sigh

Nothing, you breathe, looking up at him.

Didn’t look like nothing.

He sits up. Slowly, he reaches for the tie of your robe, but his eyes are on your face, searching for a reaction, permission perhaps. He pulls back the silk off your shoulder, down your bad arm, as if he knows exactly what he’s looking for, as if he knows what’s there even if he hasn’t seen it. 

Who did this? Is his first question. His expression hardens, one you’ve learned to read as anger, just simmering underneath, an attempt to not scare you off. He knows if he pressed too hard, there’s a chance you won’t tell him the truth. So he compromises on what truly matters. The bruise had evolved into an angry purple welt across your upper arm.

You grimace. A bow.

He hangs his head. An exasperated sigh comes from him, relief of a man knowing he won’t be putting his hands on another man tonight.

Did you at least ice it? There’s a sharpness to his voice that lets you know he isn’t pleased. And did you really think I wouldn’t notice?

It’s not a big deal. I didn’t want a sermon. 

I don’t sermon.

Yes, you do. 

He doesn’t dignify that with an answer, moving to call the servants for ice. 

Are you uncomfortable? He asks, holding the cold cloth to your arm. He’d prefer to treat your wounds himself if he can without the maesters. It’s a reassurance to himself, and an excuse to touch you, to treat you gently, even if you’ve been married for a long time. 

Yes. You grin, leaning in to peck the side of his lips. Better. 

Next time wear the bloody guard. You smile against him before the distance closes once more.

Getting injured by another being is a different realm in itself. It doesn’t matter who, when or what, Maekar is evening the scales. The way he sees it; someone lays a hand on his wife, or any lady for that matter, his hands is on them next. It's only fair. 

It happens at a feast, a drunk lord. He comes up from behind, doesn’t see your face, who you were, because not knowing you were a princess of the realm was the only reason he’d do something so reckless. He grabs your arm, the bad one, drunken murmurs about a nice time, and you yelp involuntarily. The musicians stumble, a shift in the air. The people nearby react, but nevertheless the feast goes on. 

You knew where Maekar was, sitting at the high table as you chatted with your ladies, and danced with a few acquaintances. But even in a crowded room, you always knew where he was. And he always had an eye on you. He was out of his seat the moment he saw the man stalking through the crowd. Feasts always had him on edge because of this. Honestly, if it were up to him, he’d have you locked up in a room. If only you wouldn’t resent him for that. 

Everything happens lightning quick that even you don’t have time to process it, there’s a blur of people, a blur of a familiar white head of hair, hands on the lord's neck, pushing him backwards with frightening strength and accuracy, until the lord is run ragged to the floor, parting a sea of people.

Maekar doesn’t even struggle. There’s a slew of curses, of ‘what the fuck do you think you’re doing’, as if laying hands on his wife like that was the most unimaginable risk you can take. 

Apologize to my wife, you fucking fool.

Maekar, you call out, and when he meets your gaze, he lets go of the man as if he was disgusted by him through touch. He moves forward to you, a hand on your back, leading you to the high table, crowd parting immediately. The musicians take this as their cue to begin again and the ripple through the crowd dies down. 

Alone in your chambers, he’d ask you where it hurt, and you’d soothe the anger that rose in him briefly, remind him it was done, in the past. You knew it couldn’t have been pleasant for him either, knew of his time in Redgrass. In bed later, he’s wary of the injury, though it doesn’t hinder him from carrying out his duties at all.

If ever you develop a sickness that isn’t visible, more on internal illness, this would cause more distress to him. An injury, he’s familiar with. He’s seen dozens in his lifetime, and he knows how to treat them. But if his wife is sick, shaking with a fever, temperature unusually high and she’s nearly disoriented, this is where it gets difficult. He doesn’t like to be faced with a problem with no or outright solution. He watches over the maesters and feels utterly useless. 

When you’re sick, Maekar makes a point of not fussing over you, but he is there, almost constantly, hovering. He doesn’t know what to do specifically, but he knows he can’t let you out of his sight. 

He searches for you after an afternoon training green boys in the yard. You’re not in your shared chambers, in the gardens, by the bay. He asks the maids, your ladies in waiting, and even they don’t know. They all seem to have this orchestrated to keep your whereabouts from him and it drives him up the walls. Where the fuck is my wife? One of the kingsguard tells him that you’re in one of the kept chambers in the east wing. Why is she there?

If the maesters try to keep him away, unlike Baelor, his reaction would definitely be more explosive. “What the fuck do you mean I can’t see her?” There will definitely be a physical altercation one way or another. He does listen to reason, and would probably last a few days before he’s engaging in another altercation with the maesters. “If you’re in there with her, then why can’t I see her—Don’t fucking give me that ‘prince of the realm’ horseshit.”

Would eventually barge in the room, standing over your bedside. Are you alright? He asks, eyes roaming, searching your face for any sign of pain. His voice is considerably softer, as if you didn’t just wake from hearing his raised voice outside the chamber doors, his concern giving way to his usual sternness he reserves for his sons and strangers in the Keep.

He’d take to keeping watch over you while you slept, especially if your temperature sparked and the maester’s tinctures kept you asleep. He fears losing you at night, so he keeps watch, and his fingers find the pulse on your throat more often than not. He’s soft on the inside, this you knew, but hearing you in pain actually makes his insides churn.

He would fight the maesters for you. Maekar knows you're perfectly capable on any other given day, but not today. So, he argues, on the medicine, the sheets, the warmth of the room, the smell of the incense. If you don't like something, he’s fighting on it as long as it’s within the realm of reason.

In the hot bath, he’d pretend his eyes don’t dip lower than they should. Your hair clings to wet skin, and you sigh pleasantly as the ache lifts from your body after weeks. He misses his wife, naturally, but he doesn’t want to push, knows he should let you rest. 

If you’re feeling considerably better, he’s the one forcing you out of the room. Maekar pushes you to get better, to go on walks and feel the sun on your face, to breathe real air rather than incense and warm steam.

You’re sitting by the gardens, a vineyard overlooking the bay, where the wind is loud. There’s tea and an assortment of little goods. You see your favorite fruit cake, even though you knew it wasn’t in season yet. It’s only the two of you, no ladies in waiting and the Kingsguard has been instructed to keep a distance. The waves crashing along the shore is a more welcome sound than the murmurs of maesters. 

Maekar brings the correspondence you’ve missed throughout the weeks, and you’re going through them. He’s standing by the edge of the garden, looking out at the sea, letting the silence blanket both of you, preoccupied with your own musings. 

You don’t look up even when you hear him walk towards you, by your side. You don’t look up when he fixes the shawl wrapped around you, already starting to fuss over you. You smile up at him then, and his hand finds respite on your shoulder. 

He bends down, lips finding your temple, murmuring, “I missed you.” 

The last straw for him is when you throw up the contents of your stomach in the middle of the night, swiftly pulling the covers back and running towards the silver pot in the far corner of the room. He’s up before he’s fully awake at the sound of your rushed steps across the stone floor.

I’m fine, you insist, sitting on the edge of the bed and clutching a goblet in both your hands as the sickness subsided. You can tell he’s restless. He wraps you up in a robe and the maesters are called before you can say anything.

While waiting, Baelor has inquiries of his own. What did you eat today? What were you doing? Who were you with? Were any of them unwell? You tell him you had the same food as everyone, did not do anything unusual. He seems unsatisfied by this.

The maesters conduct their examination and he’s standing behind them, watching, smallclothes disheveled under his robe. They tell you it’s probably just an upset stomach and leave. You reassure Baelor, and he caves but you can tell he files it away, similar to the way he assesses important information he finds when he holds council. He holds you just a little tighter that night.

The next day he lets you sleep in. He murmurs goodbyes against your temple and you mumble sweet nothings in return. He kisses your hand once, twice, asks you if you need anything, before leaving.

Call for me if you need anything, he reminds you before you shoo him away.

In the afternoon, when the duty provides respite, he decides to seek you out. You’re not in the gardens, or in the solar reading. One of your ladies informs him you’re still in your chambers. He feels the familiar creep of worry on his shoulders, especially when he enters your shared chambers and it is obviously devoid of sound, of life. Then he sees your form curled up under the covers. He sits on the edge of the bed, careful. He calls your name once, then twice. Then his hand is on your forehead and you’re burning up so much he nearly flinches.

He walks across the room, commands one of the kingsguard standing guard outside to fetch the maester. Quick. Now.

A hand on your cheek. Sweet girl, he sounds far away to you, can you sit up for me?

You push yourself up on your shoulders, body heavy and protesting. Your back is damp with sweat, hair slightly matted. Your eyes are hot and barely open. You hear water being poured, then a hand is on your face again, gently pushing strands of hair away.

Drink, you do a little too quickly like you’ve walked a mile in the desert, how are you feeling?

Baelor would feel bad about causing any discomfort to you even if it was for the sake of getting better. He’d press cold damp cloths to your forehead. You’d flinch and try to get away from the stinging cold, and he’d be there murmuring apologies. I’m sorry, sweet girl, this is just to bring your temperature down, he’d remind, a hand on your shoulder, I’m sorry, please stay still.

Would definitely be sweeter on you, more patient and caring. Knowing you’re unwell, you'd be on the back of his mind constantly.

He plans on seeing you after a small council meeting, but he’s intercepted by a maester halfway across the hall.

Isolation is best, the maester says.

For who?

For both of you.

He understands then what precautions they were taking, eliminating threats to the heir apparent. But all he could think of was how bad it could be for the maesters to isolate you, to separate you both out of fear of contagion. The maesters are concerned about his health, they check him too, but all he could think of was your condition.

Then he'd try to send Maekar in. Maekar would act offended about his brother’s lack of care for him, 'ah yes, allow the fourth spare to get the plague’. But it was all dramatics; he’d see the toll it took on Baelor, the worry about your condition, only hearing from you through the maesters, and give in eventually. You're responding well to the medicine, Maekar informs him, and you sleep most of the time.

At first, he'd try to reason with the maesters, that Maekar had been in your chambers and seemed well enough. But they are strict in their implementations.

A week of isolation, a week without his wife, and people can tell he’s more irritable than usual. Moments in small council meetings where he’d be quiet, lost in thought. He doesn’t let go of his duties but he’d definitely have a shorter span of patience than usual. Lords would learn to get to their points quickly and not stall any longer. He doesn’t snap, but he’d go quiet, nod tensely as if agreeing with whatever suggestion, but it’s clear it’s more of a do whatever you want, see what happens, than an actual agreement.

"She’s asking for you," Maekar says one night in his solar.

The space where you usually sat had been empty for many nights.

"What?" His writing halts.

"She’d been asking for you since yesterday." Something in his chest physically clenches.

"What did she say?"

"Nothing, really. Just said your name, asked where you were, then went back to sleep. She’s quite delirious, probably milk of the— Hey! What in the Seven— " His chair scrapes across the stone floor and he's out of the room before Maekar can finish.

Being forced apart from you rattled him, especially in your state. Already, the image of you, sick and alone, has his chest clenching. But to hear that you were searching for him, seeking him out, and he was not there was the last straw. Everyone had their duty. Him as heir, as prince. Even the maesters, he trusted, were doing everything in their knowledge to ensure a swift and safe recovery. But as of the moment, he felt as though he was the only one doing a disservice in being your husband.

He’s down the stairs of the tower of the hand lightning quick, nearly jogging across halls and abandoning the Kingsguard that followed him. Maester Yormwell greets him by the door of your chambers, mouth beginning to open in protest.

"Your Grace, I must insist on complete iso—"

"Let me through, or I’d have you back in the Citadel by nightfall."

The threat, akin more to Maekar than the heir apparent, has the maester stepping back both in surprise and fear. Everyone had their ends. Baelor, who was usually diplomatic, who seldom spoke unkindly, found that it was his wife who unraveled him.

You wake at the sight of your husband, pushing yourself up and immediately reaching for him. He closes the distance quickly, taking your hands and sitting by your bedside. He presses a kiss to your temple, a hand on the junction of your neck, feeling how warm you were. I’m sorry, he murmurs, I’m here, darling.

He knew you to be fiercely independent any other time, preferring to do your own thing and accompany him on your own time, so for you to be so rendered sick and incapable broke his heart a little, although he doesn't complain when you reach for him more often than not.

He seldom left your bedside by that point and any suggestion for isolation by the maesters were met with a glare. He seldom left you even when you were feeling better, enough to sit up in bed during long periods. He's gone for small council meetings but ensures you have one of your ladies in the room when he's not there.

He nearly moves his solar into your chambers.

The bed is large enough that he often works by the foot of it while you rested. You inspect the papers scattered on the bed leisurely. Mostly you slept. Then awoke to eat and have your medicine administered. He endures the steam in the room and eats with you. He holds you, without complaint, when it got too cold, when the sickness caused you to slip in and out of consciousness. He'd stroke your hair, run a hand across your back. Where does it hurt? He asks, and soothes the pain.

In the end, you feel as though his constant presence contributed a great deal to your recovery and the fever breaks eventually.

I'm fine, you urge him, go back to your work. Don’t you have any pressing matters to attend to?

My wife’s health, for one. He says, barely looking up from the paper in his hand.

At night, one call of his name has him abandoning whatever he was looking at, walking over to you and taking your outstretched hand. He takes whatever papers he needs and settles in the space beside you. You’d fall asleep to the sound of quill on paper.

You refuse to kiss him nearly the entire time. He leans in once, and you quite literally push his face back. I don’t want you to get sick, you reason, and laugh at the dejected look on his face.

When you get better, he’s still careful. But he accompanies you for a walk in the gardens, letting you feel the sun, or along the shore for some salt air.

"I heard you assaulted a maester." You say as you walk through the gardens. He holds your hand in the crook of his elbow. He matches your pace, slow and steady.

"Maekar exaggerates." He says. "Although I remember threatening to send someone back to the citadel."

"Baelor," you half laugh, half scold.

"They weren’t letting me see you." The gravel crunches under your shoes.

"Probably for good reason. I was ill, remember?"

"It wasn’t contagious. Maekar never got sick."

"Ah yes, I recall."

A squeeze of your hand. His other hand holds the shawl you've abandoned, one he insisted on bringing just in case. "He told me you were calling for me. "

"I was?" You frown, unable to recall.

"You were." He supplies. "It was torture."

You smile. "Maekar truly is your blood. Now you are the one exaggerating."

He stops half way through the path, facing you. "I’ve… Gods, I was so worried." A hand rests at your waist. "Never do that to me again."

"I’m better now." You cup his cheek, smiling, if only to reassure him. "I promise."

You have been having vivid dreams since you were a child. Your mother has taught you to hide it, keeping the benefit of your future husband in mind, so much so that she fails to consider your wellbeing in the matter. You had hidden it well enough, had managed to rearrange your entire life around it, especially since the offer of betrothal to a Targaryen prince was presented to you during your time at the Keep. 

The court sings praises of a wise match, of dowries and fleets, strategies and alliances, unaware of something that has been burning there steadily, unaware of your dreams.

He had chanced upon you by the balconies looking over the garden of the Keep. There were no other witnesses other than the crickets in the night and the wisps of the trees. 

“I thought I was the only one awake at this hour.” His voice makes you jump and you know it is him before you’ve fully turned around. 

“Your Grace.” You curtsy.

“My Lady.” He returns. His cloak is the color of the night, the familiar black and red of House Targaryen making him seem more formidable even in a chance encounter.

“Forgive me, your Grace, sleep does not come easy to me.” The stone wall is cold underneath your hands.

