself.

Sylus’s hand retreated. And when he pulled back, hips still moving in a steady rhythm, a warm trail of scarlet trickled down his finger.

“Are you hurt?”

His worried gaze raked through your form, scouring for any sign of injury. You only shook your head, intertwined your fingers with his, and gave him a tender look. “Sylus. Ha—we know what it is.”

The crease between his brows loosened. He brought the back of your palms to his mouth and planted a soft kiss atop your knuckles.

“I love you.”

Sylus’s hands caressed the bulge on your stomach, driving you to another climax.

You felt your eyes water. “Mm… love y-you too.” Your teeth sank into your bottom lip. Tears rolled freely down your cheeks, wiped off cleanly by your beloved.

Two shadows coalesced, their rhythmic motion of their figured reflected across the walls. Many times throughout the day, they parted and reunited, traversing deeper amidst one another with every movement. The sounds in the room had transformed into a cacophony of cries of bliss. Sweat, tears and bodily fluids were shared in an intimate waltz. That day, against all odds, two bodies traversed boundaries set in stone. Trust blossomed amid pleasure, and proclamations of love had been uttered.

Sylus’s fever went down after his second climax. You lost count of how many you’d had. Afterwards, the two of you spent the evening cuddled in bed, showering together, sharing kisses and soft confessions beneath the veil of sunset. He rubbed your soreness away with gentle, kneading palms and made up for each injury he may have caused you in the heat of the moment, despite your best attempts that you hadn’t been hurt in any way.

Perhaps, a day would return where you would be willing to engage in intimate acts with him once again. Perhaps, it never would. It mattered not, for it was a day neither of you would take for granted. For that afternoon, bathed in the ombre lights of his bedroom, you and Sylus sealed vows unspoken. And even though you hadn’t fallen any harder than you would have if he had given you a bouquet of roses, you’d still relished in his soft presence and unrelenting company.

it’s a mystery to most people. you, the glittering, glowing party girl, and choso, the stoner boy who doesn’t even have social media. but it makes perfect sense to anyone who’s seen the two of you together.

you show up to his parties before anyone else does. you help him string the lights, pick the playlist, bring snacks no one asked for but everyone eats. you’re the one sitting on the counter while he rolls, sipping from a straw and babbling about your week while he nods, smiling faintly, muttering things like “that’s wild, ma,” or “yo, you’re too nice for them.”

and during the parties, you’re never far. you gravitate toward each other like magnets, slipping into place the way you always do. choso’s usually on the couch, arms stretched over the backrest, and you’re tucked under his arm without even thinking. you lean into him when you laugh. he rests his chin on your shoulder. he passes you drinks and you take tiny sips before handing them back to him with a wrinkle of your nose.

and it’s so easy. dangerously easy.

choso’s never been one to push. he’s got feelings, real ones, deeper than he’ll ever admit out loud, but he keeps them buried. not because he doesn’t want you. he wants you in a way that scares him sometimes. in quiet moments, when he’s too high and you’re asleep on his chest, he thinks about what it would feel like to kiss you. to be yours for real. but he’s content, at least for now. content to have you like this.

you give choso a kind of peace he didn’t know he was missing. before you, things were kind of blurry. background noise. but with you, it’s all color. you laugh and the whole room tilts toward you. you touch his hand and it’s like static electricity under his skin. he pretends he doesn’t notice. he jokes, he teases, he lets it pass.

because he thinks he’d rather have you like this, close and real and warm, than risk losing you completely.

and you? you love him. maybe too much.

you’ve never said it out loud, not even to maki or shoko, but you know it. you feel it every time you see him laugh at something you said, every time he lifts your chin to tuck your hair behind your ear, every time he waits for you outside class just because he felt like it. choso is yours, in a way no one else is. and you don’t know what to do with that.

maybe you’re scared to ruin it too.

it’s not just the friendship, it’s the rhythm. the quiet glances, the shared playlists, the way you always, always end up in his bed after parties, clothes still on, hearts too full.

you’ll lay there in the dark, both of you wide awake, and you’ll wonder if he feels it too. if he notices the way your breath hitches when his fingers brush your waist. if he hears the way your voice gets softer when you say his name.

but neither of you ever says anything. not really. not yet.

there’s something unsaid between you, always has been, something glowing and soft and maybe a little fragile. like the chords of “ivy” hanging in the air, too tender to touch. it’s in the way he looks at you when you’re not watching. in the way you linger at his door after a party, lip gloss smudged and heart aching. in the way he lets his hand rest on the small of your back just a little too long.

it’s a love that’s still blooming. hesitant. deep-rooted. and for now, maybe that’s enough.

maybe not forever.

~

the party’s already full by the time you get there, but you know exactly where to find him.

bass thumps through the floor like a second pulse, red lights spilling down the hallway, laughter echoing from the kitchen where someone’s poured jungle juice into a mixing bowl. bodies press close in the living room, the air thick with smoke, perfume, sweat, but none of it touches you. not really. not when you know where you’re going.

you slip past people who call your name, who compliment your outfit, who try to keep you still, but you’re already moving, already smiling like you’ve got a secret. because you do.

he’s on the couch. he always is.

slouched like he was poured there, long legs spread, a blunt pinched between his fingers. there’s a few people around him, suguru’s sitting on the floor, half-asleep against his knee, gojo’s perched on the armrest talking to some girl, but he doesn’t really look at anyone. just stares at the smoke curling above him, the red light making shadows under his eyes.

until he sees you.

choso’s head tilts slightly. his gaze sharpens, just barely. his mouth softens, corners curling up into something small, lazy, private.

“yo,” he says, voice low and smooth like honeyed smoke. “there you are.”

and just like that, you’re home.

you drop down next to him without a word, tucking your legs up on the couch, leaning into his side like you were made to fit there. his arm lifts automatically to rest behind you, and your bare shoulder brushes against his chest, skin to skin. he smells like weed and citrus and something warm, like sunbaked cotton. familiar. dangerous.

“i brought you chips,” you say, holding up a bag. “because you never remember to feed people when you throw these things.”

he laughs, soft and breathy, and takes the bag, tossing it onto the table without looking.

“you’re the only one who eats at my parties,” he murmurs, dragging the blunt to his lips. “they’re lucky you show up.”

he inhales, slow and deep. lets it sit in his chest for a moment. then he turns his head toward you and exhales, deliberately, slow, a trail of smoke that ghosts over your collarbone. it’s not on purpose, but it is. everything choso does is like that. unbothered. intimate. effortless.

your heart stutters.

“you look good,” he adds, like it just occurred to him. his eyes dip, trace your legs, the cut of your dress, the gloss on your lips. “real good.”

you smile, sweet and slow, like you’re soaking it in.

“you’re stoned.”

he shrugs. “yeah. still true, though.”

you nudge his thigh with your knee, and he smirks that lazy, barely-there grin that never quite reaches his eyes unless it’s you.

the party swells around you. bodies dance in the center of the room, the music gets louder, someone’s yelling in the kitchen about the beer pong table. but in your little corner of the couch, everything is slowed down. hazy. sacred.

he keeps passing the blunt, and you keep refusing with that little scrunch of your nose he always teases you about.

“don’t know how you come to my house every week and still don’t smoke,” he says, flicking ash into a red solo cup.

“don’t know how you survive without eating dinner like an adult,” you shoot back.

he chuckles, tipping his head back. his throat stretches long, his hoodie slipping off one shoulder to reveal the black ink of a tattoo just under his collarbone. you don’t even pretend not to look. choso doesn’t pretend not to notice.

“you missed me?” he asks after a beat, quieter now. the smoke’s made him slow, softer around the edges. more honest.

you glance up at him, lips parted. “i was here last weekend.”

“yeah, and then the whole week happened.” he shrugs, lazily. “i got bored.”

you nudge your way closer. your knee slides between his. “you say that like you don’t have other friends.”

he hums. “don’t hit the same.”

you’re both quiet for a second. it’s a thick, heady silence, not awkward, not tense. just full. full of everything that’s been building since freshman year. everything you don’t say. everything you both feel in moments like this, when you’re a little too close and he’s looking at your mouth and his hand is resting just a little too low on your waist.

you want to kiss him. god, you do. but not yet. not here.

so instead you lean forward, just enough to rest your head on his shoulder. you feel him go still for a second, then relax, melting back into you.

you stay like that. for a long time

later, when the house gets louder and hotter and someone pulls you up to dance, you feel his eyes on you.

you’re not a wild dancer, you move like you’re in your own little world, fluid and soft and smiling. some guy tries to grind up behind you and you immediately peel away, laughing as you shake your head. but when you look over, just once, you see choso watching from the couch.

his eyes are darker now. still lazy, still half-lidded, but focused. pinned on you like he’s memorizing the way your dress moves, the way your hair sticks to the sweat on your collarbone. one hand resting on his knee. the blunt long gone.

you move back to him eventually, of course you do, and he opens the space beside him again like he knew you would.

“have fun out there, superstar?” he asks, gaze flicking over you.

you shrug, settling back into him. “missed my favorite dance partner.”

he raises a brow. “you don’t dance with me.”

you grin. “exactly.”

he snorts, shaking his head. you rest your hand on his thigh, fingers splayed over ripped denim, and he doesn’t flinch. doesn’t move. just lets you stay there. touching him. like you always do.

like you always will.

when the party starts dying down and the lights dim even lower, when suguru’s asleep and gojo’s disappeared and the couch is just the two of you again, you curl into him like you belong there.

he yawns, one arm around your shoulders, hand playing lazily with the strap of your dress.

“you crashing here?” he asks, already knowing the answer.

you nod, cheek pressed to his chest. “if that’s cool.”

he makes a soft sound, something between a hum and a laugh, and dips his chin to brush his mouth against your temple. not a kiss, exactly. just a press. warm, soft. barely there.

“always.”

you smile, closing your eyes for a second. his hand is still resting on your waist, fingers tracing absent little shapes into your skin like he’s not even thinking about it.

you could fall asleep like this. you’ve done it before.

but he shifts a little, murmurs, “come on, ma. let’s get off this fuckin’ couch. my back’s killin’ me.”

you whine quietly as he moves, and he laughs again, a lazy rumble in his chest and slides an arm around your waist to help you up.

“drama queen,” he says, tugging you to your feet with effortless strength.

he doesn’t let go.

you move through the sea of red cups and leftover smoke, past the people half-passed out in the hallway, with his hand still slung around your waist. like it’s normal. like it’s instinct. your arm hooks around his middle, and you lean into his side as you walk, slow and steady, like you’ve done this a hundred times. because you have.

choso’s room is down the hall. it’s the only one with a broken doorknob and a blacklight taped above the bed, buzzing faintly. it smells like weed and clean laundry and him.

you kick off your shoes the second you walk in and collapse face-first into the unmade bed, limbs spread.

he laughs, low and indulgent, then flops down beside you.

“yo, scoot over,” he mumbles, nudgin your hip with his.

“you scoot,” you shoot back, voice muffled by the blanket.

he doesn’t argue. just lets his body melt sideways until your shoulders touch again. you shift your head onto his chest without thinking, cheek to the soft fabric of his hoodie.

and there it is again. home.

“this party was kinda ass,” you say.

“nah,” he says softly. “you were here.”

your stomach flips.

but you don’t say anything. don’t need to. you just lie there, breathing in sync, your hands curled in the hem of his hoodie while his fingers play with your hair, slow, lazy twirls that make your eyelids flutter.

“remember the first one?” you ask, voice hushed now. “the freshman-year party where we met?”

choso smiles at the ceiling. “fuck yeah. you were wearing that little white dress and yellin’ at some guy who spilled beer on your shoes.”

“he ruined them,” you murmur indignantly.

“and i was just sittin’ on the porch, watchin’ the whole thing,” he grins. “high as shit. thought you were hot as hell.”

you lift your head to look at him, one brow raised. “you still say you don’t remember how we ended up talking.”

“i don’t. swear to god.” he shrugs. “one second i’m finishing a blunt, next thing i know you’re sitting next to me like you’d been there forever.”

“i probably just decided you looked safe,” you say, settling back down. “and hot. but, like, quiet hot.”

he chuckles, slow and low. “quiet hot?”

you nod. “like… hot in a way that doesn’t try. like you didn’t even know it.”

“damn,” he mutters. “flirting with me now?”

“always.”

his hand slides down from your hair to your shoulder, warm and broad and steady.

“that’s why i fuck with you,” he says after a moment. “you’re real.”

you blink.

“like, people show up to my parties for the vibes or whatever. you show up to make sure i eat dinner.”

you laugh. “well someone has to.”

“nah, but for real,” he says. “you’ve been showin’ up since day one. always got my back. always know what i need before i even do. shit’s crazy.”

your throat goes tight. but he doesn’t sound emotional. he sounds calm. sure. like it’s just a fact of life, gravity, weed, you.

he doesn’t say it like it’s a confession.

he says it like it’s just the truth.

“you do the same for me,” you murmur, voice small.

his thumb strokes your arm, slow.

“yeah,” he says. “i know.”

the room hums with silence after that. not heavy. not awkward. just real.

he lets you lie there on his chest, the beat of his heart under your ear, the rise and fall of his breathing making you feel safe in a way nothing else does.

you shift after a few minutes, and his hand moves automatically , tugs the blanket up over you both, settles you closer, fingers smoothing over your arm like it’s second nature.

he doesn’t flirt with anyone the way he does with you. doesn’t touch anyone like this. people know you’re close, but they don’t get it.

they don’t know how choso listens to you rant for hours about your classes even when he’s half-asleep. how he always keeps snacks in his room he doesn’t like, just because you do. how he’s seen you cry at 3am and didn’t say a word, just pulled you onto his chest and played with your hair until you calmed down.

how you’ve cleaned up after every party. how you always know when he needs water. how you never smoke but you always light his blunts for him.

they don’t know that you’ve been doing this, just like this, since freshman year.

you’re not together.

but this? this is something else.

“you good?” he mumbles, his voice starting to get gravelly with sleep.

you nod, curled into his side.

“you?”

“mhmm.” he exhales through his nose, deep and slow. “don’t leave before i wake up.”

“i never do.”

he hums, already drifting.

you close your eyes.

"night, cho."

"night, babe."

and in the dark, in his bed, wrapped in the quiet warmth of choso’s heartbeat and the hush of something unspoken between you, you fall asleep.

right where you’re supposed to be.

~

the sun’s too fucking bright.

choso’s got his hood pulled low, hands stuffed in the front pocket of his faded sweatshirt, hoodie sleeves bunched at his wrists like armor against the cold. his airpods are in, but he’s not playing anything. just using them to avoid eye contact. to avoid people.

his chem lecture starts in twelve minutes. he’s not rushing.

he’s never rushing.

the quad’s half-full with undergrads moving in packs, laughing too loud for this hour. he weaves through them like a shadow, dark-eyed and slow-moving, sleep still clinging to his bones.

he hasn’t showered. hasn’t brushed his hair. smells faintly like weed and sleep and your lotion, the floral kind you always keep in your bag.

he’s halfway across the quad when he hears it.

“yo.”

he looks up.

toji.

posted up on a low wall near the main staircase, nursing a large iced coffee and wearing the same zip-up he’s worn every morning since choso met him. he looks good, like he always does, jaw sharp, eyes tired, posture loose in that older-guy way that makes people think twice about messing with him.

choso pulls out one airpod. “yo.”

“you look like shit,” toji says, amused.

choso shrugs. “feel fine.”

“late night?”

“always.”

toji grins. “bet.”

choso wanders over, boots crunching gravel, and leans against the wall next to him. toji’s got that lazy menace vibe, like he could break someone’s nose or fall asleep in the sun, it could go either way. choso respects it.

they’re not close, but they’re good.

“you throw last night?” toji asks.

“yeah. packed out.”

“heard. saw some dude getting dragged out by the neck around one.”

choso huffs a little. “sukuna. again.”

“no shit?” toji laughs. “that guy’s a walking lawsuit.”

“got blood on my stairs,” choso mutters. “ruined the rug.”

“tragic.”

they’re quiet for a second. choso watches a squirrel dart across the walkway. toji sips his coffee.

“how much you make off the door?”

“couple hundred. enough for groceries. gas. weed.”

toji nods like that’s the natural order of things. “you ever think about pledging?”

choso snorts. “nah.”

“you’d run that shit,” toji says. “turn those little rich boys inside out.”

“i’m not good with rules.”

“fuck rules.”

choso grins a little. “you sound like yuki.”

“i taught yuki,” toji says, deadpan.

that gets a real laugh out of choso, low and amused, breath curling in the cold air.

“you got chem?” toji asks after a moment.

“yeah. lab.”

“tough.”

“i'm so fucking hungover.”

toji smirks. “so. last night. you go home alone?”

choso shrugs. “nah. crashed with her.”

toji looks at him. not surprised. not shocked. just curious.

“y/n?”

“yeah.”

a beat.

“you guys together now or what?”

choso looks up, brows drawn. “nah.”

toji raises an eyebrow. “huh. figured that would’ve happened by now.”

“why?”

“you’re always with her.”

“yeah.”

“you sleep in the same bed?”

choso shrugs again, easy and lowkey like it doesn’t mean anything. like it’s normal. “all the time.”

toji whistles under his breath, grinning. “you’re a better man than me.”

“not like that,” choso mutters, looking away.

“right,” toji says, smirking. “not like that.”

choso stays quiet. doesn’t explain. doesn’t elaborate. he just lets it sit in the air between them like secondhand smoke, warm, familiar, a little dangerous.

because it isn’t like that.

not yet.

but toji doesn’t push. just nods, takes another slow sip of his coffee, and claps choso on the shoulder with a rough hand.

“you’re cool,” he says. “but if you ever fuck that up, someone else won’t be.”

choso just exhales through his nose. shrugs.

he knows,

he knows.

~

choso slouches in his stool at station 4B, safety goggles pushed up into his messy hair, long fingers lazily rotating a test tube over the bunsen flame. he’s supposed to be running a titration, but he’s running on three hours of sleep and an edible that hasn’t stopped hitting since breakfast.

there’s a small chemical fire happening at the next table over. he doesn’t care.

his partner, some girl from his gen chem section who only speaks in whispers and perfume, scribbles answers onto their worksheet like her life depends on it. she’s never once asked him to help. choso’s fine with that.

his phone buzzes in his hoodie pocket. he pulls it out without looking, thumb unlocking the screen by feel. it’s instinct. the way he always knows when it’s you.

[10:37am] you: what class r u in rn

[10:38am] choso: chem

[10:38am] you: ew

[10:38am] choso: yea

[10:39am] you: wanna meet up after?? i’m bored

[10:39am] choso: wya

the response comes fast.

[10:40am] you: bleachers behind the field. bring snacks or i’ll cry.

choso smiles.

it’s the kind of smile he never shows anyone but you. lazy. lowkey. like a secret he doesn’t need to say out loud.

he texts back a thumbs up emoji. tucks his phone away. watches the blue flame flicker under the test tube like it’s trying to tell him something.

~

the bleachers behind the athletic field are barely standing. rusted metal, cracked paint, half the steps warped from years of cleat-stomped abuse. it’s one of the only spots on campus that still feels untouched, still feels yours. people don’t hang out here. it’s too open, too weird, too quiet.

perfect.

you’re already there when he shows up, sprawled across the middle row like it’s a chaise lounge, sunglasses perched low on your nose and a bag of kettle chips open in your lap.

you perk up when you see him. smile wide and lazy. “you brought me snacks?”

he lifts a 7/11 bag in greeting.

“you’re an angel,” you say, and you sound like you mean it. choso climbs up beside you, drops the bag between you, and sits with a long sigh like the weight of the whole morning finally got the memo that it can fuck off.

he lets himself lean back on his elbows, head tipped toward the sky. hoodie sleeves pushed up to the elbow. hands ringed in silver, knuckles faintly bruised from last night. jaw sharp, neck tattoo peeking just above his collar.

you glance over at him, bottom lip tucked between your teeth for a second too long.

he doesn’t notice.

or maybe he does.

but he doesn’t say anything.

“what happened in chem?” you ask, voice slow with sunlight.

“almost set the bench on fire,” he says. “again."

you laugh, and it’s the good kind, low and warm and familiar, like something soft you wrap yourself in. “you’re gonna fail.”

“nah,” he murmurs. “i got you. you’ll cry to shoko for me.”

you shrug. “probably.”

he grins.

you eat chips together for a while in comfortable silence. people jog past on the track below, but it’s like the two of you exist in another timeline, quieter, slower, deeper. every time your shoulders bump, he doesn’t move away. every time your fingers brush in the snack bag, he lets it linger.

you pull out a cherry lollipop from your tote. unwrap it with delicate, distracted fingers. stick it between your lips and suck thoughtfully.

choso looks over. blinks once.

his throat bobs. “you eat candy like you’re in a music video.”

“duh,” you say. “gotta stay on brand.”

“your brand is slutty candy princess?”

you flash him a wink. “you know it.”

he groans into his hands. “you’re gonna kill me.”

“you’d like it.”

“maybe.”

you both laugh.

but underneath it, there’s a tension you don’t touch. not yet. not today. not when the sun is this warm and the wind is this soft and the space between you feels like a bubble no one else can pop.

“so what’d you tell toji?” you ask suddenly, pulling your legs up under you. “he asked about us, right?”

choso blinks. shifts.

“how’d you know that?”

“i just saw him talking to you this morning and you rushed of before i could catch up.”

he sighs. rubs a hand over his face. “just asked about some dumb shit, was surprised we aren't fucking.”

“oh yeah?”

“yeah.”

you hum. “what’d you say?”

he shrugs. “told him we’re just friends.”

you nod.

but your fingers are tight around your lollipop stick. “did he buy it?”

choso looks over at you. eyes half-lidded, lazy. “dunno. didn’t really care.”

you don’t speak for a second.

then—

“you know,” you say lightly, “if we were dating, people wouldn’t question it.”

he raises a brow. “you wanna date me?”

you laugh like it’s a joke. like the idea’s crazy. “obviously not. i’d ruin your whole vibe.”

“nah,” he says, quiet and cool. “you are my vibe.”

it knocks the air out of you a little.

you don’t reply.

he doesn’t push.

instead, he pulls a lighter from his pocket. a faded red bic with a sticker of a cartoon frog on the side.

“you mind?” he asks.

you shake your head. “go for it.”

he lights the joint behind the bleachers, careful to block the wind, and takes a slow hit like he’s been doing it his whole life. like breathing.

you watch the way his lips part. the way the smoke curls from his mouth. the way he blinks up at the sky, exhaling slow, like there’s nothing in the world that could ruin this moment.

he passes it to you.

you hold it between two fingers. bring it to your lips, but don’t inhale. you just like the closeness. the ritual. the rhythm of it.

“you always smell like weed and coconuts,” you say absently.

“you always smell like sleep and candy.”

“that a compliment?”

“you know it is.”

you smile.

and then, like always, you shift until your head is in his lap, knees bent, lollipop back between your lips.

he threads his fingers into your hair like it’s automatic. like muscle memory.

you don’t say anything.

you don’t have to.