“There is nothing to forgive, I am the intruder here.” He bows his head, stepping forward to fall into step beside you. “Though it is a nice surprise, I usually work into the late hours and rarely see other living creatures at this hour. How are you faring, my Lady?”

“Quite well though… It is certainly an adjustment, though I have always been told I sleep at odd hours.” He casts you a sidelong glance. “I prefer the night, it seems more to yourself does it not? It is lonely but it is yours.”

When the betrothal is confirmed a few moons later, your mother makes note of talking to you after the ceremony, reminding you to maintain your secret. You return to the high table tense and you think you are hiding it well until your husband’s hands find yours under the table, giving a reassuring squeeze. It is then you realize after feeling displaced in your own home that you have finally found something you can call your own.

Later, in performing your duties, he is gentle as one can be. More than that, he learns what you like, and when you ask for more, he is not shy in giving it, as if it is the permission he has been waiting in bated breath all along. He memorizes the sound of your panting breaths, the twitch of your hips. He plucks the pleasure out of you like a skilled artist attuned to his instrument. 

You’re basking in the afterglow of it all, laying side by side in attuned breaths. Your husband was handsome, and you were more than aware of the gossip that plagued the court. More Dornish than Targaryen. You never understood why that was such a terrible thing as you lay next to him, the firelight dancing along his features.

“I have seen you in my dreams.” You do not realize saying it out loud, a mere mindless mumble, until he laughs. Not mocking, not demeaning. He laughs as if flattered, and his cheeks go a little flushed, as if you had not just spent the past hour doing ungodly things to each other.

“There’s no need for you to woo me, sweet girl. We are already married.”

You return his smile then, moving to perch yourself upon his chest, the contact sending warmth through your whole body and causing him to make space for you in his. “And if it is not flattery, but truth?”

His hands find your hair then, winding his fingers mindlessly through them. “Then what sweet dreams you have.” If only he knew, you think. He is as you have dreamt of and that night is one of the few nights you have slept dreamlessly. 

The moons turn and you settle into a peaceful routine, though your secrecy slowly mounts your chest with guilt. The visions are often in your dreams, so vivid and almost real that any threats in your unconsciousness are registered as real to your senses. So much so that you cannot help your reactions to them.

You are awoken one night to a form at the foot of your bed, like a terrible assassin, illuminated by the dozen candlelights in the room. You do not question why the candles are all lit when you have retreated to bed nearly an hour ago. You register the threat as real, yet when you shoot up from bed, he is not there, and the room is nothing but shadows.

Your heart is hammering in your chest, and you move to curl up against his side then, counting your breaths, eyes wide and searching the room for the assailant. But nothing comes. Baelor does not wake, merely wrapping an arm around your shoulders as you slither closer to him. He must think that you are simply seeking warmth, unaware of the war drums banging in your chest. You sit up then, simply to watch him, the rise and fall of his chest as he sleeps half on his side. He looks good like this, unbothered and untethered. You wonder what he dreams of or if he dreams of anything at all.

He must be so tired, you think, more tired than I. You walk over to the dying hearth to tend to the embers, looking for something else to occupy your mind. Over the years, you’ve become familiar with the night.

You jump later when a hand brushes against your arm, and you look up to be met with your husband’s face, ladened with sleep yet amused at your reaction.

“What are you doing here?” He rasps, occupying the seat next to you.

“Night terrors.” The lie keeps him placated, though you did not fathom for how long.  

Although now you cannot think of that, or anything else. His hair was ruffled from sleep, in a simple sleeping tunic, yet you found yourself unable to look up. 

He is looking at you from where he sat, eyes bearing that same intensity.

“I apologize if I woke you.” You say just to say something, to stop him from looking at you as though he means to devour you whole. “I could suggest separate quarters to the maids. There are so many rooms, I’m sure no one would mind—”

“Is that what you would like?” He asks with an air of finality, a gentle end to your ceaseless string of words. He does not challenge, but when your eyes meet, his mismatched ones illuminated by the fire, it seems determined to draw an honest answer out of you.

“No, but if— I am quite a light sleeper and I don’t want to be a bother.” Another lie. You’d prefer to be alone in the chambers so if you woke, which you will, you will only have yourself to frighten.

“You’ve never bothered me.” He stands with a quiet grunt, offering a hand to you. “Save for when you decide to wander when I am searching for you in my sleep. Come, please.” You follow his movements, then save one last look to the hearth before you take his hand and follow him back into bed.

“I’m frightened.” You admit in a whisper, settling back against the pillows and tucking yourself underneath the covers.  “I know it is so childish, to be frightened of one's dreams, but…” It is the closest truth you can give him. His hand finds a pattern on your hip.

He watches you. “Do you have them often?” 

You nod. “Since I was a child.”

“Then you have nothing to apologize for. You’re safe here. This is your home.” He sees the worry on your face. He wishes he had the power to take it away, though he knows it is not that simple. “Why did you not wake me earlier, if it bothered you so?”

“I know how tired you are.” You cover his hand with yours, absent of any rings that adorned his fingers in the day. “You need your sleep.”

Wake me, he whispers, a kiss against your shoulder, if it gets worse. His tone does not leave room for arguments. His words remain with you as you get dragged into a fitful slumber, dreamless as you hope.

–

Fire blooms in the walls of your chamber, glowing coals etching itself into the cracks there. The crackling of it is vivid and real, orange glow consuming the stone walls. It sets the room alight on its own accord, casting its own shadows to dance along the wall as if they are their own living and breathing bodies. The smell is putrid, unlike woodsmoke or the rising of smoke from the hearth. 

In your state, you had picked up a porcelain washing bowl and hurled it at the door. Exactly when Baelor had decided to come in. That is the moment you wake up. You do not know why you did it. Perhaps it was frustration coming to the surface, of no longer knowing what was real and what was not.

He ducks deftly, just in time so the pieces fall on his back and do no real harm. For a moment, the both of you stand there, frozen in shock.

“Stand down,” he responds to the Kingsguard’s inquiries almost immediately. “I’m fine.” When they try to come in, he shuts the door behind him, taking in the room, your state. Your hand comes up to cover your mouth, cupping the apologies spilling from there.

“I’m sorry—I thought I—” You stutter, eyes welling with tears unconsciously. You had almost harmed him, someone that you cared about, that welcomed you into his home and made it yours after years of feeling displaced on your own. “I thought I saw—” There is no fire there, the room is intact and not engulfed in flames.

“What did you see?” He asks, taking a cautious step forward. His tone remains calm, as if he already had his own suspicions, but his heart is hammering in his chest. You feel it later when he takes you in his arms, attempting to soothe you, running a hand along your back. 

He begins to reach for you, unsure if you’d like to be touched, and preparing for you to create some sort of distance between the two of you. But when you don’t, when you simply take his hand and let yourself be maneuvered to him, a relief wells in his chest.

You admit it to him that night, your secret that has been weighing on you, how horrible they get, how keeping it hidden was almost as worse as the dreams themselves. It is a relinquishing of sorts, of the burden of a secret, of your exhaustion. You expect the worst: anger, fear, disgust, caricatures of a man you’ve grown to know well enough to understand that he would never act like that towards you. Yet you expect it, and it doesn’t come. He understands, and a part of him has known, you think. All those nights you could not sleep through, twitching awake at the sensation of falling in your dreams, jerking awake.

Later in bed, he asks against your hair, “Have you ever had good dreams?” He sounds genuinely curious.

“I do,” you answer, fighting to keep your eyes open. For how much you dreaded sleep, you were only human, and you were exhausted. “I dreamt of you before I met you.”

From then on, he takes note of what calms you, and cultivates it without a word. If it is the gardens, a seat by the sea or a quiet nook in the Keep, it is yours without even having to ask for it. He makes a passing, yet calculated, request to a handmaid, a knight, a servant, and suddenly no one dares to pass by that part of the Keep. The space wordlessly becomes yours and you do not have to fight to keep it. Baelor had grown used to it rather quickly. You’ve suggested separate chambers on numerous occasions and he has turned it down all the same. 

You’ve taken to writing your dreams down, sometimes in detail, sometimes in vague scrawls. But you learn to live with the dreaming, and you find that ceasing to fight it proves to be a better comfort than suppressing it these past few years.

In talks of politics, he will heed your warnings, but he does not like his wife to be used as a pawn. So, he keeps it hidden. The Red Keep had taken note of your habits. Night owls, they call the pair of you, though you’ve given them no other reason to gossip badly. There is little whisper of how the heir apparent’s wife is a dreamer. The little whisper dies down with no evidence, a flame with no kindling.

The lack of sleep is concerning for the both of you. He has been known to work until the late hours of the night. You’ve taken to accompanying him more often in the late nights in his solar and not complaining when you rose in the early mornings. Your body has learned to function on as much sleep as it can take. It is a refreshing change for Baelor, to find his lady wife already up before him. 

Once, you had attended a feast with little to nothing but a nap and your head lolled to the side once, in the middle of a lord’s gratitude to King Daeron. At everyone’s applause, you jolted awake and he silently took your hand underneath the table, an amused smile on his lips you’ve come to know too well. You mumble your own gratitude against his cheek, stumbling down the hall towards your shared chambers, when he announces his choice to retire early with his lady wife.

Other than that, the Keep have whispered of heirs, of little princes and princesses running around the Keep once more. On more than one occasion this was announced in your presence, you have caught your husband’s eye across the room, an uptick of his lips then. 

The confirmation comes to you first—in a dream. Baelor was more than happy to hear that you had a good night’s rest, but even more so if you had good dreams more than night terrors. In a way, he had seen it as his duty, that if the Realm, his responsibility was well-taken care of, so would your dreams.

“Baelor,” you whisper to him one night. The candles had burned low into their iron pots and the hearth had slowly died down into the night. You’re curled up against him for the sake of warmth. “I had a dream.”

“What was it about, dearest?” He hums awake, reaching for you even as his eyes remain closed. 

“We were in the gardens of the Keep. ‘Twas a good, bright day out, like the ones you favor. And I was searching for someone.”

“Did you find them?”

“I did. Hiding in the middle of shrubbery. A small child. I thought it was—Well, I thought it was you at first. For he ran to me and I saw he had your eyes.”

He turns his face to you then, expression open. You had never seen that look on his face before. You realize then you had never seen the prince so well caught off-guard. “I think, perhaps, we should send for the maesters.” You whisper to him then, unsure, yet a smile has found your lips.

He sits up then, a rustle of sheets. “Are you certain?”

The only reason why you tolerate it is because he’s actually able to find it in himself to give back to you, whether it be training or being someone you could vent to. As self-absorbed as he is, he’s a good listener, gives, somewhat unhinged, but for the most part decent advice.

You liked him, he made it easy— up until a few weeks ago. 

The ones that have considered asking you what happened don’t even get the chance to. You’ve been taking on just as many missions as he has, and with how complete and utterly fucked up you’ve been leaving the curse sites you’ve visited, it’s safe to say you were just as mad at him as he was with you. 

Maybe Sukuna shouldn’t have trained you, because now you’re capable of flattening an entire village and that’s a little terrifying to the higher-ups that said you’d never go further than a grade one. 

It’s bad, like really fucking bad. The last time you two were in a room together, you used your technique to pull air out of Sukuna’s lungs and he threatened to leave jujutsu society to become a curse user because of it. It took Satoru and Suguru an entire hour trying to talk him down. 

Now over three weeks later, you two would have to be stuck in a room with each other again to watch the students compete for the exchange event taking place.

You’re a little better at putting your feelings aside for your students and coworkers. 

A little. 

Your definition of putting your feelings aside was just blatantly ignoring the special grade when you stepped into the room and started greeting everyone, even your old boss that you hate with a burning passion, Principal Gakuganji. 

And unfortunately, Sukuna is well aware of how much you hate the old man, so the silent treatment had an extra kick to it today. 

“Not gonna say hi to me?” Sukuna asks with a scoff, not doing a very good job at hiding his bitterness. 

“Did you guys hear something?” you ask, looking all around the room, everywhere except for the seat Sukuna’s in. 

“Real fuckin’ mature,” he responds, feeling his temperature steadily rise. 

You laugh, “coulda swore I heard barking.”

“Fuck you,” he rolls his eyes, then he catches Satoru and Suguru snickering in the corner. “Something funny?”

“Nothing,” Suguru murmurs, stifling a laugh and trying to avoid looking Sukuna in the eye because it’ll just make everything so much worse. The last thing anyone needed today was talking him down from the ledge.

Utahime eventually cuts in and clears her throat, pressing a button to turn on the mic to the students that are already out in the forest. 

“Alright students, we’ll be starting the event in 3 minutes. For the first years, remember that there are no rules or restrictions. You could be as creative as you’d like with your techniques, the only thing that we ask is that you don’t kill each other. If you do, that results in immediate execution as you’d be considered a curse user—” she’s cut off by a certain white haired sorcerer, who bursted out laughing. “Something funny Gojo?”

“Do you guys remember when Sukuna threatened to kill Naoya if he didn’t back out of the exchange event when we were second years?”

Utahime groans, “yes I almost forgot, no threatening to kill each other either, as that would be considered cheating.”

“Gimme that,” Sukuna murmurs, grabbing the mic out of Utahime’s hand, “Yuji, I swear to fucking god if you lose, I’m disowning you. Do not disappoint me today, don't fucking embarrass me either.”

Utahime just stares at the man in disbelief as he continues to threaten his little brother like it was the most normal thing in the world. 

“I’ve trained you since the moment you enrolled into this goddamn school and if I see you fold even just once, I’m calling your little girlfriend and telling her you bawled your eyes out during Human Earth Worm 3.” 

On the monitor, you can see Nobara and Panda laughing their asses off, while the rest of the Tokyo students try not to laugh, even sweet Yuta. Yuji immediately turns to the nearest camera, looking absolutely mortified. 

“AIZAWA’S NOT MY FUCKING GIRLFRIEND,” the boy screams back. 

“And she never will be once I tell her, so you better lock in,” his older brother says rather darkly. 

He calls it tough love, most of the population would call abuse. It’s not until she yanks the mic back when he stops, but even then the students were able to hear him grumbling something under his breath through the speakers. 

“Okay students, you may now start,” she announces over Sukuna’s complaints. “Good luck everyone!”

And the tension that once filled the room when you first walked in begins to settle again. 

In the 3 years you’ve worked as a teacher, not once have you found yourself distracted while watching the students, and this year is no different. Your shoulders are relaxed and eyes are locked in on the screens, mainly on the students you’d be recommending for promotion— Megumi, Maki, and poor Yuji. 

You have no idea how him and Sukuna are related, Yuji’s just too sweet. Even during the times you’ve watched him argue with his older brother, he never crosses the line, never insults Sukuna-- no matter how much he deserves it at times. 

He even tried using his little brother as a pawn when you two first fell out.

“I know Sukuna’s a little rough around the edges, but he really does miss you Sensei.”

You raised a brow, “a little rough?”

“Okay maybe a lot,” he backtracked, “he means well though… deep down— like really deep down— he just has a hard time showing it, but–”

“What did he promise to give you if you told me all of this?”

“N-nothing!”

“...”

“Ugh fine,” he sighs. “A signed autograph from the actor that played the human earth worm from Human Earth Worm 3.”

“Ah, got it,” you just smiled and nodded, not mentioning that it was CGI, not an actual person— that would’ve broken the kids heart. 

Sukuna’s an asshole to him, but he does love him. That much is known with how he only looks at the screens his little brother is on, even though it’s Megumi and Nobara he should be watching right now. 

Of course he wants him to win all of his battles, but he’s also more than ready to jump out there and strangle anyone who’d dare to take the competition too far, especially after last year's incident. 

Gakuganji has had it out for Yuji ever since he enrolled, most likely because Sukuna just so happens to have the same technique as the king of curses himself, over a thousand years ago. He also coincidentally has the same name as him. The higher ups have been trying to kill him off ever since he was scouted by Yaga and now they’re trying to do the same thing with his little brother, who is also exceptionally talented. 

There’s no doubt the two brothers are related to the cannibalistic serial village-slaughterer. One might even say Sukuna was the reincarnation of him given how he’s the spitting image of the ancient sadist in his “true-form”, but he didn’t care to get into all of that.

The higher-ups need to get their heads out of their asses and realize that this wasn’t the fucking heian era. The modern world met all of his needs. If he wants to eat, he’ll order doordash. If he wants to fuck, he’ll go on tinder. If he wants to kill, he’ll take on more missions. 

While Yuji was able to befriend the slightly delusional yet loyal-as-fuck Todo, the kid from the Kamo clan still has it out for him.

Who knows, maybe it’s just jealousy at this point. Yuji’s been able to hit multiple blackflashes in a row since his first year. Then there’s Noritoshi. Stuck with a bow and arrow, running around like it’s the fucking hunger games.

But like he said, he’s more than ready to jump in and break both of Noritoshi’s legs then send him back to his clan if he tries to repeat last year's stunt. 

The battle lasted a total of 6 hours— lots of blood, lots of screaming, and Megumi threatening to wipe out Mechamaru with Mahoraga. Satoru just about had a heart attack when the 16 year old got into that stance. It resulted in the mic getting snatched from Utahime, again, so he could beg his adopted son to not fucking kill himself and everyone around him for a win.

“Dramatic ass kid,” Sukuna murmurs under his breath. 

“You’re one to talk,” you murmur back. 

“...The fuck did you just say to me?” he slowly turns his head to look at you, you could feel him burning a hole into the side of your head, yet you continue to ignore him. 

Instead you get up and clasp your hands together. 

“Well… great competition everyone! Good luck to Kyoto next time,” you condescendingly say to Gakuganji. He does nothing but grumble back, still offended over the fact that you switched to the Tokyo branch. 

—

The silent treatment’s getting tiring. 

Sukuna’s given you enough time and space to get over what had happened, yet here you still are, ignoring texts and even going as far as turning on your read receipts to be extra petty. He genuinely gets a sharp pang in his chest when looking back at all of his messages you haven't responded to. 

May 15, 2025

Sukuna [11:20 A.M]: whats ur problem?

Sukuna [11:20 A.M]: there’s no way ur still mad at me rn

Sukuna [11:21 A.M]: it was never a big deal until you decided to blow it up

May 17, 2025

Sukuna [04:20 P.M]: can you please just talk to me?

Sukuna [04:25 P.M]: how can you expect me to try to make it up to you if you don’t even respond to me??

May 18, 2025

Sukuna [12:18 A.M]: actually ykw FUCK YOU

Sukuna [12:18 A.M]: if you wanna be dumb and throw what we had away, i’m not gonna stop you. good fucking luck finding someone better than me 

Sukuna [12:20 A.M]:  i’m the fuckin best

Sukuna [01:35 P.M]: my bad i was drunk last night

May 25, 2025

Sukuna [09:49 A.M]: i know you’re mad at me and all but i never thought you’d try to fucking KILL ME?? 

Sukuna [09:50 A.M]: and now you’re bragging about it to fucking nanami of all people? going around saying you left me breathless is NOT something you should be proud of

May 26, 2025

You [01:20 A.M]: wanna come over?

Sukuna [01:21 A.M]: you’re drunk rn aren’t you

You [01:22 A.M]: maybe

Sukuna [01:22 A.M]: fuck off

Sukuna [01:22 A.M]: you’re not about to turn me into some fuckin bootycall 

Sukuna [01:22 A.M]: how’ve you been?

[Missed Call]

[Missed Call]

Sukuna [01:25 A.M]: you’re never hearing from me again if you don’t answer 

[Missed Call]

True to his word, he doesn’t try again. 

But then he finds out you were given a mission that turned out to be a special grade case. It took him less than a second after hearing the news from Ijichi to realize he’s more than alright with you hating him, he just wanted you alive and to not end up being another casualty in this world.

So now he’s on the freeway, speeding to get to you. 

A cop tried to pull him over just a couple minutes ago and he cleaved their tires. It was one of those moments where he chuckled to himself. He hoped law enforcement would try to get in his way one of these days, just so he could show them that they were powerless when it came to him. He’d watch the blood drain from their faces and genuinely enjoy it. 

His car comes to a screeching halt when he reaches some giant, abandoned warehouse in the outskirts of town. Immediately he feels it, the only type of energy that’s able to raise the hairs on the back of his neck. Though now as an adult, it doesn’t bring him fear, it brings him pure, unadulterated excitement. Especially right now since he gets to play Captain Save-a-Hoe, there’s no way you couldn’t not forgive him after this. 

Except when he steps inside the warehouse, he realizes that energy isn’t from the curse, it’s from you. The curse has been exorcised for some time now, one that would’ve been three times the size of him, had it not been deflated. 

Yes. Deflated. Not to mention it’s all thanks to his training. You went from blowing curses away to compacting their bodies by pretty much vacuum sealing them. You also know how to use cleave, which would’ve been much quicker, but he’s guessing you were enjoying yourself today and opted to watch the poor thing slowly die.

It’s kind of hot, but it’s also kind of fucking terrifying. 

Maybe he should take up teaching part time, you are living breathing proof that he could turn someone into a special grade if he really tried. Though the only reason why he did decide to train you was because he didn’t want you to die at work. He’s not sure if he could be as nurturing towards a bunch of angsty, snot-nosed teens. He nearly strangled Panda last month for telling him that he was built like a spider in his other form. 

You look over your shoulder and scoff at the sight of him. “What are you doing here?” 

“Well I was here to save you,” he responds, perplexed, maybe even slightly devastated since his hopes got crushed. 

“To save me?” you ask, growing even more irritated that, not only did they give a special grade case by accident, but then they sent him of all people to come help you. 

“Yeah,” he scoffs, looking back and forth between you and your little victim. “I was going 120 to get here and even slashed a cop's tires.”

“Aw,” you give him a fake pout, “how romantic. There was no need though.” 

“Clearly,” he grumbles, kicking at the gravel, “you okay?”

“Obviously,” you rudely respond. 

“Really?” he grins, knowing something you don’t. 

“Really.”

He shrugs and begins walking towards you, “I’ll let Shoko be the judge of that.”

“What do you m—”

Sukuna catches up to you within a blink of an eye and presses two fingers to your forehead before you could finish that sentence.

If you weren’t being so stubborn, you would’ve noticed that you had a huge gash on the side of your leg, but that’s what adrenaline does and thank god for that. It eventually would’ve worn off and you’d be screaming from the pain during the ride back because the cut is that deep. You probably would’ve passed out from the blood loss anyways, given how you can’t use RCT. 

He throws you over his shoulder and gets you in his car, but not before disintegrating the curse and the warehouse, making sure his residuals completely covered yours. 

Instead of going 120, he goes 90 the whole ride back to headquarters, all while trying to stop the blood from gushing out of your leg by using RCT on you. He thought about doing more, but decides it’s best to leave it to Shoko who’s much better at the technique than him and Satoru are. 

“Fuck, what happened?” Shoko asks, seeing him walk in with you in his arms. 

“Long story,” he mutters, laying you down on the cold metal bed, “need you to keep it a secret though.” 

“How big of a secret are we talking?” she apprehensively asks. 

“Not too big. Just… don’t document this, and if you do, say I found her passed out and that I exorcised the curse myself,” he says with a slightly strained look on his face. “Just until I talk to Gojo, alright?”

She takes a moment to think about it, but eventually nods and says yes to her old classmate, not bothering to question him even further. If it's something that he needs to get Gojo involved in, then it's serious.

You still remembered the evening the old researcher visited.

The air had been thick with the scent of jasmine and the low hum of summer insects. Over a modest dinner, the man had leaned forward, his eyes bright with the fervor of a man who had seen the world's wonders.

"You must send them to the Akademiya," he had urged, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial tone.

Your mother’s laugh had been soft, tinged with the bittersweet reality of the village. "As if we could afford to pluck such a rare flower from its roots."

The researcher had shook his head, undeterred. "If they continue to study with such ferocity, the Akademiya will find its own way to pluck them."

You had sat there, feigning interest in your meal, but your heart had been racing. The moment the guest departed, the dam broke. A hundred questions spilled from you, frantic and hungry: What are the libraries like? Is the air truly thick with the scent of old parchment? How many minds gather under the Great Tree? Is it true that the very foundations of Teyvat’s wisdom are laid there?

Your father had eventually laughed, a warm, grounding sound, and sent you outside to let the fever of your curiosity cool.

That night, you sat beneath a canopy of stars that felt close enough to touch. You watched the constellations and saw patterns—equations, and possibilities. You imagined yourself walking through halls of marble and vine, your footsteps echoing against the weight of centuries of thought.

For years, that dream was your North Star.

Every book devoured, every sleepless night spent under the dim glow of a candle, every ounce of your fragile energy poured into study. It was all a pilgrimage toward a single destination.

The Akademiya.

When you finally arrived, the sheer scale of Sumeru City felt like a physical blow to the chest. The architecture was a breathtaking. A marriage of nature and intellect—massive, ancient trees intertwined with soaring stone structures, creating a labyrinth of shade and light. Scholars hurried through the streets, their debates flowing as naturally as the wind through the leaves.

It was a symphony of thought, and you were ready to join the orchestra.

You entered the examination halls, not with the trembling hands of a student, but with the quiet certainty of a scholar. You weren't arrogant—arrogance required a sense of superiority. You were simply certain.

Hours later, you emerged into the sunlight, your mind buzzing with the satisfaction of a task completed perfectly. You had performed well. No... you had performed flawlessly.

Three days later, the rankings were posted.

A sea of students surged toward the board, a cacophony of nervous whispers and frantic shuffling. You moved through the crowd with a calm grace, your eyes searching the parchment for your name.

You found it.

Second.

The world seemed to tilt. The warmth of the sun felt suddenly cold against your skin. You blinked, certain the ink had betrayed you, and looked again.

Second.

The name etched above yours was a stranger's name. Alhaitham.

The margin between your brilliance and his was a mere ghost of a margin less than a single percentage point.

It was absurd.

For a long moment, you simply stared at the ink, the silence in your mind deafening. Then, a small, breathless laugh escaped your lips. It wasn't a laugh of joy, but one of sheer, bewildered irony.

Second place? you thought, a spark of quiet defiance lighting in your chest. Fine. Let him have this one. I will take the first during the next assessment. It is a simple matter of effort.

You walked away from the board, already calculating your next move, already planning your ascent. It was a simple plan.

Except, the next assessment came and the world refused to bend to your will.

And Alhaitham remained first.

Then another.

Then another.

The cycle became a rhythmic, cruel heartbeat that pulsed through the halls of the Akademiya. Weeks bled into months; months stretched into years, and the seasons of Sumeru the heavy rains and the stifling humidity seemed to pass in a blur of ink and parchment.

Every single ranking ended with the same devastating cadence.

Alhaitham.

Then you.

The gap between your scores was never a chasm rather it was a thin, razor sharp line that sliced through your confidence.

It never widened, and it never vanished.

It served as a silent, mocking reminder that no matter how much of your soul you poured into your studies, someone else was always standing exactly one step ahead.

But the sting of the rank wasn't what truly wounded you. It was his indifference.

Most scholars at the Akademiya wore their intellect like a mantle of gold. They craved the prestige; they hungered for the validation of their peers and the nods of their professors. They lived for the competition. But Alhaitham? Alhaitham treated brilliance as if it were a mere chore, a mundane necessity of life.

He attended lectures with a detached, surgical precision. He completed assignments with a terrifying efficiency. He read, he learned, and then as if he were simply finished with the world for the day he would vanish. He would slip away before the accolades could be handed out, leaving the air empty where his presence had been.

You would see him in the periphery of your vision: a quiet figure tucked beneath the shade of a tree between classes, or a silhouette buried deep within the shelves of the House of Daena. When a professor offered him praise, he didn't beam or bow; he merely looked vaguely inconvenienced, as if the compliment were a gust of wind that had slightly disturbed his reading.

You hated that.

You hated the effortless grace of his intellect. You hated the way he seemed to inhabit a world where the struggle for excellence didn't even exist. Most of all, you hated the way you had become a satellite orbiting his sun, your entire sense of self defined by the distance between your name and his.

The rivalry was a ghost—a phantom battle fought entirely within the quiet chambers of your own mind. To the rest of the world, you were a brilliant scholar; to yourself, you were a perpetual runner up.

By the time the next major examination approached, the obsession had grown teeth. It had become something jagged and ugly.

Your dormitory had become a sanctuary of madness.

Every inch of desk and wall was smothered in notes, diagrams, and scribbled theories. You studied through the haze of your meals; you studied the rhythmic sway of the trees as you walked; you studied in the liminal spaces between waking and sleep.

Friends’ invitations grew infrequent, their voices fading into the background as you declined one gathering after another. Professors began to look at you with growing concern, their voices softening as they asked if you were sleeping enough, if your health was holding.

You would offer them a calm, practiced smile. "Yes, of course. I am resting well"

The truth was far more exhausting.

The truth was that you were tired of the silver medal. You were tired of being the shadow. And this time, you were prepared to burn yourself to ash if it meant finally eclipsing him.

That desperate determination was what led you to the House of Daena long after the sun had dipped below the horizon and the bustling crowds had retreated to their homes. The Great Library was a cathedral of silence, lit only by the soft, amber glow of lamps that cast long, dancing shadows against the endless rows of books.

The air was thick with the scent of old paper and dried ink. You sat hunched over a heavy tome, your eyes stinging, your fingers trembling slightly from fatigue. The world outside Sumeru City had drifted into a peaceful slumber, but your mind was a storm of equations and logic.

Hours bled into one another, marked only by the turning of pages and the scratch of your quill. You were so deeply submerged in the sea of knowledge that you almost didn't hear the shift in the air the subtle change in the library's quiet rhythm.

Then, a soft, deliberate tap landed against your shoulder.

Your heart gave a sudden, violent leap. You turned, your breath catching in your throat, expecting a librarian or a weary fellow student.

Instead, you found yourself staring into the calm, unreadable eyes of Alhaitham.

He was standing there, looking as though he had simply stepped out of a dream, his presence as cool and steady as the moonlight filtering through the high windows.

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The silence between you wasn't the heavy, awkward kind one might expect from two rivals, nor was it the comfortable quiet of friends. It was something sharper.

His gaze didn't land on your face first; it traveled.

It swept over the dark, bruised crescents beneath your eyes, the untouched tray of food sitting cold beside your notes, and the frantic, cluttered mountain of texts that seemed to be slowly swallowing you whole. His eyes lingered on your hand the way your fingers trembled ever so slightly as they gripped your quill, stained with ink and fatigue. Slowly, his eyes narrowed. It was the look of a scholar identifying a variable that had gone rogue.

"You haven't gone back to your dormitory," he said. It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact, delivered with that infuriatingly calm cadence of his.