“there’s a party saturday,” choso says, like it’s just a passing thought. his voice is mellow, dragged slow with smoke and sun.

you squint up at him from his lap, one leg kicking idly off the edge of the bleachers. “yours?”

he shakes his head, dragging another pull from the joint before it sizzles low. “nah. kappa’s.”

“toji’s place?”

“mhm. sukuna’s throwin’ it.”

you make a face. “ew.”

he laughs, lazy and low. “yeah, i know.”

“what kinda party is it?”

he shrugs, flicking ash off to the side. “dunno. probly loud. messy. overrun with freshmen.”

“my favorite,” you say sarcastically.

“come anyway.”

you raise a brow. “you want me to go?”

he nods, eyes still soft from the joint. “yeah. all our people are gonna be there. gojo’s bringing that speaker he stole from the rec center. suguru’s bringing weed from the plug that scares everyone but him. shoko said she’s pre-gaming at yours.”

“she didn’t tell me that,” you mutter, amused.

“she said quote, ‘i’m getting blackout on your floor so you better have mixers.’”

“classic.”

“maki’s going too,” he adds. “and yuuji. megumi. nobara. y’all can take over the kitchen or whatever.”

you snort. “we always end up doing that. turning some random frat kitchen into our private lounge.”

“better lighting.”

“less vomit.”

he taps his knuckle to your forehead. “so?”

you blink at him. “so what?”

“you comin’?”

you stretch your arms over your head, lollipop tucked in your cheek like a secret. “mmm, depends. who’s walking me home if i black out?”

he gives you a look. “me."

“who’s holding my hair if i puke?”

“me.”

“who’s dancing with me when they put on early 2000s throwbacks?”

he smirks. “you already know.”

you grin and nuzzle into his thigh dramatically. “ugh, fine. i guess i’ll go.”

“what an honor.”

“you’re welcome.”

you stare up at him for a second, at the sharp angle of his jaw, the lashes curled against his cheeks, the faint bruises of exhaustion under his eyes.

there’s something warm in your chest.

like always.

“what time’s it at?” you ask.

“late.”

“when are we getting there?”

“later.”

you smile. “as always.”

“as always,” he echoes.

you reach over, fingers brushing the side of his hoodie pocket where his lighter peeks out, red and fading, sticker peeling at the edges.

he doesn’t notice.

but you do.

you always do.

~

the sun has long since set when you’re back in your dorm.

shoko’s stuff is already half-scattered across your bed, a tote bag overflowing with lip gloss and tequila, her ripped denim skirt folded beside your pillow like it lives here. your bluetooth speaker is charging in the corner. your fairy lights are glowing dim, and the whole room smells like something between vanilla lotion and sharpie markers.

because you’re painting.

your desk is a mess of scattered brushes, scratched acrylics, and an empty matcha can you’ve been using as a water cup. right in the center sits the new bic lighter you picked up after social, jet black, perfectly smooth, untouched.

you’re painting red spider lilies across the front, his favourite.

the petals curl across the plastic like veins, wet with gloss and attention. you’re careful with the details. you’ve looked up references. you’ve done this before.

but this time’s different.

this one’s for him.

you don’t know why, exactly. maybe it’s because his old one’s going dead.

maybe it’s because you love him.

not like that.

not yet.

but in the way you know exactly how he likes his ramen. in the way he texts you “home?” when it’s late and doesn’t sleep until you answer. in the way he rolls his blunts left-handed and always lights yours first. in the way he remembers your mom’s birthday even though he’s never met her.

in the way he makes you feel safe in a room full of noise.

in the way he never tries to make you anything other than yourself.

you lean over the lighter, the brush held steady between your fingers, and add the final line of gold detailing around the petals. your breath fogs the surface. you wait for it to dry.

outside, someone blasts a bad edm remix. the party’s already pulsing down the block.

you aren’t ready yet.

but you will be.

because he asked.

because you always go when he asks.

by the time you and shoko step into the kappa house, it’s already hell in there.

there’s music vibrating the walls, some mashup of jersey club and distorted britney spears, smoke curling from doorways, the reek of beer and weed and something you hope is a vape cloud drifting from the stairs. someone’s already swinging a half-finished bottle of patrón in the foyer, and a guy in a spiked collar is passed out half-naked on the pool table. red LEDs paint the room like a warning.

“jesus,” shoko mutters, pushing through a knot of people. “it’s worse than last time.”

“that’s saying a lot,” you reply, laughing.

you pass a makeshift tattoo station set up in the kitchen, a foldable table, three guys with gloves and prison-grade guns, girls taking shots with their shirts off, someone yelling about cross-contamination. someone else is already screaming into a paper towel, gripping their friend’s thigh as ink bleeds into skin.

“how much you wanna bet that guy’s not even licensed?” shoko asks, pointing with her cup.

a few feet away, a couple is practically devouring each other on the couch, hands in places that definitely shouldn’t be public, their moans barely muffled over the bassline. you and shoko share a glance.

“ten bucks says they’ll be upstairs in five,” she says.

“two,” you shoot back.

you find the rest of your girls near the island, maki’s drinking straight from a bottle of dark rum, nobara’s yelling at some guy for calling her “sweetheart,” and miwa looks like she’s trying to spiritually leave her body.

“there you bitches are,” nobara says, throwing an arm over your shoulders. “i was gonna beat some freshman’s ass for trying to say you weren’t on the guest list.”

“please tell me you’re drinking tonight,” maki says, eyes already glossy.

“i just got here!” you laugh, letting shoko pull you in tighter. “i haven’t even taken my jacket off!"

“well hurry up,” nobara insists, pouring something violently pink into a solo cup and handing it to you. “this night’s cursed already.”

you take a cautious sip, bubblegum and battery acid. “what the hell is this?”

“it’s called the thong dropper,” shoko says helpfully.

“girl.”

you let the chaos swirl around you for a bit, settling into the rhythm of things, catching up on nonsense, swapping wild stories, dodging spilled drinks and clumsy hands. nobara starts talking about some guy she hooked up with last week, rolling her eyes and groaning dramatically.

“his stroke game was so weak,” she says, slamming her cup down. “he kept asking me ‘is that good?’ like, cmon. do you not hear me faking it?”

maki snorts. “you faked it?”

“of course i did. i had to get it over with.”

shoko leans in. “rookie mistake. just tell ‘em straight up.”

“i can’t crush a man’s ego like that,” nobara defends.

“they’ll live,” maki says.

you giggle into your drink, letting the warmth buzz up your spine.

“what about you?” shoko nudges. “you getting any lately?”

you shrug, trying to hide your smirk. “define ‘getting.’”

they all ooh at that, but you wave them off.

“nah,” you add quickly. “just been… chillin’.”

nobara raises a brow. “chillin’ with who?”

you don’t answer.

you don’t have to.

because you just spotted him.

across the room, slouched low on the ratty couch like a king on a broken throne, hoodie slipping off one shoulder, blunt glowing between his fingers, is choso.

he’s got his head tipped back, laughing at something gojo just said, eyes heavy-lidded and hazy, lips pink and glossy from smoke. his legs are spread wide, rings catching the LED lights, and there’s a plastic crown crooked on his head like someone dared him to wear it and he just went along with it.

you hand your cup to shoko. “back in a sec.”

you beeline straight to him.

he sees you coming, of course. always does.

“yo,” he says, voice syrup-thick, laced in that lazy drawl you know too well. “there she is.”

you plop onto the couch next to him, thigh pressed to his instantly, as natural as breathing.

“hey, babe.”

he pulls the blunt from his lips and passes it to gojo. “you look real hot,” he murmurs, eyes scanning over you. “like… stupid hot.”

you grin. “you’re high.”

“and you’re a fucking bombshell.”

“so high.”

gojo chuckles. “he’s been saying shit like that about everyone for the last twenty minutes. told sukuna his chains looked ‘shiny as fuck’ and that he would fuck him if he was gay.”

“and i meant it,” choso says, nodding solemnly.

“sukunas a menace,” you laugh.

“a sweet menace,” choso adds.

gojo tosses the blunt into an ashtray and stretches. “aight. i’m gonna go find the aux before someone puts on country again.”

“godspeed,” you tell him.

choso watches him disappear into the crowd before turning back to you. “you good?”

you nod. “the girls are wild tonight.”

“when aren’t they?”

you smile. “mmm. party’s kinda gross, though.”

he grins. “yeah. it’s ass.”

“i miss your parties.”

he hums, dragging a slow breath through his nose. “next week, tuesday.”

“a tuesday party?”

“hell yeah.”

you laugh softly, eyes dropping to the front pocket of his hoodie. his lighter’s there again, the red one. the same one from earlier, edges worn down like it’s been used a thousand times.

without saying anything, you reach into your jacket pocket.

he watches you curiously as you pull out the lighter you painted, black and glossy, the spider lilies blooming across the surface in blood-red ink and gold veins.

you hand it to him wordlessly.

his fingers brush yours as he takes it, and something in his face shifts, softens, quiets.

he turns it over slowly in his palm, eyes scanning every detail like he’s memorizing it.

“you painted this?”

you nod.

“ma…” he says under his breath, almost like it’s too much. “yo. this is… this is fucking beautiful.”

“your other one’s dying,” you say, a little shy now. “figured you needed a new one.”

he’s quiet for a second, blinking slowly.

then,

“you’re such a fuckin’ angel.”

you laugh. “it’s literally just a lighter.”

he doesn’t let his gaze leave it. “nah. it’s you.”

you blink.

he says it so casually. so high. so him.

like it’s just a fact.

you don’t say anything, and neither does he. the music swells. the lights flicker. people scream and laugh and break things somewhere in the background.

but right now, it’s just the two of you, and a lighter between your palms.

“you’re gonna make me cry,” you joke, even though the way he keeps looking at the lighter makes your chest feel a little too full.

choso doesn’t answer, just keeps running his thumb over the curves of it like it’s some delicate artifact, black with the glossy gleam of fresh paint, those red lilies blooming across the surface like blood in water.

he flicks it once. flame bursts up.

“perfect,” he mumbles.

“it works?”

“better than my soul, babe.”

you laugh, leaning your head against his shoulder, and for a few seconds everything around you falls away, just the throb of the music, the warm press of him, and the soft flicker of that tiny orange flame between his fingers.

you sit like that for a little while, talking about nothing. him complaining about a group project he hasn’t started. you teasing him for skipping chem lab again. him promising you some “next-level weed” for tuesday’s party that “tastes like peaches and existential dread.”

his voice is slow, syrup-thick, a little slurred at the ends. he’s stoned, clearly, but you’re used to this. used to the way he leans into you when he’s like this, heavy and unguarded, every thought coming out a little slower and more unfiltered. it’s a version of him that doesn’t get tired of looking at you.

he tugs at the hem of your jacket playfully. “you gonna stay with me tonight?”

you raise a brow. “didn’t plan on going anywhere else.”

he grins, that sleepy smile that makes your heart tick funny.

then your name cuts through the room, pitched over the music.

“oh shit,” you say, glancing over your shoulder. “they’re calling me.”

choso hums, not looking away. “tell ‘em i said hi.”

you hesitate for a second, not wanting to leave the warm bubble you’ve curled into. but shoko’s waving you over, and maki’s already halfway across the room with a bottle in her hand and trouble in her eyes.

“i’ll be back,” you say, giving his knee a squeeze as you get up.

he watches you go, eyes dragging over your silhouette, that sway in your hips, the flash of your smile as nobara yells something at you that makes you laugh and flip her off in the same breath.

then he’s alone.

not really, the house is packed, pulsing with bodies and music and smoke, but alone in the way that matters.

the lighter’s still in his hand.

and it won’t stop looking like you.

'she fuckin’ made this.'

that thought loops through his head in lazy spirals. he stares down at it like he’s still not fully processing that it’s his now, the way it fits so perfect in his palm, like you painted it with him in mind, like you know his hands that well.

(which you do.)

'what an angel', he thinks again, your face still ghosted in his mind.

he’s high. so high. his body feels like a heartbeat, slow and deep and pulsing warm. and the lighter, it keeps dragging him back to that moment on the couch, your thigh against his, your fingers brushing his, your quiet little smile when he lit it up for the first time.

'she always does shit like this. just makes stuff better. without even tryin’.'

it hits him all at once, sudden and full-body.

he needs to mark this. this moment. this feeling.

he’s already pulling out his phone before the thought’s even fully formed, scrolling through the camera roll he swore he didn’t care about but secretly checks too often. blurry candids, selfies with you curled against his chest, that pic from two weeks ago when you were looking up at him from the floor of his room with a red gummy in your mouth and sleep in your eyes.

he pauses there.

your eyes in that picture. big, soft, glassy, sexy.

his thumb hovers over the screen.

“yo,” a familiar voice calls, sauntering through the haze. “you look fried.”

sukuna.

choso glances up. “am fried.”

sukuna grins. “figured. that couch is cursed, by the way. guy got a blowie on it last week during pong night.”

choso shrugs. “adds flavor.”

they lean on the wall together, easy silence for a second.

“you see the tat guys?” sukuna asks, chin-jerking toward the kitchen. “someone just got a fucking worm on their calf. like a literal earthworm. said it was ‘symbolic.’”

choso laughs, low and thick. “symbolic of what?”

“dunno. being dirt, i guess.”

he doesn’t respond. just looks back at his phone.

sukuna raises a brow. “you good, dude?”

“yeah.”

“you look like you just had a vision.”

choso finally meets his eye.

“yo,” he says slowly. “you ever just feel something and know you gotta do somethin’ about it right now or you’ll bitch out?”

sukuna squints. “uh. like what?”

choso doesn’t answer.

instead, he pushes off the wall, hoodie slipping off one shoulder again, lighter still clutched in one hand, phone in the other, and starts walking.

sukuna watches him go, a little amused. “damn. alright.”

the air is thick with smoke and bass as he weaves through the crowd, bumping shoulders, dodging a girl dancing with her heels off and her hair in her face.

he reaches the makeshift tattoo stand.

it smells like rubbing alcohol and regret.

“yo,” he says, voice smooth as silk and twice as slow.

the guy behind the table, ink sleeves up to the neck, black gloves, sunglasses indoors, glances up.

“what’s up, man?”

choso leans down slightly, eyes low-lidded and unreadable, body loose and stoned and sexy in that careless way he always carries.

he holds out his phone.

“can you do this,” he asks, “on my arm?”

the artist blinks, then looks at the screen.

it’s a close-up of a girl’s eyes, wide, seductive, yet still glowing with laughter. looking up at the camera like whoever took the photo was the only thing in the world.

looking up at him.

choso taps the screen once. “those are hers.”

the guy raises a brow. “like… your girl?”

choso shrugs one shoulder. his eyes never leave the photo.

the buzz of the needle starts soft, a low, persistent hum, and choso doesn’t even flinch. he just leans back, one arm draped lazily across the armrest, hoodie shoved halfway up his bicep where the artist wiped him down with alcohol. his eyes are half-lidded, bloodshot from whatever gojo rolled earlier, but locked on the phone he’s holding out in his opposite hand.

the picture’s still up. her eyes, warm and wide, lashes curled, looking up at him like she trusts him with her whole heart.

“pretty,” the tattoo guy mutters, angling a small light to get a better look as he sketches the stencil. “yours?”

choso’s mouth curves slow. doesn’t answer right away. just flicks his lighter open and closed, click, click, click, the red spider lilies catching the light each time.

then finally:

“nah.”

the guy hums. “girlfriend?”

he huffs a little, amused. “not that either.”

he sets the lighter down on the table beside him, keeps his eyes on the screen.

“she’s just,” he pauses, then shrugs, soft and slow, “her. y’know?”

the artist side-eyes him. “deep.”

choso smiles again, eyes unfocused. “nah, i’m just fuckin’ high.” the guy presses the warm stencil into choso’s arm, smooths it into place.

“you sure you wanna do this while you’re, uh,” he glances at choso’s glassy expression, the faint grin still tugging at his mouth, “clearly not sober?”

“i’m not wasted,” choso says lazily. “and i’m not dumb. it’s not a mistake.” the artist nods once, respects it. “alright, man.” he flips on the machine again, lines it up.

“you done this before?” choso grunts a laugh. “y’think i got these in my sleep?” he gestures vaguely at the black ink already crawling across both arms, jagged, abstract lines, constellations and waves, some faded with age. some done in basements like this one. “first time sober was the weirdest one.”

the guy snorts. “fair.”

the needle hits skin.

choso exhales slow. doesn’t flinch, doesn’t shift, doesn’t even blink hard. just stares at the wall across the room, jaw slack, hoodie sliding off his shoulder, the buzz settling into the meat of his arm like a low hum of intention. “you ever tattoo someone like this before?” he murmurs after a beat.

“like what?”

he shrugs again. “someone who’s… y’know.” the guy doesn’t answer right away.

choso elaborates, voice softer this time. “she’s not mine. i don’t want her to be. not right now. it’s not like that. it’s just…” he trails off, brows furrowing a little, tongue tucked against the inside of his cheek.

“she just means somethin’. don’t got a word for it.”

the artist doesn’t look up from his work, but his tone’s gentler when he speaks again. “yeah. i’ve seen that before.” choso sinks deeper into the chair, breathing even. the pain’s dull and constant, but it grounds him. keeps his thoughts from spiraling too far out, keeps his high in this exact moment.

“you think she’d be mad?” he asks, voice airy. “if she saw it?”

“dunno,” the guy says. “you gonna tell her?” he blinks slow, head rolling back against the headrest.

“nah.”

another pause.

“not now. it’s just for me.” the tattooer gives a small nod. “that’s real.”

a silence settles between them, the steady hum of the needle, the sound of someone vomiting into a bush outside the window, a muffled scream from the beer pong table two rooms over.

“looks good,” the artist murmurs, wiping excess ink from the forming lines of the eyes. “she’s got crazy lashes.”

choso huffs out a small laugh. “she’d fuckin’ love that you noticed that.”

“yeah?”

he smiles again, softer now. “talked about lash serum for like a week. gave me a whole presentation.”

the guy chuckles under his breath. “sounds like she talks a lot.”

choso closes his eyes.

“she talks just enough.” the buzz continues. the lines take shape. her eyes, right there, etched into his skin. not to claim. not to confess. just to remember.

just for him.

~

the buzz dies down gradually, tapering into a low hum before the artist finally flicks the switch and pulls back. the sudden quiet settles like a heavy blanket over the both of them, just the soft thud of bass from the next room and the subtle scrape of latex gloves against skin.

“alright, man,” the artist says, leaning back with a stretch. “done.”

choso blinks slow, still slouched deep in the chair like he’s been there for hours, like the cushion molded around his bones. he lifts his head, eyes hazy but laser-locked on the strip of bandage being pressed to his upper arm.

“yo, hold up, lemme see it before you cover it,” he says, voice low and hoarse from either weed or reverence, maybe both.

the guy lifts a brow, but obliges. carefully wipes the skin one last time, blood and excess ink coming away in soft red-black smears. the room’s fluorescent lights hit the raw lines at an angle, shining off the freshly tattooed skin like it’s something holy.

and fuck.

there it is.

your eyes.

wide and soft and open, curved lashes sweeping upward in a way no stencil should’ve captured but somehow did. that quiet way you look at him, like he hung the stars, like he’s yours even if the two of you never say it out loud. inked permanent on the soft part of his bicep, nestled between a set of waves and the jagged edge of a half-finished constellation.

for a second, he doesn’t speak. doesn’t move.

he just stares.

it hits him slow, like a good edible, starts behind his eyes, low and warm in his chest, then spreads.

yo.

he’s obsessed.

like fully, all the way, brain-meltingly obsessed.

he turns his arm slightly under the light, eyes tracing the lines, the slight curve of your upper lid, the detail around the corners like you're mid-laugh or mid-thought or both. it looks exactly like you, his favorite version of you. the version that looks up at him like nothing else exists in the room.

god.

you look good on him. not in the possessive way. not even close. it’s not that.

it’s something else. something way quieter. something he can’t even name when he’s sober, and definitely not now, baked out of his skull with his arm still tingling and his hoodie falling half off.

but still, he’s wearing you now. and it feels like something that’s always been true, just waiting for the ink to make it real.

“you good?” the artist asks, half amused, already reaching for the plastic wrap again. “yeah,” choso says, slow, mouth crooked into a lazy grin. “looks fuckin’ sick, dude.” the guy chuckles under his breath. “kinda figured you’d say that.”

“you killed it,” choso adds, finally dragging his eyes off the tattoo. “like, actually.”

the artist nods, pleased. “appreciate it. was fun as hell to do, honestly. you sure you don’t want her name or somethin’? under it?” choso snorts. “nah. that’d make it weird.”

“fair.”

he watches the guy gently press a clean dressing over the fresh ink, tape it up. the sensation’s a dull sting under his skin, not quite pain, just awareness. a reminder that it’s real now. that it’s his, for good.

she doesn’t know. you might never know. and that’s kinda the whole point. he’s not gonna flash it at you mid-party or say anything slick when you sit beside him later like you always do, throwing your legs over his lap and stealing his drink.

nah.

this one’s just for him. a secret under his sleeve, tucked into the curve of his body like a memory.

“you gonna keep it under wraps?” the guy asks, like he can read choso’s whole plan off his face.

“yeah,” choso mutters, grabbing his hoodie and tugging the sleeve back down with a practiced flick. “at least for now. don’t need her freakin’ out or nothing.”

“bet,” the guy says with a short laugh. “i get it.”

choso stands slow, body still heavy from sitting too long and smoking too much. he sways a bit but rights himself, shaking out his arms like he’s just come up from underwater. the whole basement smells like blood and rubbing alcohol and resin, but it’s warm, and the energy buzzes low and steady around him.

he digs in his pocket for a few bills, slaps them into the artist’s open palm.

“appreciate you, man.”

“anytime, bro. take care of that, don’t go dunkin’ it in a keg or anything.” choso grins. “no promises.”

he walks out with his hoodie draped low, sleeve tugged all the way to his wrist despite the heat and the crowd and the chaotic press of bodies funneling in from the hallway. music floods back in slow, a pulse of bass syncing up with his own heartbeat.

but he can’t stop thinking about it. every step he takes, every time the sleeve brushes against the fresh ink, it reminds him.

not of what they are.

but of what you mean.

upu didn’t need to give him that lighter. you didn’t have to think about him in that little quiet way you always did, like he’s more than just a weed plug or the guy you party with every weekend. that little moment, just you in your dorm, painting red spider lilies on a bic you knew he’d never throw away? that shit went straight to his chest. and now you're on his skin. maybe you'd freak out if you saw it. maybe you'd cry. maybe you'd laugh.

maybe you'd get real quiet and never say anything again. or maybe you'd look at him the way you did in that photo. maybe you'd look at him like you knew.

but all that’s for later. for now, he’s just stoned as hell, arm warm and throbbing, and so unbelievably content that it’s almost embarrassing.

he spots gojo again across the room, already perched on the arm of someone else’s couch with a red solo cup and a grin like he owns the house. choso veers toward him, slips back into the noise like he never left.

sleeve tugged down.

lighter in his pocket.

eyes on his arm, just for him.