You were the first to break the contact, looking away toward the endless shelves of the House of Daena. "I'm fine."

"You said that the last time."

"There wasn't a last time."

"There were three."

Your shoulders stiffened, a small, defensive jerk of your spine. Alhaitham sighed a soft, exhaled sound that was nearly lost beneath the distant, rhythmic rustle of the rainforest leaves outside the high windows. Without asking permission, he pulled out the chair opposite yours and sat down.

The movement was startling.

In the hierarchy of the Akademiya, Alhaitham was an island. He didn't seek company—he didn't even seem to tolerate it. Yet here he was, settling into the seat as though he had every intention of staying until the candles burned to nothing.

Under the warm, flickering light of the desk lamp, the sharp edges of his rivalry seemed to soften. Without the frantic energy of the student body around him, he looked... human. Just another scholar, weary and caught in the gravity of the night. The realization irritated you. It was much easier to hate him when he felt like an unreachable monument of intellect.

"Why are you here?" you asked, your voice sounding thinner than you intended.

"I came to return a book." His gaze flickered toward the chaotic sea of parchment surrounding you. "Then I discovered a more immediate problem."

You rolled your eyes, a weary gesture of defiance. "I'm not a problem."

"At the moment, you are."

"How flattering."

"You mistake observation for insult."

"Because your observations usually sound like insults."

"They only sound that way because you dislike the conclusions."

You opened your mouth to retort, to tell him that his conclusions were nothing but arrogance wrapped in logic, but the words died in your throat.

He was right.

That was the most maddening part of Alhaitham: he was almost always right.

He leaned back, the chair creaking softly under his weight. "You've been avoiding meals."

You blinked, the fog in your brain momentarily clearing. "What?"

"Your lunch yesterday remained untouched."

Your stomach gave a traitorous, hollow ache. "You noticed that?"

"You sit three rows away from me."

"That doesn't answer the question," you muttered, feeling a flush of heat rise to your pale cheeks.

"It answers it sufficiently."

You stared at him, searching for a hint of mockery, a sign that he was teasing you. But there was none. Alhaitham simply accepted facts as they existed, as if observing your deteriorating health was no different than noting the humidity in the air.

"You also left a lecture early this morning," he continued, relentless.

Your frown deepened. "I had studying to do."

"You nearly walked into a pillar."

"..."

"And your handwriting has noticeably deteriorated."

"..."

"Your notes from two weeks ago were significantly more legible."

You felt a sudden, frantic prickle of vulnerability. "Have you been... analyzing my notes?"

"I've debated with you enough times to recognize your handwriting."

A groan escaped you, and you let your forehead drop onto the cool surface of the desk, the wood smelling of cedar and old ink. "Please," you whispered into the paper, "just stop noticing things."

"No."

The answer was instantaneous. No hesitation, no softening of the blow. You lifted your head just enough to glare at him. "Why?"

For the first time, Alhaitham looked genuinely puzzled. He tilted his head slightly, as if the answer were the most obvious thing in the world. "Because they're there."

It was such a quintessentially Alhaitham response that you almost laughed a dry, tired sound. The exhaustion was winning; the room felt heavy, the air thick and warm, and your eyes burned with every blink. You hated that he could see the cracks in your porcelain composure. You hated that he was right.

His gaze softened, a change so subtle it was almost a trick of the light. "Rest," he said. His voice had dropped an octave, losing its analytical edge and becoming something firm, grounded, and strangely certain. "It's the only logical thing to do."

"I don't have time," you countered, though your eyelids felt like lead.

"You do."

"I really don't."

"You do."

"The examinations are next week!" you hissed, a final, desperate attempt to reclaim your dignity.

"Precisely."

You blinked at him, bewildered. "That doesn't even make sense."

"It does." Alhaitham folded his arms, his expression turning clinical once more. "Your current condition is reducing both retention and comprehension. Continuing to study while exhausted produces diminishing returns."

You closed your eyes, realizing you had walked straight into his trap. "You're treating yourself like a machine," he continued.

"A machine?" you repeated, your voice dripping with sarcasm.

"An inefficient one."

"Oh, thank you."

"Not a compliment."

You buried your face in your hands, the weight of the world feeling as heavy as the books on your desk. Somewhere above the sound of your own frustrated breathing, Alhaitham let out a long, weary sigh. When he spoke again, his voice was unexpectedly gentle, carrying a hint of something that sounded almost like... exasperation.

"Archons."

You glanced up, startled. The word sounded so foreign, so uncharacteristic of the man who usually spoke in perfect, measured sentences. It was the first time he had sounded like a person instead of a scholar.

"What?" you whispered.

"You are a most difficult variable to solve," he murmured, his eyes meeting yours with an intensity that made your heart stutter.

"Mental health should always be prioritized," he said, his voice a low, steady anchor in the vast silence of the library. "Regardless of circumstance."

The sheer sincerity of the statement struck you like a physical force. The towering shelves of books faded into the periphery, the shadows in the corners of the room deepened into velvet, and the vast, hollow space of the library vanished, leaving only the narrow, electric distance between the two of you.

"You've pushed yourself well beyond your limits." His eyes drifted, a fleeting moment of observation as they swept over the scattered parchments and the ink stained edges of your sleeves, before snapping back to your face. "Take a break."

A sudden, sharp tightness bloomed in your chest, making it difficult to draw a full breath. You searched his face for the tell tale signs of a victor, the subtle curl of a lip, the glint of superiority, the quiet satisfaction of seeing a rival falter. But there was nothing.

A part of you wanted to snap at him, to wrap yourself in your pride and push him away. But another part the part that was tired of fighting the world alone ached to ask the question that had been festering in your mind for years.

"Why does it matter to you?"

The question hung in the air, fragile and trembling. For the first time that evening, the man of endless logic fell silent.

The only sound was the distant, rhythmic sigh of the wind brushing against the high glass windows and the soft, ghostly flicker of the lamp. Alhaitham’s gaze shifted, his eyes clouding with a rare, contemplative depth, as if he were weighing the exact value of the truth before deciding whether to bestow it upon you.

Moonlight spilled across the mahogany table in long, silver ribbons, illuminating the dust motes dancing between you. After a silence so long it felt eternal, he finally spoke.

"Because despite what you seem to believe, I've never considered you an obstacle."

Your breath hitched, snagging in your throat. Before you could find the strength to protest, he continued, his voice cutting through the stillness. "You're one of the few people in this Darshan capable of challenging my conclusions."

His expression remained as composed as a statue’s, yet there was an undeniable, raw honesty beneath the surface, a vulnerability in his steadiness that made it nearly impossible to look away.

"Our debates are interesting," he added.

You blinked, stunned. Interesting? Was that all? After years of rivalry, after the sleepless nights and the crushing weight of second place, he chose the word interesting? It felt almost insulting in its understatement, yet as you looked at him, you saw he was entirely, devastatingly serious.

"Most discussions become predictable after a few minutes," he said, a pause stretching between his words like a taut wire. "Yours don't."

"You assume I've enjoyed outperforming you." His gaze lowered, drifting to the mountains of books and the evidence of your relentless, desperate struggle to catch him. "That assumption is incorrect."

The lamp flickered, a dying pulse of amber light, and for a heartbeat, the world felt suspended in time. Then, almost as if the words cost him something to say, Alhaitham added, his voice dropping to a near whisper, "If anything, I've been waiting for the day you finally surpass me."

The words landed with more impact than any grand proclamation, more weight than any official ranking ever could. In the quiet sanctity of the library, the truth finally dawned on you. You had spent years treating Alhaitham as the finish line, a distant, cold destination to be conquered. You never realized that he hadn't been standing in your way; he had been standing there, quietly watching, waiting for you to finally catch up.

"You're a fool," you whispered, though the sting was gone from your voice. It was a soft, breathless thing, almost a laugh. "To wait for someone to surpass you... it goes against every instinct of a scholar."

"Logic is rarely driven by instinct," Alhaitham replied, his gaze returning to yours. The intensity hadn't faded, but the tension in his shoulders had eased. "It is driven by the pursuit of excellence. And a pursuit is only meaningful when the opposition is worthy."

You looked down at your hands. They were still trembling. The frantic, desperate energy that had driven you for months, the need to prove, the need to win seemed to dissolve, leaving behind a quiet, hollowed out peace. He reached out, his hand hovering over the table for a fraction of a second before he pulled a small, wrapped parcel from the pocket of his robe. He set it beside your inkwell. "Eat. Then go back to your dormitory. If you collapse during the examination, the lack of a proper challenger will be a significant inconvenience to the Akademiya."

You looked down at the parcel warmth still seemed to radiate from it and then back at him. The fierce, burning rivalry that had defined your existence was still there, but the edges had softened.

As he walked away, his footsteps echoing softly against the stone floor, you didn't immediately reach for your quill. Instead, you unwrapped the parcel, the scent of warm bread and honey filling your senses, and for the first time in months, you allowed yourself to simply be. 

Yet, the week leading up to the examinations was a quiet and difficult revolution

The first battle was against ghosts.

It was not a war fought against the looming expectations, nor against the theories of the Akademiya, nor the impossible, logic defying questions that awaited you.

It was a war fought against yourself.

The old habit was a frantic living thing—a phantom limb. It lurked in the hollows of your thoughts, a restless specter waiting for the slightest lull in your focus to strike. Years of relentless conditioning did not dissolve overnight simply because one infuriatingly perceptive scholar had commanded you to.

Your body was a vessel of exhaustion—heavy and aching—but your mind was a caged bird, beating its wings against the bar.

You sat along at your desk long after the sun had dipped below the rainforest canopy, leaving you room bathed in the bruised purples and deep indigos of twilight. The familiar collection of books was stacked in a  neat, imposing tower within arm’s reach. The mere sight of them made your chest tighten, the air in the room suddenly feeling too thin to breathe.

They were both your sanctuary and your cage.

You stared at the spines of the books. They seemed to stare back, judging your stillness.

A minute passed, heavy and thick as honey. 

Then another. 

Your fingers began to twitch, a rhythmic, nervous dance against the wood of the desk. Just one chapter, the thought whispered, sliding into your mind with the seamless ease of a predator. One chapter wouldn't hurt. You have the energy. You have the time.

It was a lie you had told yourself a thousand times before. One chapter would inevitably bleed into three; three would stretch into six; six would dissolve into a sleepless, feverish night of frantic memorization. You knew the descent into madness intimately. The temptation settled into your marrow, a cold, creeping itch. Without a conscious thought, your hand began to drift toward the nearest textbook. The movement was instinctive, as automatic and unthinking as a heartbeat.

Halfway there, you froze.

The silence in your room suddenly expanded, becoming enormous and deafening. The tips of your fingers hovered a mere inch above the worn, pebbled leather of a volume on ancient tomes. A sharp, jagged frustration rose in your throat. You realized, with a jolt of unsettling clarity, that you weren't studying because you possessed a hunger for knowledge; you were studying because the vacuum of not studying felt like a physical wound.

Slowly, with a monumental effort of will, you pulled your hand back.

The guilt arrived instantly, crashing into you with the force of a sudden summer storm. It was a physical weight: a tightening in your throat, a sickening knot in your stomach, a dull, thrumming pressure behind your ribs. You should be doing something. Everyone else is out there, chasing the light. The examinations are a tide coming in, and you are standing still, letting the water rise around your ankles.

The thought of Alhaitham struck like a spark in dry tinder. Suddenly, your mind was a gallery of him: Alhaitham seated beneath the dappled shade of a tree, a book balanced effortlessly against his knee; Alhaitham in the hushed sanctity of the House of Daena, his presence a calm anchor in a sea of frantic scholars; Alhaitham, standing atop the rankings, his name a permanent fixture above yours. 

Your jaw clenched so hard it ached. You hated this helplessness. You hated the terrifying sensation that to rest was to surrender, and to slow down was to be swallowed by the shadows of those who refused to stop.

Your fingers curled into the edge of the desk, your nails digging into the wood. But then, amidst the cacophony of your own racing heart, a different memory surface. It was the memory of a pair of steady, turquoise eyes staring directly into your soul across a pool of flickering lamplight.

You could hear his voice with a clarity that was almost maddening. “Rest.”

It had been so simple. So direct. Devoid of the grandiosity most scholars used to mask their intentions. “It’s the only logical thing to do.”

You scowled at the phantom of him. Even in the sanctity of your own mind, Alhaitham was an insufferable presence. Yet, the memory felt more real than the desk beneath your hands. You leaned back, forcing your spine to uncurl, and exhaled a breath you felt you had been holding for years.

The room remained unchanged. The books were still there, silent and demanding. The examinations still loomed like a storm on the horizon. You folded your hands in your lap, forcing them to remain still, a feat that felt as difficult as resisting the pull of gravity.

For a long time, the restlessness crawled beneath your skin like tiny, invisible insects. \

But then, slowly, the world began to bleed back in.

The frantic noise of your thoughts began to recede, replaced by the delicate, rhythmic symphony of the Sumeru night. You heard the distant, melodic chirping of insects in the canopy; the gentle, rhythmic sigh of the wind moving through the leaves outside your window; the faint, earthy scent of rain that still lingered in the humid air.

A shaft of moonlight, pale and ethereal, stretched across your floorboards like a silver ribbon. In its glow, you saw them: tiny particles of dust drifting lazily through the air. They rose and fell in a slow, hypnotic dance, suspended in the light like miniature stars caught in a celestial current.

You watched them. You didn't analyze the composition of the dust. You didn't calculate the velocity of their drift. You didn't ask how this moment could be used to improve your standing in the Akademiya. You simply watched.

One particle spiraled upward, a tiny speck of silver against the dark. Another spun slowly, caught in a microscopic eddy of air, before vanishing into the velvet shadows. The movement was entirely meaningless. It was profoundly unproductive. It served no purpose in the grand architecture of your future.

How long had it been since you had allowed yourself to simply witness the world without trying to conquer it? How long had you been so busy measuring the usefulness of every moment that you had forgotten how to live within them?

The second day brought the first encounter with the "new" you.

Or perhaps not new.

Perhaps simply the version of yourself that had been buried beneath years of pressure.

The Akademiya grounds were unusually tranquil that afternoon. Most students had retreated to the sanctuaries of the libraries or the shaded halls to escape the rising Sumeru heat. This left the grounds to the birds, the wind, and the occasional scholar drifting across the stone pathways. Sunlight filtered through the dense canopy of broad, emerald leaves, casting a shifting mosaic of gold and deep shadow across the grass.

You had chosen a spot beneath the sprawling roots of the Great Tree, a heavy treatise on linguistics resting in your lap. Normally, this would be a moment of intense, almost frantic focus. You would have been dissecting every sentence, cross referencing the symbols and sentence structure, your mind racing to absorb every scrap of data before the sun dipped below the horizon.

But today, the words blurred at the edges. You read a paragraph on ruin devices, then read it again, and a third time, only to realize you hadn't actually processed a single syllable.

A strange, foreign sensation began to settle in your limbs. It wasn't the bone deep, hollow exhaustion that came from pulling all nighters in the House of Daena. It was something much simpler.

You were sleepy.

The realization sent a small jolt of panic through you. For years, sleepiness had been an enemy to be vanquished. It was a weakness to be suppressed with bitter tea, cold water, and sheer, stubborn willpower. The old reflex surged up in your throat: Stand up. Walk to the library. Find a more upright chair. Keep going. Keep going until the world stops spinning.

Your fingers tightened on the parchment, the edges crinkling under your touch. You felt the familiar, gnawing guilt, the sensation that every second spent in repose was a second Alhaitham was gaining on you. You could almost see him in your mind's eye, sitting perfectly poised, his mind a sharp, unclouded blade, absorbing knowledge with effortless grace while you sat here, succumbing to the most basic of biological needs.

“You’re treating yourself like a machine.”

His voice, calm and infuriatingly logical, echoed in your mind. You closed your eyes tight, scowling at the memory. It was an incredibly annoying thought to have when you were trying to be productive. And yet, as you sat there, the debate raged within you. One side of your mind screamed that a midday nap was a luxury for the lazy; the other side, a quieter, more tired voice, pointed out that you had spent years running a marathon with no finish line in sight.

With a heavy, decisive sigh, you closed the book.

The action felt monumental, as if you were signing a treaty with your own body. A small, breathless laugh escaped your lips. Permission to be tired. It felt absurd, yet as you leaned your head back against the rough, cool bark of the tree, a profound sense of relief washed over you.

The world began to soften. The rustle of the leaves became a lullaby; the warmth of the sun on your skin felt like a gentle weight, pressing you down into the earth. You let go. 

You were drifting, hovering in that hazy, golden space between wakefulness and dreams, when a shadow fell across your vision, cooling the warmth on your face.

Your eyes fluttered open.

Standing a few paces away was Alhaitham. He was, as usual, a study in composed stillness, a book tucked effortlessly beneath one arm. He didn't call your name or startle you; he simply stood there, observing you with that unreadable, piercing gaze. His eyes drifted from your drowsy expression to the closed book in your lap, and then, quite inexplicably, to the sky.

"The light is changing," he remarked. His voice was steady, cutting through the afternoon haze without breaking the tranquility of the garden.

You blinked, your brain feeling as though it were moving through honey. "What?"

"The light," he repeated, nodding toward the canopy above. "It will become too harsh for reading in approximately twenty minutes. The glare will make the parchment difficult to navigate."

You stared at him, momentarily speechless. Only Alhaitham could turn a moment of quiet vulnerability into a lecture on solar positioning. You waited for the sting, the subtle implication that you were wasting time, or the observation that you looked unkempt in your stupor.

Instead, he simply added, "If you intend to sleep, do it now."

"That's it?" you asked, your voice a bit raspy from sleepiness. "No lecture on the importance of midday alertness? No comment on my lack of discipline?"

One of his eyebrows arched a subtle, elegant movement. "What were you expecting? A dissertation on proper napping techniques?"

A genuine snort escaped you, and you saw the tiniest, almost imperceptible twitch at the corner of his mouth. It was a victory, however small.

Without another word, he turned and walked toward a stone bench a short distance away. He didn't sit near you instead, he chose a spot in the shade that was close enough to be a presence, yet far enough to grant you privacy. He opened his own book, settled in, and became a silent, steady anchor in the garden.

As you drifted back into sleep, you only felt a strange, burgeoning sense of safety. 

The third day was when the clarity began to settle. It wasn’t a miraculous transformation; there was no sudden burst of light, no magical curing of years of chronic exhaustion. The anxiety hadn't vanished; it was still there, a low hum in the background of your mind, whispering the old, frantic litany: Study more. Work harder. Don't stop. If you stop, you disappear.

But for the first time, the voice sounded more like a suggestion you were free to ignore.

On this morning, you sat at your desk with a fresh stack of parchment and a cup of tea that was actually warm—rather than the bitter, forgotten sludge you usually favored. You opened your textbook and began to read. You read a section, made a note, and then unexpectedly you paused.

An observation had occurred to you. 

You reached for a fresh sheet of parchment and began to write. One theory bled into another; a conclusion linked unexpectedly to a lecture from months ago; an argument that had once felt like a tangled knot of thorns suddenly smoothed out into a straight, logical line.

You stared at the page, then the textbook, then back at the page. The realization was startling. The information wasn't new. You had read these exact passages a dozen times before. The difference was that now, your brain was actually present enough to process them.

For years, you had mistaken the mechanical act of memorization for the art of understanding. When exhaustion had consumed you, studying had been a desperate survival tactic: words entered your eyes, your hand moved across the paper, and you retained just enough to pass the examination before the knowledge evaporated. But now, your thoughts move with a fluid, quiet grace. 

The irony was almost enough to make you laugh. In your frantic pursuit of becoming a better scholar, you had nearly forgotten how scholarship actually worked.

By midday, several pages of notes lay spread across your desk. They were, quite frankly, a revelation. Your previous notes had always been a frantic map of a collapsing margins crowded with panicked scribbles, entire paragraphs crossed out in jagged, angry lines, a visual representation of a natural disaster.

Today’s pages were different.

They were…. clean and organized.

The ideas flowed with a logical progression, the connections highlighted rather than buried under the weight of stress.

A small, triumphant smile tugged at your lips. Perhaps Alhaitham knew exactly how irritating this realization would be, you thought. And perhaps that is all the motivation I need to surpass him.

That thought followed you as you made your way toward the House of Daena later that afternoon. The library was bathed in the golden, heavy light of the descending sun, dust motes dancing in the long shafts of brilliance like tiny, suspended stars. A week ago, your instinct would have been to find the darkest, most isolated corner, a place to hide your exhaustion.

Today, you did something entirely uncharacteristic. 

You chose a table near one of the large, towering windows. You sat where the light was warmest, where the hum of other scholars felt like a gentle backdrop rather than a distracting cacophony.

You had returned your attention to your notes when a familiar, low voice drifted through the air. It wasn't directed at you, but at a passing scholar. You glanced up instinctively.

Alhaitham. 

He was standing a few rows away, his expression as composed and unreadable as ever. He was engaged in a brief, clipped exchange with a senior researcher, his tone efficient and devoid of unnecessary fluff. As the conversation ended, he turned to leave, his gaze sweeping the room with its usual analytical precision.

Then, his eyes caught yours.

He paused.

His gaze lingering on you for a second longer than was strictly necessary. He took in the open book, the neatness of your desk, and the fact that you were sitting in the light rather than the shadows.

"You're sitting in the sun," he remarked as he began to walk toward your section.

"I am," you replied, feeling a strange, playful spark of energy. "Is there a particular reason that's a problem?"

He reached your table, not stopping, but slowing his pace just enough to acknowledge you. He glanced down at your notes, the clean, organized lines of your recent work. "On the contrary. Based on the clarity of your script, it seems to be aiding your cognitive function rather than hindering it."

You blinked, caught off guard by the subtle compliment hidden within his clinical assessment. "Is that your way of saying my notes look better?"

"It's my way of saying you've stopped performing the academic equivalent of a frantic scramble," he said, his eyes meeting yours. There was a flicker of something there, not quite a smile, but approval. "It's much more efficient this way."

"Efficiency," you repeated, a soft laugh escaping you. "Always back to the logic of it. Do you ever just... enjoy the sunlight, Alhaitham?"

He paused, his hand resting on the edge of the table. For a moment, the busy library seemed to fade into the background. "I find that enjoying the sunlight is much easier when one isn't squinting through a fog of mental fatigue."

He didn't wait for a rebuttal. He simply nodded once a silent, dignified farewell and continued on his way toward the deeper stacks. You watched him go, the warmth of the sun on your skin feeling a little more profound, the silence of the library feeling a little more like home. You turned back to your parchment, the ink flowing smoothly, the world feeling, for the first time in a very long time, perfectly in focus.

The fourth day tested your resolve. 

The morning had begun with a rare, tranquil grace. You had arrived at the House of Daena shortly after sunrise, when the air still held the silver chill of the night and the grand halls felt less like a labyrinth of expectations and more like a sanctuary. Sunlight poured through the high, arched windows in pale, dusty streams, illuminating the shelves. You had settled into your new seat near a window. Your notes were organized, your tea was warm, and for the first time in years, the act of studying felt more like a genuine conversation with the world.

You were midway through a particularly dense passage on elemental theory when the silence was punctured. A cluster of voices, hushed but vibrating with a frantic, jagged energy.

"...there's no way I'm sleeping this week," a voice whispered, thick with a fatigue that sounded almost permanent.

"I'm serious," another replied, the sound of shuffling parchment punctuating their words. "Have you seen the practice assessments? The complexity has doubled since last year."

"They say the gap between the top ranks is widening," a third student added, their voice dropping to a terrified low. "If you aren't in the top tier by the final exam, you're basically invisible to the Matra."

You watched them from the corner of your eye. They were Spantamad students, their robes slightly rumpled, their eyes rimmed with the tell-tale redness of sleeplessness. One carried a stack of books so precarious it looked like a structural hazard; another looked as though they might collapse into the floorboards at any moment.

"I heard Alhaitham already finished his entire curriculum review," the first one whispered, a note of pure dread in their tone.

A collective groan rippled through the group. "That's not reassuring," one muttered. "When is anything involving Alhaitham actually reassuring?"

"It's just... intimidating," the student with the books sighed. 

As they moved past, the air seemed to vibrate with their anxiety, a frantic frequency that usually would have triggered a sympathetic tremor in your own chest. A week ago, hearing the word rankings would have been like a physical blow. You would have felt the familiar, suffocating spiral begin: Am I falling behind? Is my progress too slow?

Instead, you felt a strange, detached sort of pity. You looked down at your own notes… you weren't running a race against them.

"You're staring at the same paragraph for three minutes. Is the text particularly captivating today, or are you merely performing a silent vigil for your lost focus?"

The voice was low, steady, and entirely devoid of the frantic energy that had just passed by. You looked up to find Alhaitham standing beside your table. He held a slim volume in one hand, his expression as unreadable as a closed book, but his eyes were fixed on you with a piercing, observant intensity.

"I was actually thinking about the Spantamad students," you admitted, your voice soft. "They seem... overwhelmed."

Alhaitham’s gaze drifted toward the aisle where the group had disappeared. "They are," he said simply. He pulled out the chair opposite yours an uncharacteristic move, as he usually preferred his own solitude and sat down. "They have mistaken anxiety for productivity. They believe that by increasing the volume of their suffering, they will increase the quality of their intellect. It is a common fallacy."

"It's hard not to feel that way when everyone is talking about it," you said, gesturing vaguely toward the library at large. "It feels like if you aren't panicking, you aren't trying hard enough."

Alhaitham leaned back slightly, his turquoise eyes meeting yours. "And what is your definition of 'trying'?"

The question caught you off guard. "To... to master the material. To be prepared."

"To be prepared is to understand the core principles so deeply that the variables of an exam cannot shake you," he countered, his tone clinical yet strangely grounding. "To panic is merely to admit that you are at the mercy of the unknown. You are currently sitting here, in the light, with organized thoughts and a steady hand. By any logical metric, you are 'trying' far more effectively than the group that just passed by."

You looked down at your hands. They were, indeed, steady. "It feels different this time," you whispered, almost to yourself. "It feels like... the knowledge belongs to me, rather than me chasing after the knowledge."

A small, almost imperceptible shift occurred in his expression. It wasn't a smile, but the tension in his brow eased. "That is because you have stopped treating scholarship as a weapon to prove your worth, and started treating it as a tool to expand your mind. The distinction is subtle, but the results are profound."

He reached out, his fingers tapping the edge of your notebook in a rhythmic, calming cadence. "Do not let their turbulence dictate your tempo. A river that flows too violently often loses its direction. A steady current is much harder to divert."

You felt a warmth bloom in your chest, a quiet sense of triumph that had nothing to do with grades. "Thank you, Alhaitham. For... for the perspective."

"Don't thank me. It is merely a logical observation," he replied, though he didn't immediately get up to leave. Instead, he opened his own book, settling into a comfortable silence beside you

The fifth day was a day of quiet preparation.

Not for the examinations.

Not entirely.

The air was thick with the frantic energy of students who had forgotten how to breathe without calculating their progress. They moved in clusters, their voices a low, jagged hum of anxiety, passing around practice assessments like they were sacred, terrifying relics. For years, you would have been part of that hum. You would have been in the library by dawn, eyes stinging from the dim light, your stomach cramping from a diet of half eaten bread and sheer willpower.

But this morning, you stepped beyond the Akademiya grounds. The Sumeru sun was generous, spilling gold across the stone pathways and warming the skin of your face. The city was a symphony of sensory details you had long ago dismissed as "distractions." There was the heady, sweet perfume of jasmine spilling from window boxes; the earthy, damp scent of the forest floor clinging to the shade of the Great Tree; the rhythmic clack clack of merchants setting up their stalls; and the sound of laughter not the brittle, forced laughter of a student relieved to have passed a quiz, but the deep, resonant sound of people simply being.

You wandered aimlessly, a ghost in a world of color. You eventually found yourself in a bustling café, a place that, a week ago, would have felt like an assault on your senses. It was loud, the clatter of porcelain and the murmur of a dozen conversations swirling around you. But instead of retreating, you ordered a proper meal warm and watched. You watched the server frantically navigate the rows of tables; an elderly scholar sip tea with a slow, meditative grace; you watched two merchants haggle with a theatrical intensity; you watched a group of students laughing so hard they nearly overturned their table.

None of them knew your name. None of them knew your rank. And for the first time, the realization didn't make you feel small

As the sun began its slow descent, painting the sky in bruised purples and molten ambers, you found yourself drawn toward the Grand Bazaar. The fountain was a centerpiece of cool, cascading light, its steady song a balm to the lingering hum of the day. And there, leaning against the polished stone of the fountain with a composure that seemed to defy the bustling crowds, was Alhaitham.

He looked as though he had been carved from the very twilight itself. His gaze fixed on the water as if he were reading the ripples. He didn't look up as you approached, but the slight shift in his posture told you he knew exactly who was walking toward him.

"You left the Akademiya," he said as you came to a halt beside him. His voice was a low baritone, cutting through the evening air with its usual, unshakeable steadiness. It sounded almost like an accusation, though there was no bite in it.

You let a soft, wistful smile touch your lips. "It turns out the world is quite large."

"It is a fact, not a discovery," he remarked, finally turning his head to meet your eyes. His turquoise gaze was piercing, scanning your face with that unnerving, analytical precision. He paused, his eyes lingering on the healthy glow of your cheeks. "Though your heart rate seems significantly more regulated than it was yesterday. Your presence is... less frantic."

"Is that a compliment?" you teased, feeling a playful spark of energy. "Or just an observation?"

"In my case, there is rarely a difference," he replied.

A silence settled between you, but it wasn't the heavy, expectant silence of the library. It was light. Easy. You looked at the fountain, then back at him. "You're staying late. Not much studying left to do?"

"The archives are quietest at this hour," he said, though he made no move to pick up his book. Instead, he reached into the pocket of his robe. When he withdrew his hand, he held something small and vibrant between his fingers. It was a Sumeru Rose, its petals a deep purple, perfectly preserved, as if it had been plucked from a dream. He held it out to you. You blinked, the breath catching in your throat. "What is this?"

"A flower," he said, as if he were presenting a particularly uninteresting piece of logic. You let out a soft, incredulous laugh. "Thank you, Alhaitham. I would never have guessed."

You saw it then the tiniest, most infinitesimal flicker of exasperation in the corner of his eye. You reached out, your fingers brushing his as you took the bloom. The petals felt like silk against your skin. "For your desk," he added, his voice dropping an octave. "To serve as a visual reminder."

"A reminder of what?" you asked softly.

"That even the most complex and rigorous structures require periods of stillness to grow," he said, his gaze drifting toward the darkening horizon. "Constant motion without pause is merely a way to exhaust oneself before the goal is reached."