~

later that night you navigate yourself back to choso after your banter with the girls.

you spot him sunk deep into the cushions, hood half up, curls falling into his face, a bottle of water in one hand and his eyes half-lidded and sleepy with that lazy high he wears better than anyone. he’s surrounded, gojo splayed on one armrest like he owns the place, sukuna lounged sideways with his feet on the table, and suguru perched on the edge, nursing a half-finished blunt.

“yo, look who it is,” gojo grins as you walk up, already clocking the way you move like you’re headed home, not just to a guy. “princess finally found her prince.”

you don’t say anything, just slide right into the little space at choso’s side like it was made for you. his arm shifts automatically, pulling you in like it’s instinct, and you tuck your face into his shoulder, letting out the softest exhale. you can feel the thrum of his voice in your cheek when he speaks.

“hey, ma.”

his hand’s warm against your hip, steady, grounding. he smells like weed and cedar and the faintest trace of paint from the lighter you gave him. it’s in his pocket now, safe like something sacred.

“so anyway,” suguru picks back up like you didn’t just crash-land in choso’s lap, “i’m telling you, the guy had no idea what he was doing. tried to roll with a swisher, no guts, just dumped the weed in and twisted the end like a fuckin’ lollipop.”

“god, not the lollipop roll,” sukuna groans, dragging a hand over his face. “freshman?”

“of course it was a freshman,” gojo says, grinning. “those little guys think watching one youtube tutorial makes them bob marley.”

“yo, remember that one dude at the delta party?” choso says, head tilting back slightly. “rolled a joint with a bible page.”

“amen,” sukuna snorts.

“nah, for real,” choso laughs, hand tightening just slightly where it rests on your side. “he said it made the high holier.” you huff against his hoodie, and his fingers flex like he felt it, like it was the best sound he’d heard all night.

they keep going, weed stories, party war stories, the dumbest shit they’ve ever seen in a frat house at 3am. it’s relentless, loud, chaotic, but you stay quiet, tucked against choso’s side like he’s the only still thing in the room. his thumb runs in slow circles against your waist through the fabric of your top, and you feel the way he laughs before you hear it.

“yo,” gojo says, leaning across suguru to point at choso. “what’s the craziest thing you’ve ever done at a party?”

“besides adopt a girlfriend he doesn’t kiss?” sukuna adds. choso blinks slow. doesn’t rise to the bait, doesn’t even twitch.

“probably that time at theta when i fell asleep in the bathtub and woke up with a raccoon in my lap.” suguru chokes. “you serious?”

“deadass.”

“was it… alive?”

“bro. it was chillin’. just vibin’ with me.”

“you probably hotboxed the tub,” gojo says, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes. “raccoon was just tryna get high.”

choso grins, soft and slow, and you nudge your nose into his hoodie like you’re hiding your own smile. “what about women?” sukuna says suddenly, eyes glinting like he’s fishing. “y’all ever hook up at your own party?”

“you’re disgusting, that's against reg” gojo tells him cheerfully.

“don’t lie,” sukuna drawls. “you know you have.”

“alright, once,” gojo admits. “but i kicked her out after because she tried to name my bongs.” “you’re heartless,” suguru says, deadpan.

“you don’t name the bongs,” gojo insists. “they earn names. it’s sacred.”

“what about you, choso?” sukuna’s gaze cuts sideways. “you got bodies stacked in your stoner dungeon?” choso hums, slow and easy. you feel the low sound in his chest, pressed flush to your cheek.

“nah,” he says. “i don’t hook up with girls who don’t know how to roll.” the boys howl, gojo nearly falling off the couch.

“that’s so on brand,” suguru laughs. “you need standards,” choso mumbles, amused, and leans his cheek briefly against the top of your head.

the lighter’s still in his pocket. his arm’s still over your shoulders. and beneath the sleeve of his hoodie, hidden from the world, your eyes are inked into his skin.

you shift a little, just enough to tuck your legs under yourself, settling more fully into him, and he adjusts without thinking — arm around you tighter now, palm spread warm across your ribs, thumb grazing your side through the fabric. he’s careful. doesn’t let the hoodie ride up. doesn’t let anyone see. the tattoo’s still fresh, still tender, and it’s just for him.

“yo, you good?” suguru asks, nodding at him. choso blinks slow. “yeah man’.”

“that weed hit hard,” gojo says. “i feel like i’m seein’ sounds.”

“you ever tried dabs?” sukuna asks. “that’s when shit gets spiritual.”

“you tryna kill someone?” suguru laughs. “every time i hit one, i feel like my soul’s leaving my body.”

“shit’s a rite of passage,” sukuna shrugs.

“nah, a rite of passage is hosting a rager with a cop at your door and acting like you live there,” gojo grins. “have you?” choso asks, amused.

“bro, i’ve answered the door in a bathrobe before,” gojo says proudly. they all crack up again. you don’t say anything, but your smile’s pressed right into choso’s chest, and he dips his head for a second to nuzzle his nose into your hair.

“she’s real quiet tonight,” suguru says, noticing. “nah, she’s just comfy,” choso says easily. “she don’t need to talk when she’s like this.”

you don’t. not when you’ve got his warmth, his arm around you, his voice rumbling low in your ear with every lazy joke. it’s always like this, like no one else in the room really matters, like you could fall asleep right here and he’d keep the world spinning while you did.

“that’s love,” gojo says mock-serious.

“shut up,” choso mutters. but he doesn’t stop smiling. and the lighter’s still warm in his pocket.

and your eyes are still inked into his arm, safe and secret beneath layers of cotton and smoke.

~

the house is still going when you two finally get up. it’s past 2am, maybe closer to 3, but the music hasn’t let up and there’s still people on the floor, drinks in hand, voices loud and slurred over each other. someone’s passed out with a sharpie mustache, another guy’s making out with a pillow. classic kappa chaos.

choso’s the one who moves first. you feel it in the way his arm shifts, in the soft brush of his thumb against your side like a nudge. he leans in close, voice barely above a murmur.

“you good to dip?”

you nod into his hoodie, eyes half-lidded, heart heavy with warmth and weed.

he helps you up slow, palm steady at your back. when you stand, the cold air from the open back door hits your legs and you shiver a little, instinctively leaning back into his side. he shrugs his hoodie higher and throws an arm around your shoulders like he already knew it’d happen.

“yo,” choso calls out over the couch, voice scratchy and low. “we out.”

gojo perks up from where he’s still posted with a half-spilled drink, eyes bright. “tell your girlfriend goodnight for us.”

you don’t say anything, just press your face into choso’s shoulder again, and he laughs under his breath.

“night, man,” suguru says with a nod, already halfway into rolling another blunt.

sukuna lifts a hand lazily. “text if you end up in a ditch.”

“if i do, i’m takin’ you with me,” choso mutters.

they all laugh again, and it follows you both out the front door, the porch light buzzing weak and yellow above you. the night’s cooler now, quiet in a way that makes everything feel soft around the edges. your heels click against the pavement as you walk, but only for a second, choso notices and without a word, crouches down in front of you, glancing back over his shoulder.

“get on.”

you blink, amused. “seriously?”

“c’mon, ma,” he mumbles, tugging at your wrist. “your feet hurt.”

you climb onto his back with a little laugh, arms wrapped loose around his shoulders, and he stands like it’s nothing, steady under your weight. his steps are slow and sure down the sidewalk, the frat house lights shrinking behind you, the sounds of the party fading with every step.

“you always take care of me,” you mumble against his neck.

he hums low. “’course i do. you're my.. best friend.”

you walk like that for a while, his hoodie soft against your cheek, his hair brushing your face every time the wind shifts. he doesn’t say much, just hums sometimes or comments on dumb shit you pass, a traffic cone in a bush, a raccoon on the curb that freezes when it sees you, like it knows choso somehow.

he sets you down once you’re close, only when his own building’s steps are in sight. his hand stays in yours as he leads you inside, up the stairs, past the other bedrooms where people are either passed out or definitely not sleeping. his door clicks shut behind you with a soft thud, and everything goes quiet.

his room’s the same as always, warm, dim, the faint smell of weed and whatever incense he burned earlier in the week still lingering in the corners. one sock on the floor, a hoodie thrown over the back of his chair. you’ve been here a hundred times, maybe more.

but tonight feels different. softer. warmer.

he pulls his hoodie off slow, careful of the sleeve, and tosses it toward the desk chair. the bandage underneath catches the light for a second, but he turns before you see too much.

you toe your shoes off and crawl onto the bed without thinking. he follows, slower, body still heavy with high and heat and something else he can’t name.

you’re both under the blanket when he finally speaks.

“hey.”

you look over, curled on your side facing him.

his eyes are half-lidded, soft. one arm tucked behind his head, the other stretched toward you, palm open on the comforter like he’s offering it.

“i really fuckin’ love that lighter.”

your heart stutters a little. “yeah?”

he nods, slow. “like… a lot. been using it all night. even switched pockets for it, kept checking to make sure it didn’t fall out or get swiped.”

you smile, something small and full blooming in your chest. “good. it’s supposed to be yours.”

“feels like it.”

he looks at you for a long second. the space between you shrinks until his arm slides around your waist and pulls you in close.

you go easy, always do, settling into him like he’s your own bed, your own pillow, the place you always end up no matter how far you drift.

he breathes in slow, his nose brushing your hair.

“the flowers… why’d you paint those?”

you press your face into his chest.

“they reminded me of you,” you say quietly. “red spider lilies. they’re kind of… complicated. people think they’re about death or goodbye, but they also mean memory. rebirth. starting over. they grow in all the places nothing else does.”

choso’s quiet for a second.

then, soft, “you think i’m like that?”

you shrug against him, voice even softer. “i think you’re the kind of person who sticks. who stays even when shit gets hard. and you don’t always say how you feel but… you’re steady. like those flowers. like fire.”

he exhales slow.

“fuck, ma.”

“what?”

“you’re gonna make me cry or some shit.”

you laugh, a quiet huff against his chest. he wraps both arms around you now, tucking you into the space beneath his chin, his hand sliding up into your hair.

his fingers stroke slow, gentle. again and again.

“you can cry,” you mumble. “i won’t tell.”

he chuckles low, the sound vibrating through you.

“nah, i’m good. just… i dunno. not used to someone thinkin’ about me like that.”

you don’t say anything. just curl closer, your fingers fisting lightly in the fabric of his shirt.

the room settles into silence. soft and slow. your breaths even out together.

his hand keeps stroking through your hair, steady and grounding. like he could do it forever. like maybe he will.

his voice comes again, quieter this time.

“gonna keep that lighter forever.”

you smile, eyes fluttering shut. “good.”

“not even gonna let gojo touch it."

“definitely good.”

his lips brush your hair, a ghost of a kiss.

you feel it all, the warmth, the safety, the way his body curls slightly to fit around yours like a shield, like a home.

his heartbeat’s slow against your cheek.

“night, ma,” he whispers, already half-asleep.

you murmur it back, voice slurred with sleep, breath syncing with his.

his fingers keep moving, slow circles through your hair.

and in the soft dark, beneath the blanket, beneath the silence, his arm curls around you just enough to press the fresh ink on his bicep to your side, a quiet secret. a permanent truth.

just for him.

just for tonight.

just for you.

~

~

it’s been a chill afternoon, sun’s out, classes dragging, brain fried. choso’s walking out of the lab building with his earbuds in, hoodie half-zipped, replaying your last message in his head. a pic of your shoes kicked off under a library table, captioned come save me, three broken hearts. made him smile. still does.

he’s almost past the quad when a shadow cuts across the sidewalk.

“yo, choso.”

doesn’t need to look up to know who it is.

that voice, too smooth. familiar in the kind of way that feels like smoke curling up your back.

he pulls one earbud out and slows.

toji’s leaned against the trunk of an oak tree like he’s been waiting. sunglasses on, black tee snug across his chest, arms crossed like he’s got all day. his smirk’s already half-there.

“what’s up?” choso mutters.

“you got a sec?”

choso gives him a long look. he knows toji. knows the kind of calm that means something’s coming.

“…yeah,” he says anyway.

they walk.

they’ve done this before, that time a few weeks ago before his lab, once or twice after parties, when everyone else was loud and drunk and messy. toji’s always been different. sharper. like he watches the room just to see where it bleeds.

“how’s life at delta mu?” toji asks after a few steps. casual. fake.

“same shit.”

“yeah?” he smirks. “you still throwing those weed parties with your little mascot?”

choso’s jaw ticks. “you mean y/n?”

toji chuckles. “yeah. her.”

he tosses a glance sideways. too casual.

“she’s got some energy, huh? always bouncing around, arms all over you. she like that with everybody or just you?”

choso doesn’t answer. toji doesn’t need one.

“nah, i’ve seen it,” he continues. “always tucked up next to you. on your lap. wrapped around your arm. clinging to your hoodie like it’s the last blunt in the world.”

he laughs under his breath. “kinda cute.”

choso’s fists go deep in his pockets.

“she’s just like that,” he says flatly.

toji hums. “you sure?”

choso looks over.

“what’s your point?”

“just wondering,” toji shrugs, still smiling like it’s harmless. “you’ve told me before, you two aren’t dating.”

“we’re not.”

“but you hang out every day.”

“yeah.”

“sleep in the same bed sometimes, right?”

choso’s mouth tightens.

toji grins like he caught something.

“so she’s single?”

choso stares straight ahead.

“…yeah.”

“good to know.”

silence.

the wind brushes through the quad. students chatter behind them. someone’s playing music from a bluetooth speaker in the grass, something smooth, almost romantic. it doesn’t help.

“she’s just real… open, you know?” toji says. “like, warm. sweet as hell. makes you feel like you’ve known her forever.” choso stays quiet.

“i ran into her the other day,” toji adds like it’s nothing. “outside the gym. we talked for a sec.” his tone is lighter now. teasing. like he’s digging.

“she remembered my name. smiled real nice, too. said she was headed to meet you.”

no surprise there. you always say where you're going. always talking about choso like he’s the center of your world. and maybe that’s why this stings. and toji knows it.

“you ever wonder if she does that for you?” he asks. “tells other guys she’s headed to see you. uses your name like a shield.”

he doesn’t wait for a reply.

“or maybe it’s just habit. maybe she’s comfortable. you ever think about that?”

“don’t do this.”

choso’s voice is low now. warning. toji just smirks.

“look, man. i’m not trying to piss you off. just… trying to understand. ‘cause you act like you’re her boyfriend, but then you say you’re not.”

he tilts his head.

“so which is it?”

choso breathes slow through his nose.

“we’re close. we’ve always been close. that’s it.” toji nods. like he buys it.

but he doesn’t.

“damn,” he says. “you got more patience than me.”

“what’s that mean?”

“means if a girl like that was pressed up on me every night, i wouldn’t be wasting time calling her my friend.” he says it with a grin, but there’s something sharp underneath.

“you really never tried?” toji asks. “never kissed her? not once?” choso doesn’t respond. he can’t. he kisses you all the time, on the head, never on the lips.

because the truth’s stuck in his throat, the way you fall asleep in his arms, the way you hold his lighter like it means something, the way you always come back to him like he’s home. and he’s the dumbass who never claimed you.

“so she’s single, then?” toji repeats.

“yeah,” choso says, quieter than the first time, barely above a whisper.

toji gives him one last nod.

“fairs,” he says. “just wanted to be sure.” and then he walks away. choso doesn’t move. not for a long time.

just stands there, fists clenched, teeth gritted, watching toji’s silhouette disappear down the path like it’s a threat, because it is. he knew.

he knew before he asked.

and now he’s coming.

because choso left the door wide open.

and you?

you’re free to walk through it.

~

choso’s room, late in the afternoon.

your legs are curled under you on choso’s bed, hoodie three sizes too big hanging off your shoulder, his, of course. the windows are cracked open, letting in the soft hum of birds and the echo of some guys yelling down at the basketball court. his room smells like incense, sage and something deeper, something him, warm, sleepy. you’ve been here a hundred times like this. maybe more.

his hoodie sleeves keep sliding past your wrists as you text, thumbs quick, quiet smile pulling at your lips. he’s across the room, digging through a drawer for his rolling tray. you can feel his presence without even looking. you always do.

“yo, did you move my grinder?” he calls, glancing over his shoulder.

“nope,” you answer, distracted, fingers still flying over your screen. your phone lights again.

toji [3:04pm]: you looked cute at that mixer last night.

you bite your lip. thumbs hover.

then you type:

you [3:07pm]: oh, so ur stalking me noww?

you don’t see choso pause. you don’t see how long his eyes linger on your phone. you don’t realize he saw the name, until he speaks.

“who you texting?”

you blink up, tone of his voice unfamiliar.

“hm? oh—” you shift your phone in your hand, instinctive. “just… someone.”

he tilts his head.

“someone, huh.”

you laugh a little. “why do you sound like that?”

he doesn’t answer. he crosses the room instead, slow steps. plants himself at the edge of the bed, arms folded. you look up at him and that warm energy’s gone. replaced with something colder. sharp.

“that toji?”

your breath stalls.

“…yeah.”

choso stares at you. unreadable.

“why?”

“what do you mean why?” you ask, eyebrows tugging. “he messaged me. we were just talking.”

he hums, low.

'not buying it.'

“just talking,” he echoes. “what about?” you sit up straighter. “what’s going on?”

“what’d he say?”

“choso—”

“lemme see.”

he gestures at your phone. you clutch it instinctively. like muscle memory. like guilt? “are you serious right now?” he doesn’t answer. jaw’s tight. eyes dark.

“what’d he say?” he asks again. your fingers squeeze your phone. you feel a flush crawl up your neck. not from embarrassment, but shock.

“you’re not serious,” you say again, this time quieter. he just looks at you. so you speak.

“he said i was cute, that's it.”

his jaw ticks.

“you flirting with him?”

“what?”

“you heard me.”

you scoff. “no. i wasn’t. it wasn’t even- i didn’t mean it like that.” choso steps back, runs a hand through his hair. pacing now.

“you texting him while you’re in my bed?”

“what does that matter?”

“it matters.”

his voice is sharper now. rough around the edges. not loud, but tight, like it’s fighting to stay inside his chest. “you know how i feel about that guy.”

“choso, he’s been nothing but nice lately—”

“he’s not nice. he’s not interested in being friends. he’s waiting, he’s circling, you don’t see it?”

you blink.

“so what, you’re mad ‘cause i texted him back?” he looks at you like you just spit on the floor. “i’m mad ‘cause you’re in my fucking hoodie, in my bed, telling some other guy he’s got a shot.”

you freeze.

the silence that falls is loud.

so loud.

your eyes widen. you stare at him, lips parted. unsure if you heard that right. unsure if he meant to say it.

“a shot?” you echo. he looks away. exhales hard.

“never mind.”

“no,” you say, voice firm now. “say it again.”

he doesn’t. but you both feel the truth echoing off the walls.

you look down. suddenly too warm. like the hoodie’s burning your skin. “…i didn’t know you’d care,” you say, almost to yourself.

choso swallows. “i do.” you glance back up.

“why?”

he doesn’t answer, but you already know. and now the air is thick with it. the unspoken thing. and for the first time, it’s not sweet. not warm. it hurts.

because it means everything he’s never said, everything he’s been, came with conditions you never agreed to. came with borders he never drew, but expected you not to cross.

you breathe slow. he watches you. you speak first.

“if you wanted to be the only one texting me like that, you should’ve said something.” choso’s face shifts. his mouth opens like he’s going to say something, defend himself, maybe, argue the way he always stays quiet because he doesn’t want to lose you,but nothing comes out.

instead, his brows knit together, lips pressed in a tight line. his fingers curl at his sides.

“you really think i don’t wanna be that?” he says, voice rough. “you think this shit’s been casual for me?” you blink at him. your breath catches.

“you’ve never said it was anything else, choso. what was i supposed to think?”

“fuck,” he growls, pacing again. “you were supposed to know. i thought you knew.”

his voice rises, not yelling, but loud with frustration. he’s unraveling in real time, and it’s shaking something loose in you, too.

“how was i supposed to know?” you shoot back. “you flirt but you never say anything. you touch me like i’m yours but act like i’m just your best friend—”

“you are mine.” your voice dies in your throat.

he stares at you. and when he speaks again, it’s quieter, but no less intense.

“you’re mine,” he says again, like a confession. like a curse. “always been mine.” your stomach flips.

“then why—” your voice cracks — “why didn’t you say anything?”

choso runs a hand through his hair again, like he’s trying to physically hold himself together. like it hurts.

“’cause i was scared,” he snaps. “scared that if i said it out loud, it’d fuck everything up. that you’d look at me different. that you’d leave.” you stare.

“so you’d rather let someone else have me?”

he stiffens. you rise onto your knees on the bed, fire lighting behind your ribs now. “you’d rather let toji of all people try it?”

his jaw clenches. “he’s not gonna have you.” your heartbeat skids.

he moves in fast, faster than he ever has, and grabs your wrist, firm but not rough, like he can’t bear to let the distance exist any longer.

“i’m not letting him have you,” he mutters.

you’re still frozen, looking up at him. something between fear and thrill curling in your gut.

“choso,” you whisper. he doesn’t stop. he pushes you back gently onto the bed, one hand catching your waist, the other bracing against the mattress. he hovers over you, breath heavy, eyes searching your face like he’s begging you to see it, really see it this time.

“i’m fucking in love with you.”

your heart punches into your throat. his forehead dips, pressing against yours, voice hoarse.

“i’ve been in love with you since you showed up to my first party and we listened to that dumb song together.”

you let out a shaky laugh, but your eyes are wet his thumb brushes your cheek.

“i never said it ‘cause i thought this was enough. thought just having you close was better than risking it all. but i can’t—” he pulls in a breath, voice shaking now too — “i can’t sit quiet while other people try to take you from me.”

you’re blinking fast now. breath catching. every inch of your skin feels like it’s on fire beneath his touch.

“you’re my girl,” he says again, softer this time. “you’ve always been mine.”

you don’t answer right away. your chest rises and falls beneath his, shallow and unsteady. your palm is still on his cheek, but your eyes have shifted, staring past him now. unfocused. wet.

“you’re only saying that,” you murmur, “because someone else finally had the balls to go after me.”

his breath catches. your voice is quieter, but sharp now, like you’re trying to convince yourself. like you want to believe it, but the cracks are there, and they’re splitting open.

“you didn’t say anything until he got involved. until he started asking about me. texting me. seeing me.” your hand falls away from his face. “and now suddenly, i’m yours?”

his eyes widen. “no—”

“you had so long to tell me, choso. so many chances.”