The words hit you with the force of a physical weight. It was an acknowledgment of the change he had seen in you.

"Thank you," you whispered, and the gratitude felt deep, rooted in something far more profound than academic thanks.

As the evening breeze stirred your hair, a sudden, staggering realization began to dawn on you. You looked at him and really looked at him. You saw the man you had spent years trying to outrun, the rival who had loomed over your every ambition. But as you stared at his composed profile, the memories began to shift. They began to reassemble themselves into a pattern you had been too blinded by competition to see.

You remembered a month ago, sitting in the corner of the cafeteria, staring blankly at a plate of untouched food, your mind spinning with equations until the world felt blurred. You had been so lost in your own exhaustion that you hadn't noticed him approaching. He had simply set a small, wrapped parcel of dried fruit on the edge of your table.

"You are consuming more mental energy than glucose," he had said, his voice cool and matter of fact as he walked past. "It is mathematically unsound to study on an empty stomach."

You remembered the long walks between the Grand Bazaar and the Akademiya, where you used to try and sprint to keep up with his long, purposeful strides, your lungs burning and your heart racing in a desperate attempt to match his pace. You had once stumbled, breathless, and he had stopped not to wait, but to subtly slow his gait, his shoulder brushing yours as if by accident.

"The path is not a race, even if you insist on treating it as one," he had remarked, his eyes fixed ahead, though he had stayed at your side until your breathing leveled out.

You remembered the afternoon you had nearly collapsed in the library, your arms trembling under the weight of three massive, ancient tomes. You had turned your head for a mere second to find a reference, and when you turned back, the heaviest book was gone. You had seen Alhaitham walking away toward the returns shelf, the tome tucked effortlessly under his arm.

"You were carrying more than was necessary for your current research," he had called back without looking. "Efficiency is more important than bravado."

And the small things are the quiet moments in the library where you would find a fresh sheet of high quality parchment or a specific vial of indigo ink waiting on your desk, accompanied by no note, but always appearing exactly when your own supplies had run dry.

Your grip tightened around the Sumeru Rose. For years, you had believed you were the one paying attention. You had been the one tracking scores, measuring distances, and watching his every move with the eyes of a rival. But now, the truth was undeniable. While you had been staring at his back, trying desperately to catch him, he had been glancing over his shoulder to make sure you were still there. He hadn't just been observing your progress; He had been watching you. He hadn't been running the same race; he had been standing at the finish line, waiting for you to realize that you didn't need to run so hard to reach him.

Your heart gave a small, rhythmic thud against your ribs not the panicked thud of a student, but the steady, warm pulse of a person who was finally, truly, seeing the world for the first time.

The present rushed back into focus. Heat crept into your face as you looked at him. "You've been watching me." 

For perhaps the first time all evening, the unshakeable composure of Alhaitham faltered. It was a microscopic shift, a momentary stillness in his breathing, a slight tightening of his gaze but to you, it was as loud as a shout. He didn't look away, though.

"‘Watching’ is an imprecise term," he countered, though the clinical edge of his voice lacked its usual bite.

You laughed, a soft, melodic sound that seemed to dance on the evening breeze. "Of course you'd say that."

"Observation is the basis of all knowledge," he replied, leaning back slightly. "If you intend to truly understand a subject, you must first observe it in its natural state, without the interference of your own biases."

The words were characteristically Alhaitham: logical, measured, and draped in a layer of intellectual detachment. Yet, as they hung in the air between you, they felt devastatingly intimate. Beneath the academic jargon was a truth that made your pulse quicken: he had been studying you.

His gaze drifted downward, settling on the dried Sumeru Rose cradled in your palm. For a long moment, the world seemed to recede. The bustling chatter of the Sumeru plaza, the distant calls of merchants, even the rhythmic splashing of the fountain it all faded into a muted hum, leaving only the two of you in a pocket of sudden, heavy stillness.

"You spent years assuming I viewed you as competition," he said quietly.

The words caught in your throat, stealing the breath from your lungs. You felt an instinctive need to defend yourself, to reclaim the pride you had worn like armor for so long. "I never said that," you countered, though the defense felt thin even to your own ears.

"No," Alhaitham agreed, his voice as steady as the stone beneath your feet. "You simply decided it for both of us."

A sharp retort sat on the tip of your tongue— a witty jab about his arrogance but it died there. It was a realization that stung more than an insult because it was undeniably true. You had built a wall of rivalry to protect yourself, and he had simply walked right through it.

He turned his head, his eyes following the shimmering arc of the fountain’s water. "Most discussions within the Akademiya are predictable," he mused, his tone shifting into that familiar, analytical cadence.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden pivot. "Predictable?"

"Most scholars are interested in being correct," he said, his gaze remaining fixed on the water. "Very few are interested in understanding why they might be wrong." He paused, and the evening breeze stirred the dark strands of his hair, a rare moment of softness in his rigid silhouette. "You were."

The words landed with a quiet, devastating weight. It wasn't a critique of your intellect, but an observation of your soul.

"You challenged arguments that everyone else accepted as gospel," he continued, his voice low and rhythmic. "You questioned conclusions that professors considered settled. Whenever I thought I had reached the end of a subject, you were there, finding the one thread worth pulling." He paused, and for a fleeting second, he sounded almost reluctant, as if he were admitting a secret he hadn't intended to share. "It was... useful."

A startled, breathless laugh escaped you. "There it is."

He turned his gaze back to you, his expression perfectly, maddeningly serious.”There is what?"

"The Alhaitham version of a compliment," you teased, though your heart was racing. "The highest praise a man of logic can bestow."

"It wasn't intended as a compliment," he corrected, though his eyes narrowed slightly, a tell-tale sign that he was aware of the effect he was having on you.

You smiled, leaning into the warmth of the moment. For once, you didn't feel the need to win the argument. You didn't need to be right; you just needed to be heard.

Alhaitham was the first to look away, his gaze drifting back toward the city lights. "When you began treating every conversation as a contest," he continued, his voice dropping an octave, "I assumed it was a temporary phase. A symptom of ambition."

The warmth in your chest faltered, replaced by a sudden, sharp ache. "But it wasn't."

"You stopped arguing because you enjoyed the learning," he said, his words precise, surgical, cutting through your defenses with terrifying ease. "Instead, you started arguing because you were trying to prove something. You were trying to bridge a gap that didn't actually exist."

Silence settled between you, heavy and profound. He was right. Again. It was exhausting, and yet, there was a strange comfort in it: the comfort of being truly known.

"You kept trying to become someone else," he said, his voice barely a whisper now, stripped of its usual academic armor. "And frankly... It was disappointing."

The word hit you like a physical blow. "Disappointing?" you breathed, staring at him in disbelief.

For a heartbeat, the mask slipped. A flash of something raw, something almost vulnerable, crossed his features a shadow of regret, or perhaps a longing he couldn't quite name. It was gone in an instant, replaced by his usual composure, but the impact remained.

"The person you already were," he said, his eyes locking onto yours with an intensity that made the world stand still, "was far more interesting."

A profound silence fell over the plaza. You looked down at the flower in your hand. Its petals were fragile, yet it had been preserved with such care that it remained whole. A week ago, you might have seen only a withered plant. Now, you saw the intent behind it. 

A small, knowing smile tugged at your lips, born of a warmth that had nothing to do with the weather.

Alhaitham noticed immediately. He always did. "And what conclusion have you arrived at?" he asked, his eyes searching yours with an uncharacteristic hint of curiosity.

You closed your fingers carefully around the rose, shielding the delicate petals. The answer sat warmly in your chest, a realization so new and so personal that to speak it aloud felt like it might break the spell.

"It's a secret," you whispered.

A pause followed. Then, Alhaitham let out a long, slow sigh. It wasn't the sigh of an irritated man, but one of quiet resignation, as if he had predicted this exact moment of sentimental defiance.

"You realize," he said, his tone dry but fond, "that withholding information from a scholar is exceptionally cruel."

You laughed again, the sound light and free. "Consider it repayment."

"For what?"

"For making me figure it out all by myself," you teased, your rose colored eyes bright with a newfound clarity.

The corner of his mouth lifted. It was a tiny movement, a mere ghost of a smile that vanished almost as quickly as it appeared, but this time, you didn't let it escape you. You caught it, held it in your memory, and realized that in the quiet language of glances and dried flowers, you had finally learned how to read him.

Alhaitham didn't answer immediately. He pushed himself away from the polished stone, straightening with unhurried ease. "The light will be optimal for reading in the west wing of the Akademiya in about an hour," he said calmly. "If you're still free by then, you may join me." 

The final day the eve of the examinations arrived with a strange slice.

It was a quiet that existed only within you, because the Akademiya itself was anything but still. Anxious energy clung to every hallway and lecture chamber like a thick, humid mist. The air was heavy with the scent of old parchment and the frantic, ozone-like tang of desperation. Students rushed between classes, their footsteps a staccato rhythm of panic, clutching stacks of notes to their chests as if the paper itself could shield them from failure. Study groups occupied every available surface; frantic, hushed whispers followed you through the corridors like the buzzing of insects. You passed a student in the hall, eyes bloodshot and trembling, desperately trying to cram three months of botanical theory into a single afternoon. Another sat on a stone bench, staring blankly at the sky, looking moments away from praying directly to the Dendro Archon for a miracle.

The atmosphere was so saturated with tension that it felt tangible, a pressure against your skin. A week ago, you would have been a part of that frantic tide. You would have been the one carrying twice as many books as necessary, your shoulders aching under the weight of unnecessary preparation. You would have skipped lunch to shave ten minutes off a review session; you would have skipped dinner to chase a fleeting thought; you would have sacrificed sleep to the altar of "just one more hour." You would have convinced yourself that a single, extra moment of cramming could be the difference between existence and insignificance.

But now, as you navigated the crowded halls, the desperation felt oddly distant. It was as if you were watching a storm from behind a thick pane of glass. You could see the lightning, you could hear the thunder, but you were no longer being drenched by the rain.

It wasn't that you didn't care. 

The examinations still mattered; you had poured your soul into your studies, and you wanted the results to reflect that. But the fear had loosened its grip, transforming from a suffocating shroud into something smaller, something manageable. It was no longer a monster waiting to consume you whole; it was merely a quiet companion, a reminder of the stakes, but one that no longer dictated your every breath.

When night finally settled over Sumeru, you found yourself sitting by the open window of your room. The rainforest stretched endlessly beyond the city walls, a vast, breathing ocean of dark green bathed in the ethereal silver of the moonlight. The sounds of the night drifted inward through the cool air, the rhythmic, distant chirping of insects, the soft rustle of leaves, the gentle murmur of the wind moving through the canopy. You rested your arms on the windowsill, watching the moon climb its slow, celestial arc.

Behind you, your notes remained untouched on your desk. The sight felt almost absurd, a quiet rebellion against years of habit. For so long, the night before an exam had followed a ritual of madness: panic, review, panic, more review. A desperate, cyclical attempt to memorize information you already knew, as though the sheer volume of data could act as a shield against the unknown.

Tonight, the books remained closed because there was nothing left to prove. The work was done. 

Your gaze drifted to the desk. The dried Sumeru Rose rested beside your neatly organized notes, its preserved petals glowing softly under the moonlight. You smiled, thinking of how different that desk had looked a week ago. It had been a battlefield of half finished notes, spilled ink, and cold, forgotten tea. Now, it simply looked like a desk.

And as you looked at the flower, your thoughts drifted, as they inevitably did, to him.

Alhaitham.

The name no longer stirred that sharp, jagged tension in your chest. The bitterness was gone, replaced by a warmth that felt like sunlight on skin. You found yourself remembering the small, quiet things: the way he had handed you a parcel of bread and honey when he noticed your hands shaking; the stillness of a bench beneath a tree; the silent, knowing nod in the library; the ghost of a smile by the fountain. These weren't just moments; they were proof. Proof that someone had seen you long before you had learned how to see yourself.

For years, you had treated your rivalry with him as the defining epic of your life—the impossible mountain you had to climb, the finish line you had to cross. You had lived in the shadow of his intellect, constantly measuring your worth by how close you could stand to his light.

And then, the thought arrived the one that had been hovering at the edge of your mind all evening.

What if tomorrow comes, and the rankings are released, and he is first... and I am second?

In the past, that thought would have been a catastrophe. It would have felt like a personal failure, a sign that you were still "lesser," still chasing a shadow you could never catch. You would have felt the sting of being the runner up, the child who was talented but never quite enough.

But as you sat in the moonlight, the thought felt different. If you were second, you would still be you.

You would still be the person who loved the intricacies of ancient philosophy. You would still be the person who found beauty in the way the light hit the rainforest leaves. Being second wouldn't erase the hours of study, the growth of your mind, or the strength of your spirit. The ranking was a number on a parchment; it wasn't the sum of your soul.

For the first time, you realized that the competition had never been about beating him. It had been about finding yourself. And in the process of chasing his excellence, you had discovered your own.

You liked the person you had become in the pursuit. You liked your curiosity, your stubbornness, and your resilience. You liked that you were no longer just a collection of scores and achievements. You were a person of depth, of passion, and of quiet, steady strength.

The examinations would come tomorrow. 

The results would be posted. 

But as you watched the moon, you knew that no matter what name was written on that list, you had already won. And for the first time, the view was beautiful.

The examinations came, as they always did, a whirlwind of ink, parchment, and grueling mental exertion. Hundreds of scholars sat hunched over their desks, their shadows stretching long and thin as the sunlight crawled sluggishly across the stone floors. The air was thick with the palpable tension of a thousand minds straining against the limits of their own understanding. Questions demanded more than just rote memorization. They demanded the soul of a scholar: theories, intricate formulas, subtle interpretations, and the courage to build an argument from nothing.

The exams were not easier if anything, the complexity of the final papers had been staggering but you met them as yourself. You studied, yes but you studied with a new kind of clarity. You slept when your body demanded it. You ate when the sun was high. You no longer chased him like a shadow.

The difference was nothing short of miraculous. Problems that once felt like impenetrable thickets of logic began to unravel. Connections that used to require hours of agonizing labor emerged with a natural clarity. You realized, with a profound sense of clarity, that a sharp mind required care just as surely as any fine blade required maintenance.

When the final parchment was collected and the last quill was set aside. You felt content.

The results arrived several days later, and as was the tradition of the Akademiya, the institution descended into a beautiful, chaotic madness. Before the sun had even cleared the canopy, students were swarming the central plaza, their voices rising in a cacophony of excitement and dread. Rumors spread through the hallways like wildfire, faster than any official decree.

You watched the commotion from the periphery, leaning against a cool stone pillar. As you moved toward the center, the sea of students parted, though not entirely. Fragments of frantic conversation drifted past you like autumn leaves.

"Did you see the scores? The linguistics section was brutal!"

"The top rankings are absolutely ridiculous this year... "

"How is that even possible? He didn't even look like he was trying!"

"I swear, Alhaitham isn't even human.."

A small, amused huff escaped you. Some things, it seemed, were as constant as the stars.

Finally, you reached the front. The official parchment hung neatly against the wooden board, a stark list of names and numbers that had once dictated your every waking thought. Your eyes traveled upward, almost by instinct, toward the summit of the list.

First: Alhaitham.

The margin was even smaller than before. A mere whisper of a difference. A smile touched your lips not a bitter one, not a wounded one, but something warm and almost fond. 

 Of course it was him. 

You could almost see the slight, satisfied tilt of his head as he read it. You imagined the insufferable, quiet dignity he would maintain, as if being the best in the Akademiya was as mundane as breathing.