“y/n, it’s not like that—”

“then what is it like?” you breathe. “’cause i don’t get to be the girl you only want when someone else does.”

choso stares at you, heart hammering. like you just ripped something raw and bloody straight out of his chest.

he swallows.

and then, slowly, he pushes back, just far enough to sit up on his knees beside you. the mattress dips with the weight shift. his hands fumble for the hem of his hoodie.

he pulls it up and over his head in one quick move. your breath stutters.

there, inked into the inside of his upper arm, where he’d hidden it every time you curled up against him, is a tattoo.

of your eyes.

staring straight back at you.

your real breath, the one stuck in your throat, finally punches out of you.

choso watches your expression shift, eyes flicking from the ink to his face and back. he swallows once, hard, and says:

“got it the night of the party. when you gave me the lighter.” you blink.

“you were curled up on me. whole time i was talking with the boys, i couldn’t stop thinking about you. how close you were. how you looked at me like that was your home.” he swipes a thumb under his nose, like he doesn’t know what else to do with his hands. “so i got up, high as fuck, to the guy tatting people in the corner. told him to ink your eyes on me.”

your lips part, but nothing comes out. his voice softens.

“i didn’t say anything ‘cause i thought it was enough. just having you near. but it’s not. not anymore.”

your heart pounds so hard you feel it in your ears.

he looks at you like you’re the only thing in the room. like he needs you to believe it. really believe it.

“this isn’t about toji. it’s never been about him. i wanted you long before he ever said your name.”

you’re still staring at the tattoo.

he moves closer again. his hand brushes your knee, gentle.

“you think i’d get your fucking eyes tatted on me just ‘cause i’m jealous?” you blink fast.

his hand finds your face again. tender. grounding “you’re it for me.”

his voice is low, raspy. not just from the emotion, but from how hard he’s holding it in, like if he lets go, everything he’s ever felt for you will come spilling out and drown him.

but he lets it go anyway.

“you’re all i think about,” choso says, brushing his thumb over your cheek again. “when i’m high, when i’m sober, when you’re across the room and laughing at someone’s stupid joke, when you’re asleep in my bed, wearing my shirt, you’re in my head all the time, ma.” your breath catches.

“every song reminds me of you. every little thing you do drives me crazy. you don’t even know how much of me you’ve got.”

he leans closer, forehead nearly touching yours.

“you gave me that lighter and i wanted to kiss you right there in the middle of that party. when you paint your nails i stare at your hands for hours. when you fall asleep on me at parties, i sit still like a statue so you don’t move. i’m always lookin’ at you like ive already lost you, and it kills me.”

his hand finds your jaw, warm and steady, fingers curling behind your ear. your breath hitches, and he’s close enough to feel it.

“you’ve had my heart since freshman year. and i didn’t say anything ‘cause i thought maybe you didn’t want it. or maybe you already had it and didn’t need to hear it out loud.”

you swallow, shaky. lips parted. cheeks flushed.

and choso looks down at them, your lips, like he’s been holding himself back from kissing you for a lifetime.

and then he doesn’t anymore.

he crashes into you like he’s starving.

the kind of kiss that drags a sound out of your throat before you even realize it, all heat and pressure and ache, all the months and years and everything he’s shoved down, poured out into the way his lips mold against yours. he kisses you like he’s afraid you’ll pull away, and like he knows you won’t.

your hands claw at his shoulders, winding into the mess of his hair, tugging him in even closer. and choso groans, deep in his throat, pressing you down into the bed, slotting his hips against yours.

his mouth moves fast, desperate, lips, tongue, teeth, like he can’t get enough. like the taste of you is something he needs in his lungs.

“fuck,” he breathes against your mouth, dragging his lips down your jaw, “you don’t get it, do you?”

your back arches, lips parting when he sucks lightly under your ear.

“how bad i’ve wanted this. you.”

his hands roam, over your waist, under your shirt, up your sides like he’s trying to memorize all of you at once. and every place he touches leaves a trail of fire.

you moan his name, soft and shaky, and he loses it a little more, bites your bottom lip as he grinds his hips down into yours, heavy and hot and so there.

“say it again,” he mutters, eyes half-lidded, forehead pressed to yours. “say my name.”

“choso.”

he shudders.

“again.”

“cho!.”

he kisses you so deep it knocks the breath out of your lungs. kisses you like he owns you, like you’ve always belonged to him, and like he’s finally letting himself claim what’s already his.

and fuck, you let him.

you’ve wanted this just as long, you've needed him just as bad.

and now, with your limbs tangled, your body burning under his, your heart thudding like a war drum in your chest, there’s no more pretending.

you’re his. he’s yours. and it’s written all over his face.

choso looks at you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted, like he’s starved for you, but still savoring the moment. his eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, but soft. reverent. he cups your cheek with a hand that’s just slightly trembling, brushing his thumb along your skin like he can’t believe you’re real.

he kisses your forehead, slow and grounding, like a promise. then your nose. then your lips, and that one lingers. warm, aching, deep enough that it steals the air from your lungs. it’s not just desire. it’s everything he’s never said until now.

“please let me see you, ma." he whispers, voice hoarse, like he’s been holding back forever.

you nod, lips parted, eyes locked with his. your breath stutters as his fingers ghost over the hem of your shirt, lifting it inch by inch like he’s unwrapping something precious. he tosses it aside, only to pull you in again. his palms spread wide across your ribs, thumbs brushing just beneath your chest.

“fuck,” he breathes, low and to himself. “so fucking beautiful.”

he leans in, mouth dragging hot and open along your neck, kissing and breathing you in, his lips trembling against your pulse like he’s drunk off you. he murmurs something there, a soft, almost desperate, “mine,” before he undoes your bra with one practiced flick.

and when it falls away, he doesn’t touch you right away. he just stares, like the sight of you has knocked the wind out of him.

his hands come up slow, palms warm as they cup you like he’s afraid to break something delicate. “been dreaming about this,” he says. “about you. here. like this. in my bed. lookin’ up at me like you already know i’d give you everything.”

you shiver under the weight of it all, his voice, his gaze, his touch. and then his mouth is on your chest, lips sealing around your nipple, tongue flicking before he sucks. slow, deep, just enough to make you arch into him with a needy whimper.

“choso…”

he groans, hand sliding lower, fingers hooking into the waistband of your shorts. he pulls them down with your panties in one motion, dragging his palms down your thighs on the way. and when he sits back, just to take you in, bare, breathless, flushed, his eyes go wide, like he’s trying to commit you to memory. “look at you,” he murmurs, chest rising with each ragged breath. “you don’t even know what you do to me, do you?”

you reach for him, tugging his shirt up and over his head, palms skating down the strong lines of his chest, stopping only when your fingers find his arm. your breath catches.

your eyes. inked in black and red over his skin, etched like a confession. you won't ever get sick of seeing it.

he watches you take it in, sees the exact moment you understand, and he doesn’t say anything. not at first. he just leans in, takes your hand in his, and presses it over his heart.

“see?” he whispers. “been yours. always.”

your eyes brim, chest tight with something that has no name. and then he kisses you again, slow and deep, tongue stroking yours, hand sliding between your thighs. he groans into your mouth when he feels you, warm, wet, already trembling.

“so wet for me,” he mutters, lips brushing yours. “all this for me, huh?”

his fingers dip into you, one at first, then two, slow and deep, curling just right. your back arches, mouth falling open with a gasp as he starts to move them, watching every twitch and shiver you give him like he’s memorizing the way you come apart. “fuck, baby,” he breathes. “you feel so good, been wantin’ this for so long. just wanted to take care of you. make you feel good.”

his lips trail back down, mouth closing around your nipple again as his fingers keep working you open, the room echoing with your broken gasps and soft moans. he kisses your sternum, your ribs, every inch of you he can reach like he’s trying to make up for every second he didn’t have you.

and when your legs start to tremble, when your thighs squeeze around his hand and you whimper his name into the crook of his neck, he groans, low and sexy, and pulls back just enough to strip the last of his clothes.

his cock is flushed, hard, already leaking, and still, he pauses.

he leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, breathing hard. “you sure you wanna do this hun?”

“i want you,” you whisper, voice cracking. “i want all of you.”

and when he slides in, slow, deliberate, it’s overwhelming. your nails dig into his shoulders, mouth open in a silent gasp, and he just groans, long and low, burying his face in your neck.

“fuck, sweetheart… you feel so fuckin’ good, made for me, huh?”

his hips rock into you, slow and deep, dragging along every sensitive inch inside you until you’re trembling again, mouth parted in helpless moans. he kisses you through it, messy and uncoordinated, full of teeth and tongue and need.

he doesn’t hold back anymore. not his body, not his voice. he’s everywhere, his hands, his mouth, his words, and every thrust is rougher, deeper, hotter than the last.

“been yours since the day i met you,” he breathes against your skin. “you’re mine, baby. mine. no one else gets to have you like this. no one else even fuckin’ compares.”

you believe him. how could you not, when he’s saying it like he’s been waiting years to let it out?

you fall apart first, clenching around him with a strangled moan, whole body trembling as your orgasm crashes through you, and choso follows, grinding into you with a low growl, holding you close as he spills into you.

he doesn’t let go. not even after. he stays buried deep, forehead to yours, one hand cradling your jaw like it’s fragile.

“not lettin’ you go,” he whispers. “not now. not ever.”

~

raging music throbs and the party’s already in full swing when you two walk in. the bass thrums under your feet, bodies packed tight in the kappa house. familiar faces flash by in strobes of color and sound, solo cups raised, someone laughing too loud, gojo shouting across the room with a bottle in each hand.

and then you and choso step into the chaos like it’s nothing. except tonight, it’s not nothing. it’s everything. your hand is in his. his thumb strokes over your knuckles like it’s second nature, and you’re tucked into his side like you’ve always belonged there. he’s wearing that hoodie you love, and you’ve got it slung off your shoulder like it’s yours now. he hasn’t let go of you since you walked through the door, and he doesn’t plan to. people notice.

gojo sees first. his mouth falls open around the mouth of a beer can, and he drops it on the counter with a dramatic gasp. “oh my god.” choso raises an eyebrow, smirking. “no fuckin way,” sukuna mutters, eyes narrowing. “this for real?” you don’t say anything. just smile, nuzzling into choso’s chest. and choso, god, he melts. his arm tightens around you like instinct, like he’s not even thinking about it. “you’re kidding,” maki blurts from across the room. she’s half-drunk and squinting, pointing her beer bottle at you two like she’s trying to make sense of a mirage. “you finally fucked?”

“maki,” shoko hisses, slapping her arm, but she’s already grinning. “i knew it. i knew it.” suguru lifts his drink with a slow, knowing smile. “took you long enough.” gojo, meanwhile, is spinning in a circle like he just witnessed a miracle. “wait wait wait,” he says, pointing between the two of you. “you’re telling me this entire time, we’ve been watching you two eye-fuck each other across every frat house on campus, and now you’re just casually showing up like this?”

“what can i say,” choso murmurs, pulling you even closer, “i figured it was time.” “look at his hand placement,” shoko says, leaning into maki. “that’s not friends. that’s boyfriend hand placement.”

“yeah and look at her,” maki laughs. “she looks like she just got dicked down and praised like a goddess.” you duck your head a little, embarrassed, but choso leans in and kisses your cheek, then your temple. it’s so soft, so easy, and when he pulls back, he looks straight at toji who’s staring wide eyed, steady, calm, but with a flicker of challenge in his eyes.

“don’t look at her like that,” he says, voice low. “not tonight. not ever.” toji scoffs, raising his hands in mock surrender, but his grin is sharp. “damn. someone’s possessive now.”

“been possessive,” choso mutters, like it’s not even up for debate. he turns his attention back to you instantly, brushing your hair behind your ear.

“you okay?”

you nod. “i’m perfect.” and then he kisses you. not a peck. not for show. it’s slow, unhurried, with his hand cupping your jaw and his lips moving with the kind of tenderness that makes your knees weak. the room could be burning down and he wouldn’t stop. you don’t even hear gojo’s dramatic screech until you break apart.

“yo this is crazy,” he says, spinning around and yelling to no one in particular. “choso is off the market. choso kamo, resident stoner-lover of no one but his weed and his hoodie collection, is now cuffed.”

“what’s it feel like,” suguru asks with a smirk, raising an eyebrow at choso, “to be someone’s boyfriend?”

“feels like i shoulda done it years ago,” choso says. you blink up at him, heart catching in your throat. “yo,” yuuji calls from the other side of the room. “does this mean we’re finally allowed to say you two have been in love since freshman year?” “i always said it,” nobara yells, shoving through the crowd with a drink. “don’t act like y’all didn’t see them cuddled up at every party like an old married couple.”

“wait does this mean she’s moving into his room?” gojo asks, visibly spiraling. “what’s gonna happen to the guest bed? who’s gonna roll for me when choso’s too busy being in love?”

“die mad,” choso says flatly, and everyone laughs. but even through all the noise and teasing and attention, his focus never strays from you. his hand stays on your waist. his eyes keep dropping to your mouth like he’s remembering exactly what it feels like.

“you good?” he murmurs again, like he just wants to hear you say it.

you press your nose to his chest and nod, smiling. “more than good.”

he kisses you again, slower this time, like it’s just for you. like no one else is in the room. like he’s exactly where he’s always wanted to be.

and the thing is, he is.

he’s yours. fully, finally, publicly.

© 2025 sixxels. All work belongs to @sixxels Do NOT repost, modify, translate or plagiarize in any way on ANY platforms.

awe wasn't that sweet 👩‍❤️‍💋‍👨 m.list

It irked you. It made your heart clench at the same time. Because even after marrying you, Sylus remained elusive, playing his cryptic games. It was beyond you how he didn't even stop to consider how you were left worrying about him while he drifted in and out of his dangerous world without a second thought.

You understood the reality of your lives—that you were a hunter and he was the Onychinus leader, and that to be with him meant you had to walk that fine gray line between light and dark.

And you'd already made your choice. You had accepted it—accepted him—wholly. Even when your marriage had been a rushed affair and registered under false names to protect both your identities.

Things couldn't go on like this. You had to teach him a lesson too.

As your irritation simmered into determination, a devious plan began to take shape in your mind—a way to spite him just enough to make your point crystal clear.

Two days later

Sylus was done with his dirty business faster than he thought, and to appease you, he had come bearing gifts.

The precious little thing that is now his wife, of course he missed you too. But your safety was a price he wasn’t willing to gamble. If going away to take care of those pests meant your peace would be unperturbed, then he would leave without hesitation.

However, as he stepped inside the base, his relief quickly turned to unease. The space was eerily empty, the usual hum of activity conspicuously absent.

Normally, you’d be at the center of some commotion, locked in a spat with either Mephisto, or Luke and Kieran. But now—

“What do we do?! She’s gone!”

Sylus immediately rushed to the source of the ruckus, thinking something bad had happened to you. He found his henchmen standing in a tight, anxious circle around the coffee table.

“What happened?” he demanded.

Without a word, they stepped aside, revealing the object of their concern: a single note lying on the table.

He snatched it up, scanning the words. Then, he let out a sharp exhale of relief, a smirk began tugging at the corners of his lips.

Catch me if you can.

Typical. Absolutely typical. And maddeningly you.

. . .

That night, you had a very strange dream, it felt almost felt like stepping into the pages of an ancient tale.

You were a fallen princess wrongfully accused as a sorceress, who began consorting with the fearsome fiend from the Abyss.

The sorceress and her dragon. Together, you were an infamous pair, a dark legend whispered across generations. Your union had ignited Doomsday itself... and yet, amidst the turmoil and destruction, the sorceress fell in love with the dragon... deeply and irrevocably.

The dragon, in turn, was utterly bewitched by his little witch. He indulged your every whim, no matter how mischievous or perilous, and though he rarely spoke of his true feelings, he always found ways to show his affection.

The lucid dream felt as though it might go on forever, but you were pulled from it by the soft brush of lips against your forehead. The warmth lingered, blurring the lines between dream and reality, until your eyes fluttered open.

“Sylus...?” His features, fresh from your dream, now materialized in your reality. It took you a few seconds to realize that he had come here—

“Morning, sweetie.” His voice was rich and smooth, with that familiar, mischievous edge. A smirk curled on his devilishly handsome face as he leaned in, garnet eyes gleaming with playful intent. “Caught you now, hmm?”

The haze of sleep vanished in an instant, and you were suddenly wide awake. In a flurry, you shoved him away and turned your back on him, trying to regain some semblance of control.

You’d left the N109 Zone for one of his safehouses in suburban Chansia City, thinking it would take him some effort to track you down. Clearly, you’d underestimated him.

“Oh. The kitten is in a bad mood, it seems.” Sylus’ gaze lingered on you, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Well, what do I owe the ire for?”

“...”

“Silent treatment, huh? The lady of the house is getting better at our little games while I was away.”

“...”

“Remember, sweetie, there’s no divorce in our relationship, hmm? If you’re tired of me, keep taking naps.”

You felt the weight shift as he rose from the bed and stalked away. The door clicked shut, leaving you in the silence of the room.

You wanted to resent him for coming and going on his terms, for never offering even an apology. Yet, no matter how much you tried, a part of you remained hopelessly tethered to him. The part that couldn’t ignore the reminder of the dragon from your dream—captivating, powerful, and infuriatingly hard to resist.

You love him, really you do.

. . .

When you didn’t come down for breakfast some time later, Sylus barged into the room once again, and this time he came up with a different approach.

“My lady,” he began, his voice sickeningly low and sweet, but his eyes gleamed with a touch of mischief. “You haven’t had breakfast yet. Please come down.”

You shot him a look, unamused, and decided to play his game as you crossed your arms together. “What if I don't want to?”

His smirk only grew, his tone dripping with mock formality. “And what must I do to change your mind?”

Despite yourself, you couldn’t help but notice his persistence. He had chased you here, given you more time to sleep in, and now stood before you to get you to eat. You felt your resolve beginning to soften—maybe just a little.

“Carry me there,” you said with a hint of defiance, lifting your chin high, daring him to follow through.

Sylus tilted his head, failing to restrain his snort. “As you wish, my lady.”

He placed his arms around you effortlessly, one hand beneath your knees and the other supporting your back, lifting you into a flawless princess carry. You instinctively put your arms around his neck, and he turned to you.

You opened your mouth, ready to fire off a sharp retort, but before you could, he dived in—

Smooch!

—and planted a bold, wet kiss on your lips. You, wide-eyed, punched his chest in retaliation. “Sylus!”

He chuckled, entirely unfazed. “Careful now, sweetie. Wiggle too much, and you’ll fall.”

He carried you downstairs, effortlessly navigating each step with you still in his arms. Once there, he gently set you down onto the dining chair, and that was when you noticed the table.

Salad, slightly burnt toast, scrambled eggs, milk—simple dishes by all means, but the thought the big, bad Sylus making them?

Wait. When you arrived last night, this place was a dusty shell, and the refrigerator had practically nothing—

“You cleaned the place?” you asked, your tone laced with surprise as your turned from the spotless room to him.

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Why is that so surprising? I can cook and clean just like everyone else.”

It sent a wave of warmth through your chest. He’d prepared food and cleaned the place knowing you’d be hungry and uncomfortable with dust all around.

You huffed, trying to hide how your heart fluttered. “No, your cooking skills are questionable at best.”

As if to prove you wrong, Sylus disappeared into the pantry and reemerged with a tray of warm, freshly baked dough that filled the room with a heavenly aroma.

“You are... baking?” You approached him, mystified at the sight of your husband, who usually at the scene of crime, behind the counter and started frosting the cupcakes.

He set the frosting bag down and picked up a cupcake, holding it to your lips with a teasing smile. “Here. Open up.”

Dutifully, you nibbled on the cupcake, and the sweetness immediately spread into your mouth. “It's tasty,” you mumbled, blinking at him. His eyes crinkled with satisfaction as he gestured toward the tray.

“Go have some more.”

Grinning, you grabbed another cupcake and eagerly took a bite. Munching away, you missed how Sylus’ gaze softened, his bright red eyes focused solely on you.

He couldn't resist pinching your full cheeks at that moment.

“Sy-wus!” you protested, glaring at him. His laughter broke free that instant, warm and unrestrained.

Utterly funny, utterly precious—that’s what you were to him.

Indignant, you scooped up some icing from the cupcake and smeared it right across his face. The stunned look he gave you was priceless, and before he could react, you burst into a fit of giggles and bolted out of the kitchen.

But as you reached the base of the stairs, a strong arm caught your waist from behind, halting your escape. You squealed in surprise, “Noooo!”

Sylus leaned closer and pressed you to his chest, his voice rumbling in your ear. “Ha. Did you really think you could get away that easily?”

He lifted you up with one arm and brought you back to the kitchen, setting you down on the counter and trapping you in place with his arms braced on either side. His eyes sparkled with mirth as he leaned in, and with a grin, he bumped his frosting-smeared nose against yours, leaving a sticky smudge.

“This is unfair!” you protested, still caught in a fit of giggles as you looped your arms around his neck for balance. Sylus chuckled along with you, his gaze steady and warm, never leaving yours.

Being with Sylus in the kitchen like this, savoring simple meals and smearing each other with frosting, it made you realize that you craved this domestic bliss more than you thought.

As the laughter subsided and you both settled into the quiet, your expression softened, all your previous grievances forgotten. The tenderness in your eyes said everything you didn’t need words for, and Sylus could see it clearly—you adored him, just as much as he adored you.

The one who gazed into his jewel-like eyes, embraced his burning soul and sang to him in the night wind... is once again in his arms. A part of him was almost sentimental at the thought.

Instinctively, he closed the distance between you, his lips hovering just a breath away from yours. But as they were about to meet, he paused, as if hesitating, leaving you puzzled.

Then, without a second thought—

To hell with it.

You chose to abandon all senses. You seized the moment—yanking him to you and capturing his lips, claiming him for yourself.

“…!” Suck, suck, bite, suck— You were relentless, and you didn't really know why. At first, even he was taken aback, but then his hand slipped behind your head, fingers threading through your hair as he deepened the kiss, his tongue tangling with yours in an intoxicating rhythm.

“Mmm...” You sneakily began to undo the buttons of his shirt one by one, your fingertips grazing his warm skin with each deliberate motion. Feeling it, Sylus broke the kiss just enough to smirk, his voice husky. “Getting bold, aren’t we?”

But before you could respond, his hands trailed down your sides, firmly pulling you closer, leaving no space between the two of you. His gaze burned with desire, as if daring you to keep going.

Then, without warning, his lips began their descent, grazing your jaw softly before trailing down to your neck and chest, leaving a trail of warmth and shivers across your skin. The feeling was intoxicating, even as his hair tickled you, making it hard to focus on anything but him.

“Ahh,” you couldn’t help but sigh, pressing him closer.

His lips left wet marks on your neck, and he whispered, “Now tell me... what made you so upset that you left home?”

When you didn't answer right away, one of his hand slid beneath your blouse, unhooking your bra and grazed your skin—

“You... keep coming and going as you please...” you stammered, feeling him begin to cup and squeeze your breasts, your breath growing erratic.

Sylus bit down on the skin at the nape of your neck, and you almost gasped.

“It's almost as if— Mmm—” The way he fondled your chest made the space between your legs grow warmer. “—you wouldn’t... miss m-me at all...”

How untrue. He stopped his ministrations, and the steel behind those eyes you loved so much met your gaze once again.

His wife was a mess of sweat already. He swiftly hooked your thighs around his waist and claimed your lips once more. With effortless movement, Sylus guided you to the long recliner in the room, laying you down there, still lost in the heat of the kiss. His hand intertwined with yours, pinning you to the soft surface.

“So...” he rasped, breathless against your lips, “You’re upset that I didn't miss you when I was away...”

His other hand worked to unzip your skirt. “But don’t you know? I... was worried about my wife getting into trouble when I wasn’t with her too... That’s why I was in a hurry to go home...”

Sylus pulled away, both of you panting for air, and he took a moment to savor the sight of your glazed eyes.

“But then I couldn't find her anywhere.” His voice was low and taunting, trailing his fingers on your belly. “I made it back as soon as I could, just like I told you and you are the one who misbehaved... Don’t you think I deserve something as a compensation?”

It took you three solid seconds to realize that the lower half of your body was now exposed. Your husband parted your legs and settled his face between them, pressing a kiss on your knee.

“So I believe at the very least... I deserve this.”

He dived straight for your clit then and you let out a loud gasp.

“Ngh! Aaah...!” You let out incoherent moans as he devoured your folds, lost in the cloudy haze of pleasure. It didn’t take long to unravel you at all.

“Mmnh—!” Your eyes almost rolled to the back of your head. Ticklish, hot, wet— all in all, it felt like a sin, but you just had to get this heavenly taste. “…a-ah!”

Sylus felt how you were this close to get your orgasm, so he moved faster, licking and sucking your clit, while adding a couple of fingers to bring you to the peak faster. You unconsciously moved your hips against his face— too far gone to be thinking anything else, grasping the leather of the sofa and pulling his hair—

“Ahh— S-Sylus!” And then you came hard, screaming his name, feeling how much it was— were you squirting?

You didn't know, didn't care either, as it was the sight of his ruby eyes that grounded you. You were spent, spread on the sofa (most probably ruined it, even), your chest heaving to catch your breath.

Sylus let out a low rumble as he wiped your juices off his lips with a thumb and tasted it, looking so sinfully sexy like a forbidden fruit while at it.

“You said... I wouldn't miss you.” He traced one finger on your face with such tenderness. “Now, I'm going to show you, and you'll be judge of it. Are you sure you don't want me to stop?”

If you said no, he would comply. That was the kind of person he was and you knew it. Sylus had always looked out for you since the very beginning, no matter how nonchalant he made himself to be.

“No.” You met his eyes, your voice steady. “Show me.”

It was the only affirmation he needed. He began unbuckling his belt and pants, keeping his unclouded gaze on yours, and soon he too was bare before you.

He was thick and long, and while you had taken him many times, it was never fully easy to ease the intrusion. His tip was already slick with precum, and he spread it along his length.

“You know the rule,” he murmured with a meaningful smile. “If it becomes too much, you scream, and I'll stop.”

He positioned himself at your entrance, sliding in slowly. The sharpness of the stretch seeped into you bit by bit, and you couldn't help but groan.

“—!” A sharp hiss escaped you as he fully sheathed himself inside, hitting that sensitive spot. Had your eyes deceived you, or was there a slightly noticeable bulge in your belly from where he was?

Sylus seemed to notice it too, but he folded your knees, spreading you further. His gaze intense and filled with something deep, something possessive. The room seemed to narrow, your entire focus consumed by him as he settled in close.

“Eyes on me, kitten.” He gave you a smile, and with that, he started pounding you—

“Ah, hah, ahhh!” You couldn't stop moaning beneath him as he thrusted into you. The feeling of him so deep inside, coupled with the way you tightened around him, sent waves of blind pleasure through you.

Sylus’ eyes darkened, his jaw clenched as he watched you squirm under him. Your skin glistened with the heat of the moment, and the sound of your breaths, frantic and needy, filled the room. His control slipped, just a little, as he pushed deeper, his movements faster, chasing the release that quickly building within both of you.

A pretty mess, his wife is. Your face contorted in a mix of pleasure and pain as he bred you, and he swore, of everything he had gone through, this look in your face was always worth it.

“Sylus—!” you almost wailed, nails digging into his back, and he growled, knowing full-well that he was finally losing it.

Just like that he shot his cum straight to your womb, his own body shuddering, thoroughly rutting into you. You cried, tears falling from your lashes as you too reached your climax.

Full, too full... Yet you knew that you wouldn't have it another way.

. . .

It felt warm and comforting.

Your eyes fluttered open hours later, and the first thing you noticed was Sylus' sleeping face, and that you were now in the bedroom.

He looked so vulnerable like this. You couldn’t help but be drawn to how serene and unguarded he was, a side of him that only you got to see. Even in his sleep, his arms were wrapped around your waist, as if to protect you from anything that might disturb your rest.

Your lover... and then husband. He was rough around the edges, sometimes didn't make any sense at all, and often reckless enough to burn himself playing with fire.

“You sly crow…” You gazed at his profile, still in awe that this elusive man was your husband.

Sylus was easy to read sometimes, and you couldn’t help but smile at your earlier doubts about him. How could you not see just how deeply he was attached to you?

Just like the inseparable pair of dragon and sorceress in your dream, you knew you’d stay by his side until the very end.

Out of a playful surge of affection, you tapped his nose, and he grunted softly but didn’t wake, instead nuzzling his face into the crook of your neck, seeking more of your warmth. It was cute, how he was so worn out that he sought comfort in your embrace.

You pressed a soft kiss to his forehead then, vowing with everything you had that you’d never let him go, and that with him by your side, you would definitely made this life you shared a happy one.

Several weeks later...

“Thank you, miss!”

The boy bowed his head with a wide grin as soon as you handed him the red pocket money for Linkon New Year. You waved at him, smiling warmly as he skipped away, clutching the envelope in his hands.

The festive occasion inspired you to pay a visit to a nearby orphanage, driven by a desire to share more of the joy and blessings. You brought small gifts and red envelopes, hoping to bring a little light to the children’s lives and make the celebration even more meaningful for them.

Of course, Sylus tagged along too. He was the benefactor, after all.

“Sir, thank you for your generosity.” The headmistress approached Sylus, who looked effortlessly sharp in his red suit, and gave his hand a shake. “The children are really happy with the cupcakes and pocket money.”

He merely chuckled and pointed at you with his chin. “Thank her, my wife is the one with the idea.”

You joined the conversation shortly after, and it didn’t take long for the topic to shift from the orphanage to your personal lives.

“So, do the two of you have plans to start a family soon?” the headmistress asked, her tone warm and curious. “Both of you are still young, and you're so good with kids. Having children of your own might bring even more joy into your lives.”

You mustered a polite laugh, the words to gracefully deflect her comment forming on your lips, when—

“Soon,” Sylus interjected smoothly, his arm slipping around your waist, pulling you closer. “Very soon, in fact.”

You blinked at him, startled by his bold declaration, while the headmistress’s face lit up with approval. You nudged him discreetly.

As soon as the headmistress went on her way, you turned to him with a frown. “Why would you tell her that?”

Your gaze met his, clear and utterly clueless. Sylus snorted, so tempted to pinch your cheeks, but settling instead for a tender pat on your head.

“You'll see soon enough, sweetie,” he replied, his tone laced with playful mystery.

Epilogue

It was the dead of night when a sudden wave of nausea overtook you. Stumbling out of bed, you rushed to the bathroom, barely making it to the toilet before retching up the contents of your stomach.

Your body trembled as you stood, dizziness threatening to topple you. Leaning heavily on the sink for support, you rinsed your mouth, trying to steady yourself. The effort left you shivering, your legs almost buckling beneath you.

Before you could even comprehend the blur in your vision, a pair of strong arms got a hold over you. “S-Sylus...?” you murmured faintly.

Without hesitation, he lifted you into his arms securely as he carried you back to the bedroom, his expression shadowed with concern.

As he settled you onto the bed, he held you close, pressing your face against his bare chest that peeked from his unbuttoned shirt. “Take deep breaths,” he urged softly, his voice grounding you.

You inhaled shakily, letting the familiar warmth of his scent calm your frayed nerves. Slowly, your breathing steadied, though the nausea still lingered in the back of your throat.

“Is it the first time?” he questioned, smoothing your hair. “Have you thrown up before?”

You shook your head. “No... I get dizzy spells but that's it... This is the first time.”

Nausea, dizziness, vomiting. It wasn't hard to piece together what it was. Amidst your dazed thoughts, the realization hit you, and you turned to your husband almost in wonder. “Sylus... a-am I...?”

Sylus broke into a smirk, ruffling your hair. “Told you. I know your period is late.”

Your heart skipped a beat—and it was the only thing you could hear in that moment. The thought that a baby would enter your lives left you briefly speechless.

“Yeah, at the rate we're going, it’s like we’re bunnies,” you quipped sullenly, trying to regain a sense of control as you leaned into his broad chest.

You really thought he would poke fun at you for your highly possible pregnancy, but instead you were taken aback when he pressed a fond, lingering kiss to the side of your head. His arms tightened around you, his soft chuckle reverberating through his chest.

And when you found his gaze again, his jewel-like eyes softened into such an extent that made your heart soar.

The second slap lands on your other cheek, and you're already ruining your red laced panties- sticky wet fabric clinging to your swollen folds, the crotch of your panties a soppy mess.

"I'm -ah- I'm sorry-"

"No you're not." He yanks your thin underwear down, and they stick, peeling away from your soaked cunt with a beautiful squelch. Strings of your arousal stretch between fabric and flesh before snapping, dripping onto the leather beneath you, ""You wanted me to get jealous… to get rough. You wanted this." His knee wedges between your thighs, forcing your legs wider.

As his fingers drag through your folds they gathering the obscene amount of slick pooling there, and you hear his dark laugh when he feels how drenched you are, "look at this mess. You're practically drooling for me."

He's not wrong. Your pussy is making wet, embarrassing sounds just from him touching you- fingers sliding through your syrupy mess like you've already been fucked open and filled.

"Please-"

"Please what?"

"Please, Colonel-"

"Better." He rewards you with two fingers sinking into your aching pussy, and the sound is filthy- a sloppy squelch as your greedy cunt swallows him to the knuckle. He curls them against that spot that makes your knees tremble, and more slick gushes around his digits, dripping down his wrist. "But you don't get to cum until I say so. Understood?"

You nod frantically, words failing you as he starts to fuck you with his fingers- slow, deliberate strokes that make your pussy squirt around him with every thrust. his other hand keeps your bound wrists pinned to your back, the chain of his necklace cutting into your skin with every squirm.

"You know what the worst part is?" He leans down, lips brushing your ear while his fingers continue their maddening rhythm, "I can't even be mad at you. Because I know why you did it."

"Nnngh- why-"

"Because you needed this." A third finger joins the first two, stretching your sloppy hole open with a lewd glrch, and you keen into the leather cushion. Your cunt is making sounds like it's sucking on his fingers, hungry and desperate for him. "Needed me to put you in your place. Needed me to remind you that no matter how many men you bat your eyes at, the only cock that gets to split this pretty pussy open is mine."

He withdraws his fingers abruptly -your hole gapes for a moment, clenching on nothing, more slick dribbling out- and you hear the rustle of fabric as he frees himself from his dress pants.

The blunt head of his cock nudges against your entrance, immediately coated in your mess, slipping through your folds and bumping your clit before finding your hole again. You try to push back onto him, but his grip on the necklace binding tightens, holding you still.

"Beg for it."

"Please-"

"Full sentence. Beg your Colonel to fuck you."

Your face burns with humiliation, drool leaking from the corner of your mouth onto the leather, but your cunt is aching and dripping and you'd say anything right now to feel him inside you.

"Please, Colonel- pleasepleaseplease fuck me- m'need your cock- m'sorry I was a brat, I'm sososo sorry, -hah- just please-"

He slams into you in one smooth, brutal stroke.

Your vision whites out. The stretch -god, the stretch- makes your thighs shake, your soaked walls yielding to him with obscene ease. He's so deep it feels like he's in your stomach, and when he starts to move, each thrust punches air from your lungs in choked little gasps.

He doesn't give you time to adjust -Caleb never does when you've been acting up- just starts pounding into you with punishing force, using the necklace as a leash to yank you back onto his cock with every thrust.

"This-" thrust "-is what-" thrust "-disrespectful-" thrust "-brats-" thrust "get."

The apartment fills with the sounds of his hips smacking against your ass hard enough to bruise while your sopping cunt squelches around his thick cock. You're so wet that frothy cream is forming at the base of his shaft, white and filthy, splattering with every thrust.

"Caleb- m'close- please- can I-"

"No." He angles his hips, hitting that squishy deep spot that makes you squirt helplessly around him, "You lost the right to decide when you cum when you decided to be a little tease all night."

Your eyes are rolling back, drool pooling under your cheek, body gone limp except for where he's holding you. The pleasure is overwhelming- each drag of his veiny cock against your slick walls sends tremors through you, and you can feel yourself teetering on the edge without permission to fall.

"Look at you," he growls, "Bent over my couch, tied up with my necklace, taking this cock like you were made for it. You're not sorry for teasing me at all, are you?"

You try to shake your head, but it's useless- you're just a ragdoll in his grip, a messy, whimpering thing getting fucked stupid.

"Answer me." His fingers leave the silver chain wrapped around your wrists to fist in your hair, wrenching your head back as he fucks into you with renewed intensity making you cry out- his cock is somehow even deeper now

"N-ngh- no," you sob, "m'not sorry- fuck- gonna do it again- love when you get like this-" FUCK, you can feel his cock churning up your insides- feel the thick head dragging against your g-spot, feel the ridge of him massaging your walls.

"Then I'll make you regret it." He releases your hair to deliver a series of sharp slaps to your ass- alternating cheeks until you're glowing red and sensitive, every spank making your pussy clench around him.

He yanks the chain again, pulling you up so your back is flush against his chest. The new position has him hitting somewhere impossibly deep, and you cry out as he mouths at your neck, teeth scraping over your pulse point. "This throat." He squeezes lightly. "These perfect tits." His free hand pinches a nipple through your dress. "This ass." Another slap. "And especially this messy little pussy that only gets wet for me... All of it belongs to me."

"Caleb- please- m'gonna-"

"You're gonna cum for me now," Caleb orders, "and when you do, you're gonna remember who you belong to."

His fingers reach around to work your swollen bud while his cock hammers you from the inside. You're sobbing, drooling, barely coherent- a fucked out mess of tears and spit and sweat-

"Cum. Now."

The command breaks something in you. Your whole body seizes- back arching, mouth dropping open in a silent scream as your cunt clamps down hard on his cock and you gush. Not just dripping- fucking spraying, a hot jet of slick that splatters everywhere, soaking through his uniform, running down his thighs in rivulets. Your pussy is convulsing around him, sucking at his shaft like it's trying to pull him deeper, and the sounds coming out of you aren't even words anymore- just broken, wet, animal noises.

"That's it-" Caleb's voice cracks, hips snapping erratically one final time before he grinds, pelvis crushing against your ass, and you feel his cock jump inside you as he unloads. Thick ropes of cum flooding your spasming cunt, so fucking much of it that it has nowhere to go- spurting out around his cock in filthy white globs with each pulse, splattering your thighs, dripping onto the ruined leather and floor beneath you.

He keeps you pinned there, cock twitching through the aftershocks while your pussy flutters weakly around him, still trying to milk every drop.

When he finally pulls out his softening cock drags through the mess, followed by a thick rush of cum and slick that oozes from your wrecked hole in a steady stream. He watches, transfixed, as your pussy clenches on nothing- gaping, twitching, leaking his load.

"Look at that," he breathes, thumbing at your puffy rim and making you whimper...

You can't respond. Can barely think. Just lay there trembling while he carefully unwraps the chain from your wrists, bringing your hands to his lips to kiss the red marks.

"Next time you want my attention," he murmurs against your skin, all traces of sternness melting into something tender, "just ask."

You manage to look at him with a fucked-stupid smile, drool still wet on your chin, "Where's the fun in that, Colonel?"

One hand holding your legs, the other carrying your heels, Sylus slowly entered the bedroom. His bright red eyes gazed sweetly at you, as he made his way closer to the couch in the room. Not wanting him to let go of you, your arms tightened around his neck, causing him to chuckle. "If you don't want to lie down, I can keep holding you until I leave." He maneuvered his body to where his back was facing the couch, arms still holding you up. Pulling him closer, you placed your cheek against his chest, eyes gazing at him innocently, "What if I don't want you to leave...?" Arching his eyebrow at you, his arms slowly brought you down to the ground, allowing you to stand in front of him. "Then...we better make the most of your time before dawn." He said, lips drawn into a sexy smile, as he stepped back, crimson eyes staring down at you seductively.

Your hand planted onto his toned chest, making him huff in delight, before applying pressure, causing him to fall down onto the couch. His eyes widen in surprise, but was quickly replaced with a burning desire, as one of your knees plopped between his legs, allowing you to get closer to him. Tracing his cheek, then his neck, you tugged, bringing his lips to yours. It started with one kiss, then two, then three, until the both of you couldn't keep your lips apart anymore. Large hands pulled you closer, one tracing your butt, squeezing it, and the other cupping your head, deepening the kiss even more.

Parting for air, hot and bothered from the passionate make-out, the both of you gazed at each other with desire. Enamored, Sylus traced his fingers on your lips. "You really don't want me to leave?" He whispers, lips perked up in a smirk before he descended on your lips again. His hands gripped your waist, pulling you closer into him. His tongue traced your lips before entering inside your mouth, dancing with your tongue, making you moan. Feeling the growing bulge under you, you grinded your butt onto it, hearing a low growl from him. "Sy.....over there." You whispered, eyes glossy. Rising from the couch, his arms held you up, kissing your lips and neck with every step he took.

Placing you on the bed, he crawled on top of you, cheeks colored pink. Smirking, your fingers traced his chain necklace, pulling him even closer, sporting a quiet gasp from his lips. "Looks like we're on the same page when it comes to not wanting to waste time." His hand traced your cheek, eyes filled with sinful lust. Feeling shy, your head turned away, only to be stopped by a hand holding your chin, "Stay focused, kitten." Moving his hand from your chin, he covered your eyes, his voice whispering in your ear. "Don't look." He purred, lips coming back to yours, the taste of sweet honey and fine wine filling your mouth. Hips thrusted into you, groaning into your mouth as his hand moved up your arm, hand finding yours, grasping it tightly. Wanting more, your legs wrapped around his waist, pulling him closer. Pulling away, he licked his lips, as he let out a small laugh, "Greedy, aren't we, kitten?"

His hands traced your leg, pulling it up to place a soft kiss onto it, sending shivers all over you. "Do you want it, kitten?" He whispered, dropping kisses from your knee to your inner thigh. Your head nodded before you could even process it, making Sylus pull you even closer, causing you to panic, hands placed against his chest, stopping him. Raising an eyebrow, Sylus stopped his movements, but continued to trace kisses from your leg to your chest. "You haven't changed your mind, have you...? You just said "Yes."" His lips continued to leave kisses on you, moving now from your chest to your neck, "I can't hold back anymore."

Biting kisses attacked your neck, back arching from the sensation. "D..don't bite." You mewl out, head in a daze. A deep chuckle vibrated against your throat, as Sylus removed his head from your neck, his red eyes playful. "Mmm..first you want it rough, now you want it soft....You're a tough one to please tonight, kitten." His fingers hooked into your pants, lowering them down slowly, allowing him to see your drenched panties. The bulge in his pants was protruding out even more, as it pushed in between your legs, hitting your clothed lower regions. "What do you really want? Won't you be honest and tell me like you just did?" His eyes locked onto yours, his lower body continuing to thrust between you. Biting your lip, suppressing your moans, you glared a bit at Sylus, "I'm not falling for your tricks."

Pushing his chest, he was now the one with his back against the bed, with you straddling him. His eyes widen for a second before he shook his head, amused with your actions. "Oh, so you want control? Unfortunately, I can't give it you....not yet at least." Warm hands grasped at your legs, pushing you closer, drenched panties hovering above his face. "Sylus!! What are-" Your words were cut off as Sylus leaned closer, teeth pushing your panties to the side, allowing his tongue to tease your lower lips. You let out a gasp, body melting at the sensation, but you felt entirely embarrassed by this position, so you attempted to move, only to be stopped by Sylus hands, squeezing your legs, keeping you in place. His tongue found your clit, flicking and teasing it, making you moan even loader. Unable to resist any longer, your whole body weight planted on his face, moving your hips to grind into it, increasing the pleasure.

Something inside you started to tingle, making you panic. "Sy....let....let go....I'm...gonna...ah." Trying as hard as you could, you try to move away from his teasing mouth, but it proved futile. "Don't run." His husky voice whispered from below you, before moving back, swirling his tongue deeper inside of you. "Mmgh...ah...Sy..ahhhh." You moaned, body quivering from the ecstasy, as you began to release, climaxing inside his mouth. He continued to use his tongue, cleaning what was left. The strength in your body left you, becoming jelly as you slowly fell backwards, back hitting the bed again, twitching from the orgasm. Sylus returned back to his position, hovering on top of you, as he licked his lips, savoring your flavor. "Did you enjoy that, kitten?" He whispered, deeply satisfied with how you were responding to him.

"Y....your... so annoying." You shuddered out, voice hoarse from the moans you had screamed out. Chuckling deeply, Sylus moved closer, giving your forehead a kiss. "I won't deny it. I guess you can say I lied you're not the only one feeling greedy....and I won't be leaving until this greed is completely satisfied." His words were thick with desire, as he spread your legs wide, allowing his body to slot in between them again. "Oh...it seems I misspoke." He chuckled out, making you stare at him confused. "Greed can never satisfied...but you can temporarily soothe it." His hand reaches for the zipper on his pants, pulling it down slowly, his member popping out, allowing you to see it in all its glory, heart racing at the sight. Breathing heavily, Sylus came closer, holding you by your waist, his member prodding you gently, but not entering you. "Say it again. Y/N, do you want it?" His red eyes gazed into yours, waiting for your answer.

You could feel your heart beat out of your chest. You knew this is what Sylus wanted from you, your permission, your consent. Grabbing his cheeks softly, you brought him closer, softly kissing his lips before you pulled away, smiling gently at him. "This is my answer." Lips curving into a tender smile, his lips locked against yours in a passionate dance, hands grasping at your top, pulling it up. Breaking from the kiss, you allowed Sylus to remove your shirt, allowing your bra to pop out. "Heh...cute." He smirked, voice raspy, as his fingers moved behind to unhook it, letting your breasts spill out. Standing up, he opened his shirt wider, full abs and V line on full display, entrance clenching at the sight. Sensual eyes noticed your reaction, lips rising into a cocky smirk. "Like what you see, kitten?"