Then, your gaze drifted down.

Second: Y/N L/N

The margin between you was almost laughably small. It was a difference measured in whispers, in the tiniest fractions of a point a gap so narrow it was practically a bridge. In the past, seeing this would have been a catastrophe. You would have dissected every missed nuance, every slightly flawed argument, and spent weeks mourning the "what ifs." But now, all you felt was a surge of genuine, unadulterated pride. You weren't just close to him; you were standing right there with him, not as a shadow, but as a peer.

A quiet, breathless laugh escaped you, surprising even yourself. It was the sound of someone who had finally realized the race was over, and that the prize was much better than a rank.

"It seems the margin is shrinking."

The voice was low, steady, and vibrated with a familiar resonance that made the fine hairs on your arms stand up. You didn't need to turn around. Only one person in the entire Akademiya possessed the ability to move through a crowd like a ghost, arriving with such effortless, quiet authority.

Alhaitham stepped up beside you. He didn't look at the board. He didn't look at his own name, which sat at the very top like a crown. His attention was entirely, singularly fixed on you. His gaze was observant, sweeping over your face with that characteristic, analytical intensity, as if he were reading a text more complex than any ancient scroll.

The margin was even smaller than before. A mere whisper of a difference.

As you stepped away from the board, a familiar presence materialized beside you. Alhaitham didn't look at the rankings; he didn't need to. He looked at you, his gaze sweeping over your calm expression and the steady light in your eyes.

"You look well," he noted, his voice as cool and steady as the Sumeru breeze.

The words were simple, stripped of any grandiosity, yet they carried a weight that no "congratulations" ever could. He was seeing the light in your eyes, the lack of tension in your shoulders, the way you finally occupied your own skin without looking for permission. He was saying: You look like you have finally found your way back to yourself.

The smile lingering on your lips widened, bright and teasing. "And you look far too satisfied with yourself," you countered, tilting your head to meet his gaze. "Is the view from the top as lonely as they say, or are you just enjoying the ego boost?"

His eyebrow lifted, a subtle, elegant movement that signaled his amusement. "The view is quite standard," he replied, his voice dropping to that private, intimate register. "But the company... the company has become significantly more interesting."

You stared at him, your breath hitching in the small, charged space between you. Alhaitham met your gaze with an expression as unreadable as a closed tome, yet the corner of his mouth twitched a microscopic movement that wasn't quite a smile, but was far too intentional to be mere muscle fatigue.

Around you, the Akademiya was a cacophony of post examination chaos. Students surged around the notice board like frantic waves crashing against a stubborn rock, their voices rising in a fever pitch of jubilant celebrations, bitter complaints, and the frantic scratching of quills as they compared scores. Yet, despite the roar of the crowd, the space beside Alhaitham felt strangely insulated, as if he carried a silent, invisible perimeter that kept the world at bay. Perhaps he always had. Perhaps you were simply the only one who knew how to step inside it.

For years, you had stood before these rankings feeling a crushing sense of vertigo, as if the distance between first and second place was a vast, unbridgeable canyon. But looking at the parchment now, the gap seemed almost laughably small. A mere fraction of a point. A handful of marks a difference so insignificant that a casual observer would have missed it entirely. Your eyes drifted back to the top of the list, tracing the ink.

First: Alhaitham.

Second: Y/N L/N

The sight should have been a familiar ache, a reminder of the summit you couldn't quite reach. Instead, a warmth bloomed in your chest, steady and bright. "You know," you said, your voice thoughtful and surprisingly light, "I used to think seeing your name above mine was the worst thing imaginable."

Alhaitham folded his arms, his posture relaxed yet commanding. "And now?"

You paused, actually considering the weight of the years behind you, the sleepless nights, the frantic studying, the desperate need to be enough. The answer surprised even you. "Now? Now I think there are probably worse things."

"Such as?" he prompted, his tone dry, inviting the challenge.

"Being Kaveh," you countered without a second of hesitation.

The reaction was instantaneous. Alhaitham looked away, but for one glorious, fleeting second, you saw a genuine flash of amusement dance across his features. "You aren't wrong," he conceded. “You aren't wrong," he conceded, his voice carrying a rare note of agreement.

"You said that remarkably fast," you teased, a playful glint in your eyes. "Usually, you'd at least argue."

"Why argue against empirical evidence?" he replied, turning his gaze back to you. "It would be an inefficient use of energy."

A laugh escaped you, a bright, clear sound that seemed to settle the restless air around you. As the sound faded, you noticed Alhaitham relax almost imperceptibly. Most people would have missed the subtle softening of his shoulders, but you had spent years studying not just his intellect, but his silences. You realized then that the rivalry hadn't been a solo performance. You had assumed the fierce, quiet desperation belonged only to you, but looking at him now, you understood. It had mattered to him, too. Not because he craved the vanity of the ranking, but because you had become a constant in his world, the one voice capable of complicating his logic, the one presence that made the silence of his solitude feel less absolute.

"You know," you said, crossing your arms and tilting your chin up with a newfound, gentle defiance, "one day, I am going to beat you."

"I know."

The sheer, unshakeable certainty in his voice caught you off guard. You frowned, searching his teal eyes for even a hint of doubt, a flicker of competitive heat. "You're supposed to disagree! That's how a rivalry works. You're supposed to defend your position."

Alhaitham looked genuinely puzzled, as if you had just proposed a mathematically impossible theorem. "That seems counterproductive. If you are destined to surpass me, why waste breath pretending otherwise?"

You threw your hands up in exasperation, though the smile on your face betrayed you. "Archons, you are utterly hopeless. There is no winning an argument with you."

"And yet," he countered, his gaze steady and uncomfortably perceptive, "you have spent years competing with me. One has to wonder if you simply enjoy the pursuit."

He had you there again. You hated how he could turn your own history against you, stripping away your defenses with nothing but a few well placed words. But as you stood there in the sun drenched plaza, you realized he was right. You did enjoy it. 

The afternoon sun filtered through the grand, arched windows of the Akademiya, casting long, golden honey streaks across the floor. Somewhere in the distance, a group of scholars erupted into a chorus of either triumph or despair, but you didn't care to look. For the first time, you didn't feel trapped by the results.

You glanced one last time at the list. Second place. The position that had haunted your dreams and stolen your sleep, a constant reminder of a summit you could never quite touch. Now, It no longer looked like a mark of inadequacy; it looked like a stepping stone. You were growing, and the distance was shrinking. And certainly, the view was much better when first place was occupied by an insufferable scholar who had recently taken to ensuring you were and subtly reminding you to sleep.

"You're smiling," Alhaitham observed, his voice a low hum, cutting through the ambient nose of the hall.

You immediately scowled, trying to reclaim your dignity with a sharp tilt of your chin. "No, I am not."

"You are."

"I am most certainly not."

"You are."

"Alhaitham"

"Y/N"

The way he mimicked your indignant cadence was so deadpan, so utterly unexpected and devoid of mocking yet brimming with a teasing intent, that you nearly lost your composure again. You narrowed your eyes at him, but he remained entirely unapologetic, looking as though he had just delivered a flawless lecture. Then, his expression shifted, settling into something purposeful. 

"Come." he said.

You blinked, caught off guard. "Where?"

"Lunch."

"I am perfectly capable of buying my own lunch," you countered, though your stomach betrayed you with a small, hungry traitorous twitch.

"I am well aware of your capabilities." he replied, his tone implying that your independence was a fact he respected, but one that was currently irrelevant.

"Then why are you inviting me?"

Without waiting for a formal acceptance, Alhaitham began walking down the grand steps, his stride purposeful. You hesitated for a moment, considering the satisfaction of leaving him to his solitude. Before you could decide, he glanced over his shoulder. It was only a single, brief look, but it was enough to pull you in.

"Besides," he added, his voice carrying back to you over the din of the hall, "if you truly intend to surpass me one day, you will need to remain conscious long enough to actually do it."

For years, you had operated under a fundamental misunderstanding. You had believed your story with Alhaitham was a war of attrition— a relentless, exhausting climb toward a peak defined by numbers, rankings, and the cold prestige of the Akademiya. You thought it was about the singular, desperate need to prove your worth by eclipsing his.

But as you fell into step beside him, the rhythm of your footsteps syncing with his steady, unhurried stride, the truth settled in your heart with a quiet, profound clarity.

The rankings were transient. 

They would shift like the desert sands next semester, next year, perhaps not for a decade. Yet, for the first time in your life, the uncertainty didn’t feel like a threat as a warm, lingering thought bloomed in your mind: Second place isn't so bad. Not when first place is walking beside you for lunch.

As the two of you merged into the vibrant flow of students spilling through the walkways, your gaze drifted toward him. You watched the way the sunlight caught the sharp lines of his profile, and you felt a pang of retrospective embarrassment.

How wrong you had been.

For years, you had misread his silence as arrogance. You had mistaken his detachment for a lofty sense of superiority, assuming that the reason he remained unruffled by the chaos of academic competition was that he viewed the world and the people in it as beneath his notice. 

You thought he was indifferent to the very things that defined your existence: the struggle, the ambition, the desperate need to be seen.

But the illusion had shattered in quiet spaces between your heated debates, in the hushed hours of late night study sessions, and in the simple, unexpected kindness of a parcel of warm bread wrapped carefully in cloth left on your desk.

Alhaitham had never been indifferent. He simply valued a different currency.

While the rest of the Darshan chased the fleeting glitter of prestige, he chased the deep, resonant marrow of understanding. While others clamored for the roar of recognition, he sought the quietude of peace.

You remembered the lectures the way he would receive the rapturous praise of professors with nothing more than a singular, dismissive nod before returning to his book. You remembered how he would slip away from the celebratory banquets before the toasts even began, seemingly irritated by the way people treated his mind as a monument rather than a tool. You had assumed it was because he felt he was above it all. Now, you realized the truth was much more grounded: he already knew exactly who he was. He didn't need a scroll to validate his existence.

He wasn't ahead of everyone else because he was faster or smarter; he was ahead because while the rest of the world was running a frantic, exhausting race, Alhaitham had quietly, calmly, chosen his own destination.

A small, involuntary smile tugged at your lips, born of a sudden, profound affection for the man beside you.

"You've done that three times now."

The voice was low and deadpan, pulling you back to the present. You blinked, realizing Alhaitham was watching you, his gaze fixed on your face with that unnerving focus.

"Done what?" you asked, trying to reclaim your composure, though your heart was still racing from the weight of your own thoughts’

"Smiled at nothing."

"I wasn't smiling at nothing," you countered, though your cheeks felt a faint, roseate warmth creeping into your cheeks.

"Then what were you smiling at?" he prompted, his eyes narrowing slightly, as if he were attempting to solve a particularly complex equation.

You paused, looking at him.

 You looked at the man who had been the center of your frustration, the architect your rivalry, and the catalyst of your growth. The scholar who had become the most vital and unshakeable constant in your life. You shook your head, a soft laugh escaping you.

"If I told you,” you said, your voice dropping to a playful whisper, “your ego would become truly unbearable."

"I find that unlikely," he replied, his expression remaining perfectly neutral, thoughthere was a tell-tale glimmer of something bright— something warm lingering in his eyes

As you reached the bustling heartof the Grand Bazaar, the smells of spices and street food wafted around you, pulling you back into the noise of the living world. Alhaitham led you away from the main thoroughfare, navigating the crowds with his usual effortless grace, until you reached a small, quiet cafe, tucked away. As you sat down across from him, you felt a final, lingering tension dissolve. The crushing pressure to be perfect—the need to be the singular, untouchable summit had finally lifted.

"I still plan on beating you," you said, leaning back in your chair and watching him with a newfound, calm determination. Your gaze steady and devoid of the old, frantic desperation

Alhaitham opened the menu, his eyes dancing with a rare, subtle spark of challenge. "I look forward to it,” he replied, his voice smooth and unhurried. “But for now," he gestured towards a passing waiter, "I suggest we start with something light. You look as though you might faint if you try to eat a full meal."

You reached across the table and playfully kicked his boot with your own. "I'm fine."

"Of course," he murmured, his gaze meeting yours, his expression softening just enough to betray his amusement. "And I'm convinced you're not. It seems we have reached a stalemate."

"Fine," you conceded, a genuine, melodic laugh bubbling up from your chest. "A stalemate. For now."

The two of you sat in the warmth of the afternoon sun, two rivals who had finally found something more valuable than a perfect score. As the shadows began to lengthen and the city hummed its evening song around you, a profound sense of peace settled over you. You knew that the rankings would continue to change and the seasons would turn; but the person sitting across from you— the man who watched your struggle and waited for you to catch up was the only constant that truly mattered.

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

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

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

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

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

and you keep clicking the shutter button—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

gojo clears his throat.

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

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

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

oh right, gojo rubs his neck in disappointment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“can you get my good side next time—“

“why did you—“

“can you—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“cut it out.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“ten more laps!”

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

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

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

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

coach toji doesn’t move.

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

then he looks over his shoulder.

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

your heart stutters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you were gone.

s-s-s-sweetheart!?

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

and he finds it adorable.

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

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

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

“I’ll try an’ wink next time.”

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

“she’s too young for ya, coach!”

“get someone y’er own age!”

“coach, the shy ones are the freakiest!”

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

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

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

fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

well fuck me.

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

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

you nod, enthusiastically.

god, you were a cutie.

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

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

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

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

“can I try takin’ a pic?”

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

“good?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a model?!

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

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

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

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

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

he’s definitely checking you out.

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

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

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

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

“oh.”

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

“did ya’ submit these too, sweetheart?”

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

this can’t be happening!

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

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

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

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

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

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

your eyes are wide, glancing at your camera.

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

he snorts, head tilting, “you swear?”

you nod frantically.

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

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

“no, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“you’ve gotten some photos man—“

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

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

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

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

“don’t call me that.”

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

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

“let me fucking finish will you—“

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

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

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

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

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

that also means you can see….coach toji.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“the fuck are you guys doing?”

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

“coach always showers before or after our games.”

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

—

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

so this isn’t new territory.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

coach toji, in a suit.

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

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

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

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

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

“photographers only, please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“coach with sukuna,” the manager says.

toji steps forward.

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

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

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

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

why does he keep doing that?!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“right, sweetheart?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“how wet are you right now?”

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

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

gojo blushes, “I love mean girls.”

you roll your eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“so?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

not just on the field…but off it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“no locker room access.”

your jaw tightens immediately irritation flaring hot and sharp.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it’s almost satisfying. almost.

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

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

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

“what’re you talking about?”

“deal’s off.”

huh?!????

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

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

they do care.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it doesn’t matter…

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

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

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

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

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

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

“agreed.”

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

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

“I know…”

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

“I know…”

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

“I know.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you don’t want to make eye contact.

“how?!!”

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

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

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

shoko is getting second hand embarrassment, “dude.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“you didn’t win,” you shrug, cold.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“hey—“

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

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

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

“it literally does though!”

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

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

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

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

“is this your first time being threatened—“

“the fuck.”

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

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

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

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

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

geto scowls, rubbing his back in pain.

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

“she was shouting at me!”

“so what!?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“i told security not to allow any outsiders.”

your heart drops.

“including you.”

oh shit.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“don’t be upset.”

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

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

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

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

he does.

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

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

“we can talk.”

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

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

pull yourself together…

you nod. cute.

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

“sure.”

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

“what…”

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

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

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

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

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

“hey!”