Too aroused to even utter a word, only thing you could do was nod your head. Sylus laughed again, grasping at your legs, hooking them around his back, chest meeting yours, his gorgeous face in front of you. "I'll go slow, sweetie." He asked softly, making sure you were okay before he started. Nodding your head again, the prodding sensation you felt slowly began to come inside. There was a small sting, making you wince, nails digging into his back. Small kisses planted on your cheek, your nose and your neck, easing the pain a bit. "You're okay.....you're okay." Loving words whispered in your ear, as his length inched slowly, burying inside you fully. "Fuck....your so tight." He deeply grunted, hips paused as he waited for you to adjust. You felt so full, just one small movement from him had you reeling your head back. "Sy....you...can...move."

Moaning into his ear, sent a shiver down his spine, as he removed his head from your neck, saccharine lips smiling at you. Pulling out slowly, he thrusts back into you, going at a slow rhythm before picking it up, ramming his cock inside of you. The spot he kept hitting inside of you made you see stars, as you pulled him closer, hooking your arms and legs tighter around him, screaming out his name. Warm hands had grabbed at your bouncing breasts, fingers massaging them, wet tongue licking away at your nipples. Brain numb, you could only whimper at the ministrations as Sylus continued to pound into you, hitting your sensitive bud.

"So...so good....Mhm!" Nails scratched down his back, red lines left behind as waves of pleasure continued to flow through you. "So good for me, sweetie." Muttering into your chest, he sped up, his cock hitting you deeper. Eye rolling back, loud moans erupted from your lips as the tension of your incoming orgasm was starting to surface. "Sy....Sylus! I-I'm gonna....ahhhhhhh!" His head left your chest, moving closer to your ear, dragging his tongue on the lobe. "Cum for me, kitten." His husky voice, sent you over the edge, as your grasped him tightly, electrified by immense pleasure. Clenching, white gushes of your fluid bursted out of you, as you cried out his name. He soon followed suit, wrapping his arms around you tightly, he grunted out, speeding up.

Throwing his head back, he groaned deeply, pure hot seed filling you up, moaning at the overfilling feeling. The both of you remained in this blissful state, only sound being heard was both of your panting breaths. Body collapsing on top of yours, his head nuzzled against yours, arms wrapping you in a warm hug. "That was amazing. Did you enjoy it, kitten?" Arms feeling like jelly, you sluggishly moved them, hugging Sylus back. "Y-yeah." Chuckling deeply, he peppered your face with kisses, lips planting onto yours once again, giving you a deep kiss. Your hands grasped at his silver locks, rubbing it softly. His hips gave another thrust, hitting your spot again, arching your head, breaking the kiss. "Sy! Wait....give me a minute." His cock never left you, once again rock hard inside your walls. Grinning smugly, he caressed your cheek, "Oh kitten...I believe I did say that greed can never be satisfied."

The rodeo smells like dirt and beer and bad decisions.

You’re wedged between Tara and some guy in an absurdly oversized cowboy hat who keeps whooping like he’s personally invested in watching men get concussed by livestock. The stands are packed, the sun is setting, and you are profoundly, deeply bored.

“Isn’t this AMAZING?” Tara shouts over the announcer’s voice.

“It’s definitely something,” you say, taking another sip of overpriced beer.

“Come on! Live a little!” Tara hits your arm playfully. “You said you wanted adventure, didn’t you?”

What you actually said three days ago was that you needed a weekend away from your suffocating corporate job and your mother’s passive-aggressive texts about your biological clock. Tara—your chaotic, impulsive, rodeo-obsessed friend and coworker—interpreted that as “drive three hours into the middle of nowhere to watch men cosplay as cowboys.”

“I said I wanted a spa weekend. With wine. And no animals.”

“This is way better than a spa!”

“Tara, I’m watching a man get thrown off of a bull into a literal pile of shit.”

“That’s the best part!”

You’re starting to regret every choice you made that led you here, mentally drafting escape strategies: sudden vague illness, a family emergency of unclear nature, alien abduction—

“Next up,” the announcer booms, “give it up for Sylus Qin, folks! Undefeated this season, riding Wild Cherry—”

The crowd absolutely loses their minds. Apparently this guy is famous. Or infamous. It’s hard to tell.

Tara is suddenly sitting up straighter. “Oh my god, it’s him.”

“Him who?”

“SYLUS. The Sylus Qin. He’s only the best bull rider in the circuit right now. Undefeated. Gorgeous. Thighs that could crush your skull and you’d say thank you.” She’s practically vibrating. “This is why we came.”

“We came all the way out here for one specific cowboy?”

“We came for THE cowboy.” She looks at you like you have brain damage. “He has entire fan accounts dedicated to him, y’know. Sychos, we call ourselves. Get it, like psych—”

“Yeah, I got it,” you cut in. “Naming yourselves after men who sit on angry animals for prize money. Very adult behavior.”

“Adult behavior is overrated.” Tara waves you off. “And just you wait, babe. You’ll be calling yourself one by the end of the night.”

You snort. “If that happens, I give you permission to euthanize me.”

“Fine, but I get your closet.” She bumps your hip with hers. “I’d grieve, obviously. But in designer.”

A group of girls in tight denim shorts and matching red bandanas suddenly flock to the rail below you, phones out, glitter letters spelling STAY ON, SYLUS across posterboard. One of them whispers something to the girl beside her that makes her giggle and bite her lip.

“Those are the Sychos, huh?” you say, like you’re confirming a wildlife sighting. “You count yourself among the faithful?”

“Please. Me? I’m not here to worship him.” She tips her chin toward the girls, sliding her sunglasses into her hair. “I’m here for his disciples.”

You shoot her a look. To Tara, men sit in the same category as traffic cones—loud and in the way, only tolerable when directing her somewhere else.

“You’re unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably efficient, you mean.” She tosses her braid over her shoulder and checks her lipstick in the reflection of her phone screen. “They convert easily.”

Before you can respond, the PA system crackles in a sharp burst of static that jolts the arena to attention. Everyone shifts at once, boots scraping against metal as the crowd angles to catch a glimpse of the rider. Someone whistles. Dust stirs around the chute like it’s coming alive.

The girls below you erupt first, phones snapping up, posterboards rattling against the rail.

The announcer’s voice rolls through the speakers—a slow country drawl that buzzes through the bleachers, through your ribs, through the stupid can of beer in your hand:

“Competitor twenty-two…Sylus Qin.”

Tara exhales like she’s been waiting hours for this exact moment. “Showtime.”

“—ain’t nobody lasted more than six seconds on this beast all year—”

“That’s what she said,” you mutter into your drink.

Tara doesn’t hear you. She’s too busy screaming with the rest of the crowd as the gate slams open.

The bull explodes into the ring—twisting, bucking, trying to murder its rider with pure muscle and chaos. The man on top is already locked in, one hand high, the other on the rope, body rolling with each violent buck like he’s done this a thousand times. Because he probably has.

You’ll admit—objectively, technically, it’s impressive. In the same way watching someone juggle chainsaws is impressive. Impressive and dangerous and stupid.

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t wobble. Doesn’t even seem winded. Just rides the beast like it was born to be beneath him.

Six seconds. Seven. Eight.

The buzzer sounds. He dismounts smoothly, landing on his feet while the bull handlers rush in. The girls below you are shrieking like someone won the lottery.

You finish off your beer.

“...That’s it?” you mutter.

“That’s it?” Tara whips her head toward you so fast her sunglasses nearly fly. “He just survived a demon with horns and you’re bored?”

“Looked like…balance,” you say with a shrug. “Core strength. Decent stance.”

Tara opens her mouth, ready to annihilate you, but the crowd erupts again as the rider approaches the bleachers—a frenzy of camera flashes, dads slapping shoulders, girls crying.

You glance up just in time to see him.

Sylus Qin. Helmet off, silver hair tousled, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt. A handler says something to him, but he barely responds. His red eyes scan the bleachers, not searching the crowd—hunting through it.

And then they find you.

Not the screaming girls pressed against the rail. Not the sign glittering under the fluorescent floodlights.

You.

His gaze flicks over you once, slow, like he’s taking note of every inch. He doesn’t smile, doesn’t wave, just assesses you in a way that makes your pulse jump.

Tara gasps like she’s witnessing a miracle. “Oh my god,” she hisses, shaking your arm. “He’s looking at you!”

“He’s looking in this general direction,” you correct, throat suddenly dry.

“General direction, my ass.” Tara’s voice is wild with victory. “He’s staring at you like you just spit in his drink. And he liked it.”

You’re about to argue when Sylus drags the back of his glove across his mouth—still looking up at you, the stranger with crossed arms and a steady, blank stare. His eyes narrow, heat flicking to life behind them. Interest. Curiosity. Challenge.

You tilt your head, like you’re still trying to figure out what the fuss is about.

The gesture lands like an insult.

He holds your gaze for a beat too long, tips his hat directly at you with what can only be described as spite, and saunters out of the arena.

Tara explodes beside you the second he disappears through the gate.

“WHAT WAS THAT?” Tara is practically screaming in your ear. “What just happened? Did you see that? He looked at you like—like—”

“Like nothing.”

“Like EVERYTHING.” She grabs your face, turning it toward hers. “Do you understand what just happened? Sylus Qin just acknowledged you. Personally. In front of everyone.”

“He probably does that for lots of people—”

“He doesn’t.” A girl in front of you turns around, and she looks furious. “He literally never does that.”

She’s wearing a crop top with “Qin” bedazzled across the chest and more makeup than seems practical for an outdoor event. Her friends beside her look equally angry.

“Excuse me?” you say.

“You heard me.” She looks you up and down with obvious disdain. “We’ve been coming to his rides for months. Months. And you—you didn’t even cheer! You just sat there like you were bored!”

“I mean...I was?”

Tara makes a sound like she's trying not to laugh.

“This is bullshit.” Bedazzled stands up, and her whole group follows. “Come on. We’re going to the back. Maybe if we’re there when he comes out—”

They file out of the row, shooting you looks that range from annoyed to homicidal.

The moment they’re gone, Tara turns to you with the biggest grin you’ve ever seen.

“Oh my god.”

“Don’t.”

“You made enemies in under eight seconds. I’m so proud.” She’s bouncing on her heels now. “Did you see their faces? They looked like you personally victimized them.”

“I didn’t do anything—”

“You existed while looking unimpressed. Apparently that’s a crime here.” She glances toward where the group disappeared, then back at you with a gleam in her eye. “God, they’re going to be so upset when they find out he—”

“When they find out he what? Looked at me for two seconds?”

“That man tipped his hat at you like a declaration of war. That’s not nothing.” Tara is still grinning. “Anyway, I need to pee. Come with?”

“Yeah, sure.”

You both head toward the bathrooms, navigating through the crowd. The line is mercifully short.

“I’m calling it now,” Tara says as you wait. “Something’s going to happen.”

“Nothing is going to happen. He probably tips his hat at people all the time.”

“Sure, babe. Keep telling yourself that.”

You roll your eyes and head into a stall. When you come out to wash your hands, Tara is leaning against the sink, scrolling her phone.

“You go ahead,” you tell her. “I’ll meet you back at the seats.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, I’m going to fix my hair. I look like I’ve been at a rodeo.”

“You have been at a rodeo,” she confirms, already heading out. “Don’t take too long! Next round starts in ten!”

You’re willing your last few flyaways into place when your phone buzzes in your back pocket.

Unknown Number: Tell me.

Unknown Number: Did I disappoint you, or are you always like that?

Your stomach drops.

You: who is this?

Unknown Number: Take a wild guess, sweetie.

Unknown Number: Here’s a hint: silver hair, red eyes, just gave the performance of the night to the most unimpressed audience member in rodeo history.

Fuck.

You: how did you get my number?

Sylus: Your friend. The enthusiastic one in the seat next to you.

Sylus: I asked one of the staff to track down “the girl in section B who looked like she’d rather be getting a root canal.” She was very helpful.

You’re going to murder Tara.

You: that’s borderline stalking

Sylus: It’s resourceful.

Sylus: Also, your friend gave me your number with the promise that I would “show you a good time.” Her words, not mine.

Sylus: Though I’m not opposed to the prospect.

You: you’re insane

Sylus: You’re texting back awfully quickly for someone who thinks I’m insane.

Sylus: So. What’s your damage?

You: excuse me?

Sylus: I just rode 2000 pounds of rage that hospitalized four people this season. People are losing their minds. There are women in this crowd who would commit felonies for my autograph.

Sylus: And you looked like you were waiting for a bus.

Sylus: I need to know what your problem is.

The audacity of this man…

You: maybe i’m just not impressed by men showing off

Sylus: Showing off implies I did it for attention. I did it because it’s my job and I’m good at it.

You: i don’t cheer for men who do their jobs. sets a bad precedent

Sylus: You’re cruel.

Sylus: I like you.

Sylus: Gate 7. Twenty minutes.

You stare at your phone. This cannot be happening.

You: why would i do that?

Sylus: Because you’re curious. Because I’m curious. Because you clearly have opinions about my performance that you’re dying to share.

Sylus: Or are you scared?

You: of what? you?

Sylus: Of admitting I was more impressive than you’re letting on.

You: you’re delusional

Sylus: Gate 7. Twenty minutes. Prove me wrong.

You should block this number. Should go back to Tara. Should absolutely not go to Gate 7.

You: ...i’ll think about it

Sylus: Clock’s ticking, sweetie. Gate 7. Don’t make me come find you.

You pocket your phone and find your seat beside Tara in the stands, heart racing.

“Your cowboy texted me,” you inform her flatly.

“HE DID?!”

You wave your phone in her face as evidence.

“When were you planning on telling me you gave out my phone number to the man who looked ready to challenge me to a duel?!”

“He was asking around for it! What was I supposed to do, say no?” She looks absolutely delighted with herself. “Shit, what did he say? Is he asking you out? Please tell me he’s asking you out.”

“He wants me to meet him at Gate 7.”

Tara screams. Actually screams as she rips your phone out of your hand. Several people turn to look.

“YOU HAVE TO GO.” She’s reading the messages, scrolling rapidly. “He’s obsessed. He’s one hundred percent obsessed with you.”

“He’s not—”

“‘Don’t make me come find you’?” She looks at you with her jaw dropped. “That’s obsessed behavior. When are you going?”

“I’m not going—”

“You ARE going. This is Sylus Qin. Do you understand how many people would kill for this opportunity?” She’s already pointing you to the aisle. “Those girls down there are going to lose their minds. This is the best night of my life.”

“You’re a little too excited about this.”

“Are you kidding? You’re about to go meet the hottest bull rider in the circuit, and his entire fan club is going to implode when they find out. This is peak hurt-comfort material.” She pauses, eyes lighting up with realization. “I’m gonna try to console them afterward. The blonde one is kind of cute when she’s angry.”

“Tara.”

“What? You get the hot cowboy, I get to make the heartbroken rodeo girls feel better. Everybody wins.” She grins. “Especially me.”

You roll your eyes. She physically shoves you toward the exit.

“Now go. Before he changes his mind.” Tara looks down toward the rail where Bedazzled and her friends are still trying to get Sylus’s attention. “I’m going to go offer emotional support. Wish me luck.”

You’re going to strangle her. After you maybe, possibly go to Gate 7.

Just to tell off the cowboy.

Obviously.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

—

Gate 7 leads to a restricted area—trailers, practice equipment, and cowboys in various states of undress. You’re about to turn back when you see Sylus.

He’s leaning against a fence, hat tilted back, stripped down to a white t-shirt that clings to his muscled frame in ways that should be illegal. There’s dirt on his jeans, and a dark bruise blooming on his pale forearm that he doesn’t seem the least bit bothered by.

He’s taller up close. Broader. And those eyes are definitely, unnaturally red.

“You came.” He sounds genuinely pleased.

You nod, keeping a careful distance. “You’re very pushy for a stranger.”

“Sylus.” He pushes off the fence, extending a hand toward you. “Now I’m not a stranger.”

You take his hand, large and calloused and scarred along the knuckles. His grip is warm and firm, and he holds on just a second longer than necessary.

“And you are?”

You tell him your name, and he repeats it slowly, like he’s testing how it feels.

“Pretty. Doesn’t match the attitude, though.”

Your eyes narrow immediately. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You looked miserable up there. Bored. Like you were mentally filing your taxes.” He tilts his head, studying you. “City girl?”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Sweetie, everything about you screams ‘I don’t belong here.’” His eyes drag over you slowly—your designer boots, your expensive jeans, the way you’re standing like you’re afraid of getting dirty. “Your boots cost more than most people make in a month. You’re holding yourself like someone might brush against you the wrong way. And you’ve got that look.”

“What look?”

“The one people get when they’re critiquing something they’ve never done themselves.”

“I don’t need to ride a bull to recognize—”

“Recognize what?” He’s close enough now that you have to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. “Go on. Tell me, princess. What did I do wrong?”

Princess.

He says it like he’s daring you to get offended. You want to hate it. But your pulse clearly didn’t get the memo.

“Second buck,” you say before you can stop yourself. “You held center. But you should’ve leaned into it.”

His eyebrows raise slightly. “Should I?”

“The bull was digging left. You stayed neutral. If you’d shifted your weight—”

“Show me.”

You blink. “What?”

“Show me.” He gestures to the fence rail beside him. “Up. Show me what I should’ve done.”

“I’m not getting on a fence—”

“Ah.” He crosses his arms, stance relaxed like he’s already won. “All that mouth was just for show. My mistake.”

Your jaw tightens. You step forward and grab the top rail.

His hand closes around your wrist before you’ve even set your weight.

“You’ll slip like that.” He adjusts your grip, thumb dragging across your palm. “Fingers here. Wrist locked. Unless you want to fall.”

“I wasn’t going to fall—”

“Show me, then.” He steps back, waiting.

You haul yourself up onto the rail, boots wedging between the crossbars, steadying your weight to keep your balance. You settle there, stable, and you know you’ve done it well because he pauses in that particular way men do when they realize you’re more capable than they assumed.

He moves closer slowly, until he’s standing right there, palm coming to rest lightly on your ankle.

“Your eyes weren’t on the rider,” he says.

“They were on the bull," you tell him. “The rider’s posture only matters relative to momentum. The animal is the variable. You were just—compensating.”

His thumb shifts against your ankle bone, pressure increasing the slightest fraction.

“Compensating for a thousand pounds of rage isn't ‘just’ anything.”

You meet his eyes. “It is when you’re supposed to be good at it.”

He doesn’t smile. He steps between your legs, looking up at you with that unreadable expression.

“Show me,” he says, unhurried. “Show me where you think I should’ve shifted.”

You swallow. “I’m not a professional—”

“That didn’t stop you from having an opinion, did it?” He tilts his head. “You’ve been judging me since I got off that bull. So judge. Show me what I did wrong.”

You lift your hand, pointing to where you’d seen the bull dig in. “Second buck. Right there. If you’d leaned into it instead of holding straight—”

His hand comes to your knee. Not grabbing, just setting the angle. “Like this?”

Your breath catches.

His other hand settles light on your hip—the kind of touch that’s functional, yet makes your skin burn through your jeans.

“Or here,” he asks, voice dropping lower, “if you want to keep your spine neutral?”

The air shifts between you.

“You’re—” You have to clear your throat. “You’re mocking me.”

“I’m learning.” His thumb brushes a slow circle against your knee. “You sat above me for eight seconds looking unimpressed. Now you’re above me again.” His eyes hold yours. “So teach me. What should I have done differently?”

It’s not about the bull anymore. You both know it.

“You should’ve—” Your voice is unsteady. “Weight forward. Hips angled—”

“Show me.” His hands are still on you, patient and sure. “Don’t tell me. Show me where.”

You shift your hips forward slightly to demonstrate and his grip tightens, subtle yet unmistakable.

“Like that?” His words are rougher now. “That’s what you wanted to see?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting.” He steps back finally, hands dropping away, and you hate that you immediately miss the contact. “Get down.”

“What—”

“Get off the rail. I’m going to teach you something.”

“I don’t need—”

“Yes, you do.” He’s already walking toward the practice area. “You know the theory. Now let’s see if you can execute. Come on, city girl. Time to back up all that criticism.”

You should refuse. Should go back to the stands. Instead, you climb down from the fence and follow him.

Because he’s right. You’ve been judging from a distance. And something about the challenge in his voice makes you want to prove him wrong.

Or maybe prove him right.

You’re not sure which would be more satisfying.

—

The mechanical bull sits in the empty practice area like a challenge.

“Absolutely not.”

“You just spent ten minutes telling me what I did wrong.” Sylus is already at the control panel, adjusting settings with casual confidence. “Now you get to prove you understand what you’re talking about.”

“I don’t need to ride it to understand—”

“Talk is easy. Execution’s different.” He doesn’t look up. “You can critique all you want, but until you feel it, you don’t actually know anything.”

The dismissiveness in his tone makes you tense. “Fine. Start it up.”

“Not yet.” Now he looks at you. “Get on first.”

You approach the bull, eyeing it skeptically. It’s wider than it looked from a distance.

“Problem?”

“No.”

“Then stop stalling.”

You grab the rail and try to pull yourself up. Your boots slip on the metal and you barely catch yourself.

“Easy, princess.” He’s beside you instantly, hands on your waist. “Step on the platform. I’ll lift.”

“I can do it myself—”

“I know you can.” His grip is firm. “But this is faster. Up.”

He lifts you like you weigh nothing, and suddenly you're straddling the barrel, thighs spread wide, hands scrambling for the rope.

“Don’t.” His voice stops you cold. “Hands off.”

“Then how—”

“You were very confident about hip positioning a minute ago.” He walks around you slowly, assessing your form. “So use your hips. Thighs tight. Core engaged. That’s all you need.”

“That’s not—”

“It is.” He stops in front of you. “You’re trying to hold on because you don’t trust your body. But I watched you on that fence. You’ve got the strength. You just don’t know how to use it yet.”

His hand slides up your outer thigh—not suggestive, testing muscle tension. Your body doesn’t seem to know the difference.

“Squeeze.”

You do, and his hand presses back, checking your stance.

“Harder. You’re holding back.” His thumb digs into your quad. “I can feel it. You’re stronger than this. Show me.”

You squeeze harder, and he makes an approving sound.

“There. That’s what I want to feel.” His hand stays on your thigh, warm and grounding. “When this starts moving, that tension doesn’t drop. Understand?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll see.” He moves behind you, his hands settling on your hips. “Lean forward. Hips first.”

He guides your position—forward, tilted, adjusted until you’re perched in a way that feels both vulnerable and powerful.

“This feel unstable?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“Good. It should.” His hands don’t leave your hips. “That instability is what you work with, not against. The bull moves, you move. Simple.”

“Nothing about this is simple—”

“It is when you stop overthinking.” His breath is warm against your ear now. “I’m starting it slow. Just feel it. Don’t try to predict or control. Just respond.”

The bull lurches to life.

Your instinct is to grab, to tense, to fight it.

“Breathe.” His voice cuts through your panic. “Hips loose. Let them move.”

You try to focus on your hips, on moving with the gentle rocking.

“Better. But you’re still thinking too much.” The bull bucks slightly harder, and you gasp. “Stop planning your next move. There is no next move. There’s only now.”

“That’s not helpful—”

"No?" He kills the power suddenly. “You want helpful?”

Before you can process, he’s swinging up behind you.

The barrel was already small. With him on it, there’s no space left. His chest is solid against your back, his thighs bracketing yours, his presence overwhelming every sense.

“What are you—”

“Teaching you the difference between knowing and understanding,” he says, like it’s obvious. Like this was inevitable. “You can tell me what I should’ve done. Now I’m going to show you why it works.”

His hands settle on your hips again—firmer this time, fingers splayed wide.

“This is your center.” His fingers press into your hip bones. “Everything starts here. When I move, you’ll feel it here first. Pay attention.”

You can’t do anything besides pay attention. Can’t think about anything except the heat of him, the firm weight pressed against you, the way his voice seems to resonate through your entire body.

“Ready?”

You nod because words are impossible.

The bull starts again, and this time it’s completely different. You feel how his body moves—the subtle shift of his hips, the roll of his spine, the way he absorbs each movement and redirects it. His hands guide you through it, showing you without words how to respond.

“Feel that?” His voice is low against your ear. “That’s what you were trying to describe. The lean, the shift, the weight distribution. It’s not about thinking. It's about feeling.”

His hips roll against yours, demonstrating, and your brain short-circuits.

“Breathe.” His hand spreads across your lower stomach, steadying you. “You’re holding your breath. Don’t. Breathe with the movement.”

You try to breathe, but it’s difficult when you’re this aware of every point of contact.

“Now you.” His hands loosen slightly. “Match my rhythm. Show me you understand.”

You focus on his movement, on the way his body guides yours, and you start to match it. Your hips roll with his, following his lead, and suddenly the movement makes sense.

“There she is.” The satisfaction in his voice goes straight to your core. “Knew you could do it. You just needed to stop thinking you knew better than your body.”

The bull bucks harder and you move with it, your hips rolling, your thighs squeezing, and his hands tighten on you.

“Atta girl.” The words come out rougher. “That’s exactly right. Keep it up.”

You do, and you feel the moment something shifts—the moment it clicks, the moment you stop fighting and start responding.

“You feel that, sweetie?” His voice is strained now. “That’s what eight seconds feels like. That’s what I feel when I ride.”

“Sylus—”

“I know.” His hands slide to your waist, holding you steady as the bull spins. “You’re feeling it now.”

The intimacy of the statement, combined with the movement, the heat, the way his body fits against yours—it’s overwhelming.

“This is—”

“Intense.” He finishes for you. “That’s the point. That's what you were watching from the stands and didn’t understand. The rush. The focus. The way everything else disappears and it’s just you and the movement and eight seconds of pure instinct.”

The bull bucks hard and you gasp, but his grip keeps you stable.

“I’ve got you, princess. You’re not falling. Just stay with me.”

And you do. You stay with him through every twist and buck, your body learning the rhythm, responding to his guidance, until you're not sure where your movement ends and his begins.

When he finally kills the power, you’re both breathing heavily.

“You got it. Eight seconds,” he announces after glancing at his watch. “Not bad for someone who’d never done it before.”

“You were helping—”

“I was teaching. You were learning.” His hands are still on your waist, and he hasn’t moved away. “Big difference. That was all you at the end.”

You’re painfully aware that you don’t want him to let go.

“So.” His thumbs stroke once across your sides. “Still think a city girl knows better than a cowboy?”

Your mouth is dry. “Maybe we’re even.”

His laugh is low and pleased. “Maybe.” He dismounts finally, fluid and controlled, then reaches up for you. “Come here.”

He lifts you down and your legs immediately betray you, shaking and unstable.

His arm wraps around your waist before you can fall. “Easy. Adrenaline drop. Give it a minute.”

“I’m fine—”

“You’re not.” His hand finds your pulse at your neck, pressing lightly. “Heart rate’s still elevated. You’re shaking. When’s the last time you ate?”

“Lunch. Around noon, I think.”

“Hours ago.” He’s already pulling out his phone. “You need food. There’s a diner close by. Best pie in the state.”

“I don’t need you to feed me—”

“Maybe not. But I’m doing it anyway.” He pockets his phone, arm still around your waist. “You just burned through all your energy, and I’m not letting you back out there until I know you’re steady. So. Diner. My treat.”

“This feels like a scheme to keep me around longer.”

“Is it working?” He holds you tighter against him, almost automatically—like his body recognized you before his mind caught up. “Because if it is, I’ve got a whole list of other places I could take you. Hardware store. Feed supply. This town is full of exciting places I could take my time with you.”

Something in the way he says it sends heat down your spine.

“You’re not subtle, you know.”

“Never claimed to be, sweetie.”

Before you can respond, your phone vibrates.

Tara: where ARE u???

Tara: DID SYLUS THE STALLION KIDNAP U???

Tara: if u are in danger pls respond

Tara: if u are having a good time ignore this

You swipe the notifications away.

Sylus watches your thumb move, red eyes half-lidded with amusement. “Emergency?”

“No. Not yet, anyway.” You slide the phone into your pocket. “But if you murder me, my friend knows your name. And your face.”

His laugh echoes across the arena. “Noted.”

You try to step out of his hold, but your legs have other ideas—immediately crumpling under you like two pieces of wet spaghetti.

Before you can hit the dirt, his hand flashes out, hooking a finger through your belt loop and yanking you back against him.

“Careful, city girl. Told you. Adrenaline crash.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to argue, just scoops you up with one arm and settles you against his side.

“Sylus, I can walk—”

“Clearly not,” he counters, but he’s grinning as he starts toward the parking lot, carrying you with ease. “Stop squirming. You’re only making this harder on yourself.”

You’re acutely aware of several things at once: his arm banded around you, the heat of him, the way his shoulder is right there. And—

Oh god.

The group of girls from earlier. Bedazzled and her friends—minus the blonde. All staring as Sylus walks right past them, carrying you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He doesn’t even glance their way, completely oblivious. But they notice. Oh, they notice. If the looks they shot you were bullets, you'd already be bleeding out on the dirt.

You bury your face against his shoulder, trying to make yourself smaller.

“Cold, sweetie?” His voice rumbles through his chest.

“No,” you mutter into his shirt. “I’m trying not to get shanked.”

He pauses mid-step. “What?”

“Your fan club. They look like they want to murder me.”

He glances back, finally noticing the group of glaring fans, and laughs like you told him a bad joke.

“Oh, them.” He adjusts his grip on you, hauling you higher. In one smooth motion, he tosses you over his shoulder.

You shriek. “What are you doing?! Put me down!”

He dips you, slow, like he’s genuinely about to release you. “If you insist."

Your legs are dangling, the Sychos are staring, and you’re suddenly very aware of the distance between your boots and the ground.

“No—no, I don’t insist—!” You clutch at his shirt, holding onto him for dear life. “Don’t you dare put me down—”

“Thought so.” He straightens, one arm locking securely against you as he keeps walking. “See? Now they can’t reach you. Problem solved.”

“Sylus!”

“You’re the one who said they looked dangerous. I’m just being practical.” His hand settles firmly on the back of your thigh, patting it gently. “Now stop wiggling before you fall.”

“I’m going to fall because you just—you can’t just throw people over your shoulder—”

“Just did.” He heads straight for a massive black pickup, tall enough you’d need a running start to climb in. He pops the door open with one hand and deposits you in the passenger seat. “And you’re still in one piece. I’d say it all worked out.”

Your hands are still fisted in his shirt, arms locked around his shoulders. He notices immediately.

“You can let go now, sweetie,” he says, amused.

Your brain registers that you’re sitting. That you’re safe. That there’s no reason to still be holding on.

Your hands don’t get the message.

“I—” You look down at where your fingers are twisted in his shirt. “My hands aren't listening.”

“I can see that.” He’s trying not to smile. “You need a minute?”

“Shut up.” You force your fingers to uncurl, releasing him. You sink into the leather, groaning into your hands. “My dignity is destroyed.”

“Your dignity was already questionable after that bull ride.” He leans against the doorframe, eyes glinting with mischief. “Besides, it could've been worse.”

“How could that have possibly been worse?”

“I could’ve set you down and let them watch you try to stand on your own.” He’s smirking now. “Would’ve made my point even clearer.”

Your cheeks burn at the implication. “You’re impossible.”

“You keep saying that.” He closes your door and walks around to the driver’s side, sliding in with easy grace. “But you’re still here.”

“Maybe I’m waiting for the right moment to escape.”

“Good luck with that. Your legs still work about as well as a newborn calf’s.” He starts the engine, eyes flicking to you with amusement. “Give it another ten minutes. Then you can make your dramatic exit.”

“You’re enjoying this way too much.”

“I’m enjoying you. The entertainment is just a bonus.” He shifts into drive. “Seatbelt. Then you're going to tell me what possessed a city girl to spend her hard-earned money watching idiots wrestle with livestock for sport.”

—

The diner is exactly what you’d expect—vinyl booths, checkered floors, jukebox blasting something twangy, and a waitress who looks like she’s been working here since the dawn of time.

“Sylus, honey!” She’s got a thick drawl and a smile that crinkles her whole face. “Didn’t expect to see you tonight. Thought you’d be celebratin’ with the boys.”

“Had better plans, Dolores.” He gestures to you.

“Well, ain’t that somethin’.” Her eyebrows shoot up, looking between you both with obvious interest. “The usual for you, sugar?”

“Please. And whatever she wants.”

You order coffee and pie because apparently that’s what you do now. Follow strange cowboys to diners and eat pie at ten PM.

“I’ll get that right out.” Dolores pats Sylus on the shoulder as she leaves, but not before giving you a very obvious once-over that feels almost approving.

“So,” Sylus says once the waitress leaves. “Eight seconds.”

“Are we really doing this?”

“We’re absolutely doing this.” He leans back in the booth, looking insufferably pleased with himself. “You lasted eight seconds on that bull. With my help, admittedly, but still. Eight seconds.”

“And?”

“And I’m wondering if you can last longer.”

The way he says it makes heat crawl up your neck.

“Longer on the bull?” you ask carefully.

His smile is wicked. “Sure. Let’s start with that.”

Dolores brings pie—massive slices that look homemade. You take a bite and it’s unfairly delicious.

“Okay,” you admit. “This is really good pie.”

“Told you. Dolores doesn’t mess around.” He takes a bite of his own, watching you. “So. What do you do? When you’re not being dragged to rodeos, that is.”

“Marketing. Corporate.” You make a sour face. “It’s as boring as it sounds.”

“Can’t be that boring if it pays for those boots.”

“The boots are the only good thing about it.” You take another bite. “What about you? Is bull riding actually lucrative, or do you just like getting thrown around for fun?”

“I don’t get thrown, sweetie. That’s the whole point,” he corrects you with a grin. “And yeah, it pays well. If you’re good at it.”

“Which you are.”

“Which I am.” There’s no false modesty to it, just fact. “Been doing it since I was seventeen. Worked my way up. Now I’m ranked second in the country.”

“Second?”

“For now. I’ll be first by the end of the season.” He says it with absolute certainty.

“Confident.”

“Realistic. I know what I’m capable of.” His eyes meet yours. “And I know what I want.”

The weight of that statement sits between you.

“And what do you want?” you ask before you can stop yourself.

“Right now? To figure out what it takes to actually impress you.” He leans forward slightly. “Because I don’t think anyone’s managed it in a while.”

You open your mouth to respond when Sylus’s phone rings. He glances at it and sighs.

“Give me a minute. I need to take this.” He slides out of the booth. “Stay put.”

You blink up at him, chin tilted just a little. “Yes, sir.”

He stops, eyebrows lifting, then gives a soft, incredulous shake of his head.

“Cute.” He’s walking backward toward the bathroom, phone angled away from his mouth, still looking at you. “But if you’re trying to draw blood, sweetie, you’re going to have to put your jaw into it.”

You’re left alone with your pie, trying very hard to pretend your heartbeat isn’t pounding in places it has no business reaching.

“Can I top off that coffee, sugar?” Dolores appears almost immediately, like she was waiting for him to leave.

“Sure. Thanks.”

She pours slowly, then glances toward the bathroom. “He’s a good one, that Sylus.”

“I just met him like, two hours ago.”

“I know.” She’s smiling. “That’s what makes this excitin'.”

“What do you mean?”

Dolores leans in conspiratorially. “Honey, I’ve been workin’ here for fifteen years. This is the spot all them rodeo fellas flock to after. I’ve seen Sylus in ‘ere dozens of times—always with the boys, always alone. Never once brought a girl here. Not one time.”

Your heart flips. “Maybe he just—”

“Trust me, them buckle bunnies try. Lord, do they try. That boy has more women throwin’ themselves at him than I have napkins in this diner.” She shakes her head. “He’s always polite about it, that sweetheart. But he never takes ‘em up on it. Too focused on riding, he always says.”

“Then why—”

“That’s what I’m wonderin’, honey.” Dolores sets the coffee pot back on the counter, wiping her hands on her apron. “But whatever you did, you got his attention. Really got it. I can tell.”

You notice his hat sitting on the seat beside you—the black cowboy hat he’d tossed there when he sat down. On impulse, you pick it up and settle it on your head. It’s too big, sliding down slightly, and you have to tilt it back to see properly.

Dolores notices and her eyes go wide. Then she grins. “Oh, honey. Do y’know what that means?”

“What?”

“Wear the hat, ride the cowboy.” She’s trying not to laugh. “That’s the rule ‘round here.”

Your face heats. “That’s not a real—”

“Realer than them nails on your hand.” She eyes your manicure with a shake of her head, still grinning. “Cowboys don’t play pretend.”

She walks away, leaving you sitting there in his hat, suddenly very aware of what you’ve just done. You consider taking it off. Handing it back when he returns. Playing it safe. But something stubborn and reckless in you keeps it on.

You take a sip of coffee, trying to look casual, when the bathroom door opens.

Sylus walks back toward the booth, phone in his hand, looking slightly annoyed. “Sponsors. Kept going on about—”

He sees you and stops dead in his tracks.

His eyes go dark—pupils blown wide, that red almost glowing in the diner lighting. His jaw tightens, and you watch his throat work as he swallows.

“What do you think you’re doing, city girl?” His voice has dropped at least half an octave.

“Drinking coffee.” You take another sip, holding his gaze, heart hammering. “Why?”

“You know why.” He slides back into the booth, but there’s tension in every line of his body now. “Take it off.”

“Why?” You rest your chin on your hand and blink up at him. “Does it not look good on me?”

He goes quiet for a moment, just looking at you. He closes his eyes and shakes his head, almost laughing. “It looks perfect on you. That’s the problem.”

“I don’t see a problem.”

“Of course you don’t, princess.” He leans back, arms spreading across the back of the booth. “You put on a man’s hat and think it’s just a fashion statement.”

“Isn’t it?”

“No.” He’s studying you now, that intense focus that makes you feel pinned in place. “It’s a claim. One I don’t think you intended to make.”

You adjust the hat on your head, tilting it back slightly so he can see your face better.

“That depends on what I’m claiming.”

His gaze traces your mouth, your throat, the line of brim shading your eyes. When his attention finally returns to yours, he drops the word between you like a coin:

“Me.”

You open your mouth, but nothing actually comes out. He smiles like he knew that would happen.

“You publicly claimed a cowboy. Impressively reckless move, by the way.” He leans back, legs stretching under the table like he’s getting comfortable. “So now I have two choices: ignore you, or teach you what you started.”

“And which are you choosing?”

“What do you think?”

Your eyes narrow. “I think you’re enjoying this too much.”

“I am. You’ve been pushing me all night. Looking unimpressed, critiquing my ride, now stealing my hat.” His eyes scan your face. “Now you’re sitting there wearing it like you’re innocent."

“Maybe I just like the style.”

“Maybe. Or maybe you wanted to see what I’d do. How I’d react. Whether I’d actually follow through.” He cocks his head. “So. How am I doing? Meeting expectations?”

Your mouth is dry. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Yes, you do.” His voice drops lower. “You’ve been testing me since the moment I met you. Before that, even. Every word, every look.” He leans forward slightly. “This is just you pushing harder. Seeing if I’ll push back.”

“And will you?”

“Absolutely.” He doesn’t waste a breath. “Question is whether you’re ready for it.”

“I can handle it.”

His laugh is quiet. “Can you, sweetie? Because that hat says you want something specific from me. Something I’ve been holding back on all night.” His red eyes are dark now. “And once I stop holding back, I don’t do things halfway.”

The promise in his voice makes heat pool low in your stomach.

“You’re very confident.”

“I know what I'm looking at. Someone who’s been playing it safe. Someone who wants to stop overthinking.” He pauses. “Someone who put on my hat because she wanted me to do something about it.”

“That’s a lot of assumptions.”

“Then take it off.” He gestures to the hat. “Right now. Prove me wrong.”

Your lap with a single shake of your head—no.

His smile is absolutely feral.

“We’re leaving.”

You blink up at him. “Maybe I’m not finished.”

He tosses way too much cash onto the table—enough to pay for the coffee, the pie, Dolores’s retirement, and the entire county fair.

“Yes, you are.” He stands, extending his hand. “Come on, city girl. Time to see if you can back up what that hat is promising."

You look at his hand. At the challenge in his eyes. At the way he’s smiling like he already knows exactly how this is going to end.

And you take it.

His palm is warm against yours as he guides you to the door. As you pass the counter, Dolores calls out: “You take good care of her now, y’hear?”

Sylus doesn’t break stride. “Oh, I intend to.”

Outside, the night air hits you, cool and dusty. Gravel crunches beneath your boots as you approach his pickup parked at the edge of the lot. He opens the passenger door, but before you can climb in, his hands are on either side of you, caging you in. One is pressed beside your head against the metal, the other settling on the open door, his body a wall of heat that’s too close to ignore.

“Last chance,” he says, like a warning. His fingers toy lazily with the hat. “You take this off, I drive you back to your hotel. Wish you good night like a gentleman.” His thumb pauses at the curve of the brim. “And the next time we see each other, we’re back to being strangers.”

It’s a terrible idea. You know it’s a terrible idea. But he’s looking at you like he’s already imagining you in his lap, and you’re looking at him like you want to see how good he is without the bull.

You reach up and adjust the hat, making sure it’s secure.

“I don’t want to be strangers.”

He doesn’t respond with words. Instead, his hands settle on your waist as he lifts you effortlessly, taking his time settling you into the passenger seat. He reaches for your seatbelt, pulling it across your body slowly. The click echoes in the quiet of the cab.

“Good,” he murmurs. “Because I couldn’t forget this—”

Only then does he lean in, forearm braced against the doorframe, his face inches from yours. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear with an affection so unexpected you forget how to breathe. For a second, you think he might kiss you.

Instead, he flicks the spot he cleared on your forehead.

“—if I tried.”

—

Sylus doesn’t drive back toward town. Instead, he heads in the opposite direction—away from the arena, away from the lights, into the dark stretch of highway that leads to nothing but open land.

“Where are we going?” you ask.

“You’ll see.”

His hand rests on the gear shift, close enough to your thigh that you’re acutely aware of it. The radio plays something slow and country that you don’t recognize, and the silence between you isn’t uncomfortable—just charged. Waiting.

You watch the landscape change outside your window, buildings giving way to fields, streetlights disappearing until there’s nothing but darkness.

“This is very serial killer of you,” you say finally.

He glances over, amused. “Having second thoughts?”

“Just making an observation.”

“For the record, if I wanted to murder you, I wouldn’t take you somewhere this obvious.” He’s smiling now, thumb tapping against the steering wheel in time with the music. “Besides, you're still wearing my hat. That implies a certain level of trust.”

Your hand goes to the brim automatically. You’d almost forgotten it was there.

“Or a certain level of stupidity.”

“Maybe both.” He turns off the highway onto a dirt road, the truck bouncing slightly over the uneven ground. “We’re almost there.”

“Almost where?”

“Patience.”

The road winds upward, climbing steadily. Trees give way to open sky, and then suddenly you’re at the top of a hill and he's pulling over, killing the engine. The entire valley spreads out below—a sea of twinkling lights in the distance, small towns and scattered ranches creating constellations on the dark earth. Above, the sky is filled with stars, more than you’ve ever been able to see in the city.

“Oh,” you say quietly.

“Yeah.” He’s watching you instead of the view. “I like to come up here after a ride. Bulls fight back, fans scream—up here, no one asks anything of you.”

You tear your eyes away from the sky to look at him. “It’s beautiful.”

“It is,” he agrees. But he’s still looking at you, not the landscape.

“Pretty stars,” you say, but there's a challenge in the words. “Shame you haven’t looked at them once.”

“If you want to talk constellations, sweetie, I’ll play along.” He shifts in his seat, angling toward you. “Or you can admit you didn’t climb in my truck because you're fond of astronomy.”

“First of all, I didn’t climb in your truck.” You manage to find your voice. “You picked me up and put me in it.”

“Correct.” His mouth curves slow. “And then you latched onto me like a kitten falling out of a tree and said, and I quote, ‘don’t you dare put me down.’”

Your face heats. “My legs weren’t working—”

“Your legs were working just fine once we got to the truck.” His eyes hold yours. “You just didn’t want me to stop touching you.”

The tension in the truck is suffocating.

“Get in the back,” he says quietly.

Your stomach flips. “What?”

“The backseat.” He says it simply, nodding toward the leather bench seat behind you. “Go on. I’ll give you a head start.”

“A head start for what—”

“For getting comfortable before I join you.” His eyes are dark now, heated. “Unless you’d rather stay up here and stare out the windshield?”

You should probably ask more questions. Should probably think this through. Instead, you unbuckle your seatbelt and turn toward the back.

The console is in the way, making you climb over the seat awkwardly. You brace one hand on the seat back, getting one knee up on the console—

“Keep it moving, sweetie.”

You shoot him a look over your shoulder. “Make me.”

The crack of his palm against your ass is immediate, sharp enough to make you gasp. Then his hand is rubbing the spot gently, soothing.

“Consider it done."

“You just—”

“Helped you along. You asked for it.” He sounds completely unrepentant. “Would’ve been inconsiderate of me not to oblige.”

Your face is burning as you scramble the rest of the way into the backseat. You turn to glare at him through the gap between the seats.

“Comfortable back there?” he asks smugly.

“You’re an asshole.”

“And you like it.”

You settle into the backseat, heart pounding, very aware of how spacious it is. How the tinted windows make it feel private despite being parked on a hilltop. How he’s still in the front seat, just watching you squirm.

“Are you coming back here or not?”

“Depends.” He’s taking his sweet time, the bastard. “Are you going to keep that attitude when I do?”

“Probably.”

“Excellent.” He shifts, and you hear the driver’s door open. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”

He gets out and you hear his boots on the ground, coming around to the back door. It opens and suddenly he’s there—too big for the space, filling the entire doorway as he climbs in with easy confidence.

The door closes behind him, and suddenly the truck feels very small.

He takes a seat, legs spread, one arm along the back of the headrest, and just looks at you.

“Come here.”

You move toward him and he guides you with hands on your waist until you’re straddling his lap exactly like you straddled the bull earlier. The position is familiar now, but infinitely more intimate. His hands settle on your hips, thumbs pressing into the hollows.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

The corner of his mouth lifts. “Still wearing my hat, I see.”

“You told me to keep it on.”

“I did.” His hands slide up your waist, then back down. “Looks good on you. Better than I imagined.”

“You imagined this?”

“From the second you put it on.” His eyes hold yours. “Imagined you exactly like this. In my lap, in my hat, in the back of my truck. Reality’s better, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” His hand comes up to adjust the hat again, tilting it back slightly so he can see your face better. “Because now I get to see if you can follow through on what you started.”

You swallow. “And what did I start?”

“Everything.” His hand moves to cup your face, turning it toward his. “You sat up in those stands looking at me like eight seconds was nothing. Critiqued my form to my face. Then had the goddamn nerve to put on my hat in front of witnesses.” His other hand presses against your ribs, palm warm and steady through the thin cotton. “And for someone so unimpressed, your heart’s about to beat right through your shirt.”

You glance down at his hand on your ribs, then back up at him, tilting your head with mock innocence. “If you wanted to get your hands on me, you could’ve just asked nicely.”

“Is that right? Then allow me to ask you nicely.” His fingers curve around your jaw, thumb skimming your bottom lip. “Can I kiss you? Can I put my hands on you? Can I make you forget every reason you think this is a bad idea?”

The directness of it steals your breath.

“That's a lot of questions.”

“One word answers all of them.” His eyes search yours, glowing a deep red that’s almost otherworldly even in the dark. “So what's it going to be, sweetie? Yes or no?”

You want to make him work for it more. Tease him, push back, see how far you can take this.

Instead, you hear yourself say: “Yes.”

His smile is devastating. “Say it again.”

"Yes."

Then his mouth is on yours, and every thought evaporates.

The kiss isn’t tentative or testing—it’s all-consuming. His tongue slides against yours with clear intent, his hand tightening in your hair to angle you exactly how he wants you. You make a sound that’s embarrassingly desperate and feel his mouth curve against your lips.

“There it is,” he murmurs, pulling back just enough to speak. “Knew you’d make those pretty sounds.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

You kiss him harder, fisting your hands in his shirt, and his laugh vibrates through you. His hand slides from your jaw to your throat—not squeezing, just resting there, feeling your pulse race under his palm.

“You taste even better than I thought you would,” he says against your mouth, kissing you again before you can respond. “Been thinking about this since you looked at me like I was wasting your time in those stands.”

“That was barely three hours ago—”

“Three hours too long.” His teeth catch your bottom lip, tugging gently. “Could’ve done this in the parking lot. In the diner. Hell, I thought about it on the practice bull when you were sitting in my lap, acting like you didn’t know what you were doing to me.”

You roll your hips like you did on the bull, teasing, feeling exactly how hard he is through the denim.

He hisses through his teeth.

“That's how we’re doing this, hm?” His hand slides from your throat to your hip, holding you still with effortless strength. “You want to play, princess? Fine. Let’s play.”

His mouth finds your neck and you gasp at the heat of it, at the scrape of teeth followed by the soothing stroke of his tongue. He’s marking you, and you both know it—intentional, claiming, leaving evidence that you were here, that you let him do this.

“Sylus—”

“I know. I can feel you shaking. You want more.” His hand slips under your shirt, settling at your low back. “You’ve been worked up since the bull, haven’t you?”

Heat runs up your spine. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Liar.” His teeth graze your earlobe. “I felt how you were shaking. Saw how flushed you got. And I’d bet my prize money that if I touched you right now, I’d find you soaked.”

Heat floods through you at the accusation. “You’re very sure of yourself.”

“Am I wrong?”

You don’t answer, which is answer enough.

“Thought so. You want something? Then ask nicely.” His smile presses against your throat. “You made such a point of it earlier. So ask.”

Your pride wars with your need. “I don’t beg—”

“I didn’t ask you to beg. I asked you to ask.” He pulls back to look at you, and there’s heat in his eyes, but something patient, too. “What do you want?”

The way he’s looking at you—like he’ll wait all night if that’s what it takes, like he’ll give you anything you ask for as long as you just ask—makes something in you soften.

“Touch me, Sylus,” you say quietly. “Please.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard.” His hand slides higher up your shirt, fingers tracing your stomach, your ribs, the underside of your breast. “And since you asked so nicely…”

His thumb brushes across your nipple and you gasp, arching into the touch.

“That’s what I wanted to see.” His voice has gone dark, satisfied. “You, letting go. Not thinking so hard about your next smart comment. Just feeling.”

His thumb circles again, slower this time, and you bite your lip to keep from making another embarrassing noise.

“Don’t.” His other hand finds your chin, pulling your lip free with his thumb. “I want to hear it. Every sound. Every breath. No one can hear you out here but me. So let me hear what I do to you.”

He rolls your nipple between his fingers, and you can’t stop the moan that escapes.

“Perfect.” He sounds wrecked. “Do that again.”

“Sylus, please—”

“Please, what?” His mouth finds your jaw, kissing a path to your ear. “Use your words. Tell me what you need.”

“More—I need more—”

“More of this?” His hand moves to your other breast, giving it the same attention. “Or more of me?”

“Both—” Your hips rock forward on instinct, and this time he doesn’t stop you. Sylus lets you grind against him, his free hand at your hip guiding the movement.

“That’s it, pretty girl. Take what you need.” His breathing has gone rough. “Show me how badly you want this.”

You rock against him again and feel him twitch beneath you, hard and hot even through all the layers of clothing.

“Fuck.” The curse slips out raw and unfiltered. “You feel what you do to me? How hard you make me when you move like that?”

“Yes—”

“Good. Because I’d like to return the favor.” His hand slides from your breast down your stomach, fingers playing at the button of your jeans. “Say yes.”

“Yes—god, yes—”

Your yes barely lands before his mouth is back on yours, hot and wet and relentless as he flicks the button open and slides the zipper down with ease. “Lift up for me.”

You do, bracing your hands on his shoulders, and he helps you shimmy out of your jeans and underwear. They get stuck on your boots, and you both fumble with them, laughing breathlessly until you’re finally naked from the waist down.

“Leave them. Boots and hat stay on,” he decides, eyes dragging over you. “I like the look.”

“Of course you do.”

“City girl spread out like a cowgirl in the back of my truck?” His hands are on your thighs, spreading them wider. “That’s a fantasy I didn’t know I had until right now.”

He’s still fully clothed, and there’s something obscene about it that makes you squirm—you half-naked in his lap while he’s still in his jeans and t-shirt.

“Don’t get shy on me now.” His thumb brushes your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you need him. “You’ve been pushing me all night. Testing me. And you’ve been so damn good at it, too.”

He glides a single finger through your center and you gasp at the contact, your body curving into his touch involuntarily.

“Christ,” he groans. “All this for me?”

You can’t form words.

“Since the bull?” His fingers trace through your wetness, maddeningly light. “Since I had my hands on your hips? Or before that—since you watched me ride?”

“All of it,” you manage.

“All of it.” He sounds way too satisfied with himself. “So you were impressed. You were just too stubborn to admit it.”

“Your ego—”

“Is about to get a lot bigger.” He finds your clit and circles it slowly. “Because I’m going to make you come for me at least twice before you even think about taking my cock. Understand?”

Your breath catches. “Twice?”

“Minimum.” His hand slides higher, cupping you fully now. “You’ve been wound up all night. I’m not rushing this on account of your impatience.”

“Don’t—ah—” Your protest dies when his finger circles slowly. “Don’t be smug about it—”

“Too late.” He watches your face with wicked eyes as he touches you, learning what makes you gasp, what makes you grind down against his hand. “But I like that you’re still trying to tell me what to do. Keep it up. See where it gets you.”

His finger slides inside and you cry out, head falling forward to rest against his shoulder.

“That’s it. Take what you need. I’m not going anywhere.”

He works you slowly, adding another finger when you’re ready, his thumb finding your clit with devastating pressure. And all the while he’s murmuring praise against your temple—telling you how perfect you are, how good you feel, how beautiful you look falling apart for him.

“Sylus—I’m gonna—”

“I know. I can feel it.” His fingers move faster. “There. Right there. Come on, princess. Let me see what happens when you finally stop fighting it. Make it count. I've got you.”

The command combined with his fingers and his voice and the heat of him beneath you—it’s all too much. Your orgasm hits with a cry, clenching around his fingers as pleasure crashes through you. He works you through it, drawing it out until you’re trembling and oversensitive, and only then does he slowly withdraw his hand.

You’re still catching your breath when he brings his fingers to his mouth.

Your eyes go wide. “Sylus—”

“Shh.”

His own eyes close as he tastes you, tongue dragging over the pads of his fingers. When his lashes lift again, he looks wrecked in a way you've never seen.

“That,” he murmurs, lips closing around his knuckle, “is going to be a problem.”

You can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t do anything but stare at his mouth.

“A...problem?”

“For me. And now for you,” he says, hand already sliding up your thigh once more. “That’s one. Now let’s get you the second one before I lose my mind.”

You shake your head. “I can’t—I’m too—”

“You can. You will.” His two fingers slip inside with little resistance, fucking you slowly but without mercy. “I need you ready for me. Need to make sure your body can handle what it’s begging for. Understand?”

Your hand flies to his wrist—not to stop him, just to hold on.

He looks down where you're holding him, lips brushing your cheek. "Oh? That bad already?"

Your head falls to his shoulder. “This is torture—”

"Maybe." His thumb presses against your clit again and you jerk. “But you’ll thank me for it later.”

His fingers work you back up, and despite the oversensitivity, despite thinking you couldn’t possibly—

“That's it.” His forehead presses against yours, breath hot against your lips. “Feel that? Let it build. Don't rush. I want all of it.”

You’re climbing again impossibly, every nerve ending screaming, and when his fingers curl just right—

“Fuck—already?” He increases the pressure, and you cry out. “Greedy little thing. Go ahead. Give me another one.”

You do, less intense than the first but somehow deeper, clenching around his fingers while he murmurs approval.

“That’s two.” He slowly withdraws his hand, and your breath hitches at the loss. Before you can process the movement, his fingers are at your lips. “Open.”

You do, and he slides them into your mouth—the same fingers that were just inside you. The taste is foreign and intimate and when you automatically close your lips around them, his breathing goes ragged.

“Look at that.” His eyes are locked on your mouth. “So obedient when it suits you, hm?”

You swirl your tongue around his fingers deliberately, and his hips jerk beneath you. Then you bite down lightly and he laughs.

“There she is.” He pulls his hand away, already working his belt. “Now help me with this before I lose what’s left of my patience.”

Your fingers join his at the buckle. “Didn’t know you had any patience to begin with.”

“I’m a very patient man.” He gets his jeans open just enough to free himself. “Just not when it comes to you.”

There’s a moment where your brain can’t connect the visual to reality.

His cock sits in his palm, thick and heavy, already flushed and glistening with precum that's slowly swelling under his thumb. A single vein runs along the shaft, steady and pulsing with each heartbeat you can feel through your own.

You felt him earlier—broad and unforgiving, even through denim, against the curve of your ass every time your hips rolled back into him on the practice bull. You’d convinced yourself it was just the momentum. Coincidence. Adrenaline.

You look up at him. Then down. Then up again.

“Show-off,” you scoff, but it comes out thinner than intended.

He huffs out a laugh, low and disbelieving. "Sweetie, if you're going to bluff to my face, at least don't drool while you do it."

You try for nonchalant, rolling your eyes and straightening your spine. It does nothing to hide the tremor in your knees.

“You’re shaking. Relax.” Before you can protest, he’s already cupping your jaw, kissing you slowly, deeply, thoroughly, in a way that says slow down, you’re okay, I’m right here. He pulls away only when he’s sure you’re not trembling anymore. “You can handle it.”

He positions you over him, hands on your hips, guiding you onto the blunt head of his cock.

“Slow,” he instructs. “Take your time. Let your body adjust.”

You sink down slowly and the stretch makes you gasp. He’s patient—letting you control the pace, hands steady on your waist.

“That’s it. Breathe. You’re taking me so well.” His voice is strained. “Almost there. Just a little more.”

When you're fully seated, you’re both breathless.

“There,” he says roughly. “That’s one.”

Understanding hits you through the haze.

“You’re counting,” you say.

“I’m counting.” His hands squeeze your hips. “You lasted eight seconds on that bull. Let’s see if you can make it to nine on me.”

“And if I can’t?”

“Then we keep trying until you do.” His teeth scrape your collarbone. “I’ve got all night.”

You brace your hands on his shoulders and start to move, rolling your hips the way he taught you earlier.

“There you go. Just like that. Find your rhythm.”

You do, and his hands help guide you, help you find the perfect angle.

“That’s two,” he says when you rock down particularly hard.

When you really start to ride him it’s not pretty, not practiced, but instinctive and desperate. The stretch, the fullness—it's almost too much, the way every shift of your hips makes him groan beneath you. His hands slide up your back, threading into your hair when your rhythm stutters.

“Three.”

You’re already nearing the edge of release again—oversensitized and overwhelmed but chasing that feeling anyway.

“Four.”

“Sylus, it’s—too—too much—”

“You can take it. I know you can.” His fingers circle your clit slowly, and you can't help the way you clench around him. His jaw flexes, eyes closing for half a second. “Not yet, sweetie. Give me five more. I know you’ve got it in you.”

“I can’t—”

“Yes, you can. You’re tougher than you think.” You slam down hard, chasing that feeling, and his control visibly cracks. “Five—fuck—”

Your thighs are burning, your breath coming in gasps, but you don’t stop. Can’t stop. You sink onto him once more, inch by inch.

“Six.”

“Sylus—”

“I know. I can feel it. The way you’re clenching around me.” His other hand tightens in your hair. “But you don’t get to come until we hit nine. Think you can hold it?”

It’s torture. Exquisite torture.

You ride him in one long stride, hips lifting until just the tip holds you, then sinking back down until he fills you to the base.

“Christ—Seven—”

Your thighs are shaking now, barely holding on, and he knows it.

“That's it. Take it.” The words are hot against your throat. Everything else fades. “Eight.”

“I can’t hold it—”

“Yes you can. Give me one more." His hands tighten around your hips, holding you steady. "One more, and it's all yours.”

You slam down hard, and he groans your name into your mouth.

“Nine.”

You shatter, clenching around him, and suddenly he’s moving—flipping you both so you’re on your back across the seat, legs spread, boots planted on either side of him as he looms over you.

“My turn.” He pulls almost all the way out, your walls still fluttering around him as you chase the end of your third orgasm. "Unless you want me to stop?"

“Sylus—please—I need—”

He pushes back in, driving deep into you in one motion. You wait for the rhythm, the thrust, the relief. He doesn't give it to you.

“I know what you need.” Your hips twitch once, and his fingers tighten around them in gentle warning. “But I need to hear you say it.”

You clutch at his forearms, nails digging into the taut muscle. "Sylus—move—"

"Move how?" He stays infuriatingly still. "Faster? Harder? You're going to have to be more specific than that, sweetie."

"Harder—I need you to—god, just fuck me, Sylus, please—"

"Finally."

It sounds like relief, like hunger, like he's been holding himself back as much as he's made you wait.

Then he moves—hard and fast and exactly what you asked for—and your back arches off the seat. His hands shift to your thighs, spreading you wider, holding you open at an angle that hits deeper, more intense in all the places you’re already trembling from before.

"Is this what you needed? This what you've been trying to say?"

"Yes—ah—yes—"

One hand slides between you, finding your oversensitive clit, and you nearly sob.

“Wanted this since I saw you—” His hips snap forward harder. “That bored look on your pretty face—wanted to fuck it right off you—”

He’s not counting anymore. Not teasing. Just taking what he needs, and something about the raw desperation in it makes you clench around him.

“Jesus—” he groans, head dropping forward. “—do that again.”

You do, and he’s on you, mouth on your shoulder, teeth catching skin—not to mark you this time, but to survive you. His hand leaves your thigh to brace against the window behind you, giving him more leverage. The truck rocks with the force of his thrusts and you don’t care, can’t care about anything except the feeling of him inside you.

“Too much—”

“Not enough. One more,” he says, and it’s not a request. “Give me one more and I’ll give you everything.”

You’re wound up impossibly again, every inch of you too sensitive, his fingers and his cock and his voice still pushing you higher, higher, higher—

“That’s it. You feel that?” His thrusts get harder, more erratic, fingers circling your aching clit as he pounds into you. “You've got me. Fuck—I'm right there with you, okay? Right there—stay with me. Take me with you. Now.”

You clench around him helplessly, so tight that Sylus feels every pulse, every aftershock, every sensation of your orgasm wrapped around his cock. He follows immediately after, burying himself deep with a sound that’s almost pained, spilling the heat of his release inside you, holding you like he's afraid you'll disappear. His hand grips the leather seat like he might rip it out of the truck, and you feel the way his whole body goes taut before collapsing against yours.

For a moment he stays frozen like that, forehead pressed to yours, breathing hard. Then he carefully pulls out, and you both wince. His hands are immediately around you, pulling you up and gathering you against his chest as he shifts to sit back against the seat.

You end up curled in his lap, dazed and spent, his arms wrapped around you like he's not quite ready to let go yet.

His mouth finds your temple in a single, unhurried kiss. Another follows just under your jaw, then another on your shoulder. He doesn't speak, just holds you while your breathing slowly evens out.

“Holy shit," you finally manage.

“Yeah.” His laugh is breathless against your neck. “Holy shit.”

He shifts you carefully in his lap, pulling you tighter against his chest so you're tucked under his chin, legs draped over his thighs. Your body feels like liquid, every muscle completely melted, nerve endings still firing in aftershocks. His hands are gentle now—one rubbing slow circles on your back, the other reaching for tissues from the center console. He takes care of you with surprising tenderness, his touch soft where moments ago it was demanding.

“You with me, city girl?” He speaks quietly into your hair, pressing a kiss on top of your head. “How are you feeling?”

You lift your head to look at him. “Like I just got thrown off a bull. Except better.”

“Mission accomplished.” His smile is relieved, then turns knowing. “You’re going to feel this tomorrow. Fair warning.”

“Is that supposed to scare me?”

“It’s supposed to prepare you.” He glances down at you, hand tracing patterns against your hip. “Every time you sit down in those bleachers tomorrow, you’re going to remember exactly what happened in this truck.”

“Bold of you to assume I’ll be in the bleachers.”

“You will be. Front row, sweetie.” His voice is confident but not cocky. “So I can see the moment you stop pretending I don’t impress you.”

You could play it cool. Noncomittal. Hedge your bets. But the way he’s looking at you—hopeful and honest and maybe a little uncertain underneath all that confidence—makes you want to be honest with him, too.

“Yeah. I’ll be there.”

He goes still for half a second, just long enough for you to catch the spark in his eyes. He looks at you for a long moment like he's trying to memorize something, then clears his throat.

“That's good. Really good,” he says it low, fighting a smile and losing. One hand squeezes your hip while the other reaches for your jeans. “Here. Lift up. Let's get you dressed before I say something that makes you reconsider.”

You do, and he helps you shimmy them back on. They get stuck on your boots—again—and you’re both laughing together like a shared secret by the time you finally get them past your ankles.

“These damn boots,” you mutter.

“Careful." His tone is almost protective. "Those boots are innocent. They stayed on like they were supposed to. That's what matters.” He helps work your jeans over them carefully. "In fact, they're the only thing that behaved." His eyes land on something near his feet as he's tucking his shirt back in. He picks up his hat, holding it between two fingers. "This one apparently couldn't handle the ride."

“When did that happen?”

“No idea. I was distracted.” He settles it back on your head like it belongs there, adjusting the brim. “There. That’s better. That’s the look I wanted.”

“What look?”

“City girl in a cowboy hat looking like she just got thoroughly ruined by a bull rider.” His smile is pure satisfaction. “It’s a good look on you.”

“Your ego is showing again.”

“Can you blame me?” He cups your face, eyes warm as he leans in to kiss you, softer now, but no less intense. “Now. Where are you staying? I should get you back before your friend calls the cavalry.”

While he’s focused on finding the location on his phone, you glance around the fogged interior. The windows are completely opaque—condensation covering every surface, hiding the world outside. On impulse, you reach back and trace your name in the moisture on the back window.

You’re halfway through when you catch his eyes in the rearview mirror, watching you with an expression you can’t quite read.

“Hold on.” He sets his phone in the cupholder and twists around, reaching back to add his name right next to yours in the condensation, then draws a heart connecting them.

“There.” He settles back into his seat, looking pleased. “Now we match.”

Your heart does something complicated behind your ribs. Before you can respond, your phone erupts with buzzing from somewhere in the passenger seat.

Tara: GIRL WHERE ARE U

Tara: are u ALIVE

Tara: send proof of life IMMEDIATELY!!!

“Your friend thinks I've got you hogtied behind the barn,” Sylus says, reading the texts over your shoulder. “Funny. I haven't even gotten my rope out.”

"Yet?" The word slips out before you can stop it.

His laugh rumbles through his chest as he pulls you back against him, like the sound is something you're meant to feel, not hear. “You're unbelievable. Now give me the phone.”

“Why—”

“Proof of life. Come here.”

He pulls you against him with one arm, holding your phone up with the other. You’re both completely disheveled—his silver hair a mess, your face flushed, his hat crooked on your head—both grinning like idiots.

He takes the photo and hands your phone back.

“There. Send that. Should ease her concerns.”

You send it.

The response is instantaneous.

Tara: OH MY GOD

Tara: OH MY GOD

Tara: U LOOK SO HAPPY

Tara: IS THAT HIS TRUCK???

Tara: THATS MY GIRLLLLL

Then another message pops through. A photo.

It’s Tara—equally disheveled, equally pleased—with her arm around a blonde girl. The blonde girl, the one who'd been glaring daggers at you earlier. Both of them look extremely satisfied with themselves.

You stare at your phone. “Oh my god.”

Sylus leans over to look, and his laugh is genuine.

“Looks like you and your friend both got your money's worth out of the rodeo.” He starts the engine, hand immediately returning to rest on your thigh. “You ready, sweetie?”

“For what?”

“The twenty-minute drive where I try very hard not to think about pulling over and seeing if you can make it to ten.”

“Ten?” You blink at him. “That’s…ambitious.”

He doesn’t miss a beat.

“Tomorrow, then.” He says it with such certainty, like it's already decided. Like there's no question you'll both end up here again.

He shifts into drive, thumb tracing lazy patterns on your leg. The radio plays quiet jazz. The world outside is dark except for passing streetlights and the occasional glow of distant houses. You settle back into your seat, watching the open road unfold ahead of you.

Then you catch it in the side mirror—the back window of his truck, still fogged from the heat you created together. And there, illuminated by the moonlight, you can just make out the shapes: your name and his, connected by that careful heart he drew.

Your heart stumbles in that way that always means trouble.

His hand squeezes your thigh once, like he knows exactly what you're thinking.

You look over at him—at his profile in the dim light, at the small smile playing at his lips, at the way he glances over at you like he can't help himself—and cover his hand with yours.