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

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

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

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

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

“WHAT?!”

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

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

“cute?” geto frowns.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I feel bad.”

your heart stops.

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

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

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

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

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

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

what?!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ding.

your eyes widen as toji pays instead.

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

“as if I’d let you pay,” he snorts.

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

“how come?”

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

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

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

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

“….next time.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your eyes go wide. stomach flipping.

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

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

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

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

his words cut the minute your lips press against his.

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

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

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

you do.

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

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

then, his lips part.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your freeze.

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

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

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

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

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

“ten.”

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

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

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

“I’m an easy target.”

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

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

“three older brothers,” you nod.

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

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

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

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

you nod.

“I’ll see ya’ sweetheart.”

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

—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your lips purse, brow quirking. “yeah…”

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

“they still bothering you?”

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

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

you smile, “okay.”

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

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

“I’ll c’ya after.” he winks.

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

toji….toji toji toji—

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

you snap a shot.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

his eyes narrow again, “no.”

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

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

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

a single curtain is closed. shower running.

“coach toji?” your voice echos.

there a beat of silence, then…

“that you, sweetheart?”

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

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

“sweetheart?”

you jump. “yeah?”

“you gonna come in?”

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

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

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

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

what’re you doing, seriously?

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

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

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

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

you’re so close.

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

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

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

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

“hi.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

his hand nudges your thigh. “jump.”

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

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

“because I kept ya out during halftime.”

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

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

“that one time.”

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

this time you kiss me.

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

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

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

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

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

it really is too much for your obsessed brain.

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

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

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

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

“you want a good fucking princess?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I won’t!”

he snorts. “it’s okay if you do.”

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

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

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

so he’s all in right now.

“deep breath, sweetheart.”

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

“shit!—“

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

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

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

“angh!—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you were fucked dumb.

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

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

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

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

anothet sharp spank takes your breath away.

toji is at a loss.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

toji blinks.

then he does the worst thing ever.

he laughs.

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

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

god, you’re fucking hot.

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

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

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

“so you just wanted pictures of my dick?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

but then toji smirks. “ecstatic.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

your face burns hotter. weeks?!

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

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

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

“like what?”

“like you know things.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

that was the start of all of it.

three months later….

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

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

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

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

“toji!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

it was clear as day.

you’re his.

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

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

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

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

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

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

and you keep clicking the shutter button—

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

gojo clears his throat.

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

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

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

oh right, gojo rubs his neck in disappointment.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“can you get my good side next time—“

“why did you—“

“can you—“

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“cut it out.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“ten more laps!”

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

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

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

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

coach toji doesn’t move.

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

then he looks over his shoulder.

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

your heart stutters.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you were gone.

s-s-s-sweetheart!?

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

and he finds it adorable.

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

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

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

“I’ll try an’ wink next time.”

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

“she’s too young for ya, coach!”

“get someone y’er own age!”

“coach, the shy ones are the freakiest!”

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

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

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

fuck.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

well fuck me.

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

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

you nod, enthusiastically.

god, you were a cutie.

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

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

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

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

“can I try takin’ a pic?”

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

“good?” he asks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

a model?!

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

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

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

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

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

he’s definitely checking you out.

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

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

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

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

“oh.”

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

“did ya’ submit these too, sweetheart?”

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

this can’t be happening!

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

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

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

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

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

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

your eyes are wide, glancing at your camera.

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

he snorts, head tilting, “you swear?”

you nod frantically.

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

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

“no, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“you’ve gotten some photos man—“

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

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

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

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

“don’t call me that.”

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

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

“let me fucking finish will you—“

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

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

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

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

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

that also means you can see….coach toji.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“the fuck are you guys doing?”

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

“coach always showers before or after our games.”

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

—

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

so this isn’t new territory.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

coach toji, in a suit.

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

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

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

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

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

“photographers only, please.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“coach with sukuna,” the manager says.

toji steps forward.

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

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

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

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

why does he keep doing that?!

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

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

“okay, we’re good,” the manager calls.

the team breaks, the players disperse, but toji stays put for a beat longer, adjusting his sleeve, posture relaxed again, unreadable.

you lower your camera only when it’s over, breath leaving you in a quiet rush you didn’t realize you were holding. you don’t see him glance at you when you step back to check your photos. you also don’t notice the small, satisfied curve of his mouth.

not until you’re feeling a gentle, firm, hand on your waist, and a low voice right against your ear, “say hi next time. you’re not a stranger anymore.”

your body immediately catches on fire, eyes snapping to the man like a magnet, heart slamming against your ribs as you watch him pull back, emerald eyes meeting yours.

“right, sweetheart?”

your face stings, as you nod quickly, heat pooling deep in your stomach, feeling his thumb caress your hip over your shirt. your lips part, mind dizzy as you glance as his strong forearms, he’s towering over you, slightly leaning down to speak to you in quiet whispers.

“I’ll see c’ya tomorrow, yeah,” he gives your waist a squeeze as he greets you with a kiss to your cheek like some gentleman. then he walks away. and if you weren’t a mess before, the casual glance he shoots over his shoulder has a third arrow piercing your heart.

you couldn’t contain it anymore. you were consumed by this man. every waking thought was spent daydreaming about him— his voice, his eyes, his hands, his demeanor. it was intoxicating.

all for you to show up in the lockerroom, the next day, hours before the match. the team is either dressed in their uniforms, or still shirtless, huddling around the white board as they prep for the game.

geto was the second to notice you, after gojo. both their eyes twinkling as they walk up to you. “they gave you the pass,” geto nods to the press badge around your neck.

you nod, glancing around the lockerroom. it felt tense, the aura suspenseful as the time ticks closer to when they walk onto the pitch.

“get your vip shots, but you better get my photo,” geto hushes in your ear.

“and mine!” gojo blurts, just as a certain coach is stepping out of the steam.

and you feel it. the towel wrapped low around his waist, skin still slick with water that traces unhurried paths down his sculpted torso. his hair is darker when it’s wet, heavier, droplets slide from it and disappear along the hard lines of his shoulders.

your eyes catch his muscles moving when he walks, hard mass, that shifts beneath skin without effort. you swallow thickly, body heating up, stomach fluttering as you catch the trail of dark coarse hair leading down from his navel, and disappearing beneath the towel. your eyes follow it to the bulge you know is under there. your cheeks sting at the thought of it.

you were utterly shameless. as if the two men standing beside aren’t still talking to you. but they immediately recognize the shift in your attitude and notice the steam leaving your face. gojo stifles a laugh, as geto sighs. you’re hopeless.

your eyes follow the scars you’ve never seen before. the old pale marks catch the light, etched across his side, his pecs, and back, proof of some life before this one. then he turns just enough and your heart stutters, and your panties soak.

ink blooms along his ribs where the towel dips. the tattoos are sharp and intimate, black against his skin that’s still flushed from the heat. you’ve photographed him dozens of times, from every angle, but you’ve never seen a peak of a tattoo.

“how wet are you right now?”

the comment snaps you back, glaring straight at the crystal ocean eyes narrowed in amusement.

“don’t talk to me like that,” you huff, “I’m working.” your attitude really is night and day when it comes to anyone else and toji.

gojo blushes, “I love mean girls.”

you roll your eyes.

“what’re you two doing? get the fuck over here,” sukuna snaps.

the team huddles as the fifteen minute timer starts. and that’s what you should be photographing, but instead you glance back. toji is now pulling up his pants, wet hair still dripping down the expanse of his back. his eyes catch yours for a second, gaze flicking to your camera, taunting…

his hand subtly cups his crotch, squeezing his girth just to present you with a size, one that has your lips parting with a shaky exhale, heart pounding as you glance between his emerald eyes and the way his forearms flex when he fixes the waistband of his boxers, pulling the material down just a bit that you catch more of the thick patch of hair at his base seeing a peak of it, before he’s fixing himself again.

and once he zips his pants up, glancing at the team as they huddle for some words from the captain before coach steps in, toji walks to you. just a few feet away, your eyes widen in surprise, heart stuttering as you watch him lean down to greet you with a kiss to your cheek, again!

he’s acting like you’re familiar even though this is just your third interaction with him…but maybe you are…

“thought I told you to say hi next time,” he says against your ear, pulling away.

your face heats up, “you were….changing.”

“so?”

you gulp, eyes flicking between his, heart pounding. he’s so close. your breath catches when his scent hits your nose, sandalwood, oak and something deeper under it. his stubble is darker than yesterday, rougher along his jaw, and you realize you’ve been staring for too long when the heat creeps up your neck.

he doesn’t move away though, he stands beside you, attention forward on sukuna as he speaks. focused, and so aware of you’re attention he has to hold back a smirk. and maybe he doesn’t mind messing with you, so his hand remains at your lower back, light, almost absent, but there.

your stomach flips, attention gone. you try to listen, you do. sukuna is talking about positioning, about discipline, about not getting sloppy or something and the room is locking in around you, everyone leaning in. these would be great photos—but all you can think about is how close he is.

how his hand hasn’t moved, every small shift makes your pulse jump. you keep your eyes forward. you don’t trust yourself to look at him again.

and that gives toji the opportunity to take you in. his pupils dilate just a fraction as his gaze travels down your body. his eyes zero in on the multiple open buttons of your tight dress shirt. you’re not even hiding yourself, and the sliver of skin that peaks between your pants and shirt doesn’t help.

his hand remains over your clothes, heat settling in his stomach when you take a deeper breath and your tits push up, and his eyes shamelessly look down your shirt from his towering height. fuck, he wants a look at that pretty ass too—

“coach! you’re up!” sukuna’s voice cuts through everything, snapping toji back. your gaze whips with it, catching him off guard as you wait for his next move like anything he touches is gold.

he controls himself, giving your waist that same squeeze before his hand leaves you just like that.

you push down the feeling that hits immediately, sharp and cold. but now you can finally breathe properly when he steps away. he moves past the players without rushing — a few of the boys let their eyes roam over you— toji adjusts his sleeve ignoring the feeling bubbling up when he notices them. and then he’s at the front.

he doesn’t raise his voice, doesn’t need to now, but he usually gets to that point around the halfway mark. but this was the first time you’re seeing him speak in private…and when he speaks, they all listen—every single one of them.

gojo notices, gossip second nature to him. but the quick glance your way already has a grin tugging at his mouth before he nudges geto. geto follows his gaze, then sukuna does too, just briefly—and it’s obvious. painfully obvious. the way your expression softens, the way your attention doesn’t wavers. it’s written all over you.

“she’s actually really hot,” gojo comments.

though you wish you could stand there forever, the time finally comes for the team to head to the pitch, and that’s when the chaos begins.

not just on the field…but off it.

the press box is packed, bodies press against you shoulder to shoulder. the field below is relentless. everything fast, and aggressive, and loud enough that the noise bleeds through everything. you always forget how overstimulating and exhilarating semifinal matches are. but you remember the deal you made with the three stars.

your camera moves with them, tracking their plays, snapping multiple shots of them without hesitation, and then catching the moment when things go wrong...

sukuna gets taken down hard during a penalty shot—and there’s no whistle. no call.

you’re already shooting when the other team pushes, then scores, and the stadium erupts, but sukuna is on his feet, shouting. the goal should be discounted. the captain was known to be a hot head, but even you could see that the tackle he received was completely brushed off by the ref and he was right.

everyone watches as the team moves forward in defense of sukuna, but also holding him back. the other side meets them just as hard. the crowd shouts as they watch the players shove, yell, and slam into each other—and through it all you keep shooting. you catch toji too, voice cutting through the chaos as he orders his players to pull sukuna back.

the press talk amongst themselves as halftime quickly breaks up the argument. your feet quickly carry you out of the press box, towards the locker room.

“no locker room access.”

your jaw tightens immediately irritation flaring hot and sharp.

“I have a different badge,” you show the security guard your press ID. the one geto gave you.

“no press allowed, do i need to repeat myself?” the man snaps.

your irritation ticks at your side. fine. whatever. the second you step back, your mind is already running, already circling back to geto. you scoff under your breath, shaking your head as you pace along the corridor, camera swinging lightly at your side.

seriously? all that talk, all that stupid ass convincing, and for what? you were supposed to be there. that was the whole point! you roll your eyes, heat building the longer you think about it, every step feeding into this petty irritation instead of cooling it. were you overreacting —yes, but whatever—if he’s not holding up his end, then why should you?

by the time you make it back up, you’re done. done thinking about it, done entertaining it, done with their stupid deal.

the second half starts and you fall back into rhythm. camera up, focus sharp, and attention on only one thing now, the ball….

gojo and geto drift near the press box occasionally, clearly expecting something, acknowledgment, a photo, but you don’t even bat an eye. not a look, not a flicker, hell, they might as well not exist.

it’s almost satisfying. almost.

the final whistle blows and the stadium erupts, the first leg ended in a draw, preparing for next game to see who’ll continue. cameras around you go wild, capturing every second of it. the quiet annoyance of both teams, the noise in the crowd. but you don’t. you lower yours, expression flat, already turning away. it’s petty. a little unfair, but still, you walk.

“you’re not coming to the locker room?” gojo’s voice follows you, footsteps quick behind yours as you head in the opposite direction.

“why would i?” you snap, sharp, not even slowing. “am i even allowed,” there’s an obvious clip in your tone that has gojo confused.

“what’re you talking about?”

“deal’s off.”

huh?!????

gojo barely has time to react, before you’re walking away.

baffled and utterly confused, gojo makes his way back to the locker rooms. the energy is stiff, sukuna is grumbling under his breath about how embarrassing it was to end their first leg in a draw, geto is lounged beside his bag scrolling on his phone, and toji is in the corner talking to the managers. ugh, does no one care that their personal photographer isn’t taking photos of them???

they do care.

especially when the next paper comes out and the article is filled with photos taken by other people, not you!

“WHY THE FUCK DO I LOOK LIKE THAT!??” sukuna shouts, entire body fumming as they all sit outside during practice. sukuna is not the only one pissed, geto is practically seething because there isn’t even a single photo of him or gojo.

“what is this girl’s problem?! i thought you idiots made a deal with her?!” sukuna snaps, already in a foul mood, but now it’s worse.

geto licks his teeth, jaw ticking, “we did.”

“I told you guys she was pissed that she didn’t come in during halftime,” gojo throws, as if anyone was listening to him after their shitty match.

“so she throws a tantrum because she didn’t see coach’s dick during halftime?” sukuna clips.

“she looked super hot when she was all pissed though,” gojo throws, “she’d definitely go for me after she realizes how old coach is.”

“what’s wrong with you?” geto rolls his eyes, confused how gojo can talk about your looks when you screwed them over. even if he maybe also finds you attractive, it doesn’t negate your shitty attitude.

gojo throws his hands up in defensive, “I’m just calling dibs now.”

toji, just a few feet away, strides over after noticing the group no longer doing drills. “what’s the hold up!” he grunts, also in a shit mood because of the embarrassing match and then overheating what gojo had said.

“your stalker fucked us over,” geto snaps, eyes burning into the school paper. “she didn’t even get a pic of you.”

gojo’s eyes light up, “oh shit, yeah—she’s definitely over you!”

the paper then hits toji’s chest, his brows furrowing as he holds it up. his eyes glance over the sports section, and just as geto had stated, there wasn’t a single photo of him, unless you’re counting the wide shot of the field and you see him standing in the corner, but it definitely was a starch contrast from the streak you’d created.

“so?” toji tosses the paper like it’s nothing, “you guys playing for the cameras or because you want to win?!”

the men baffled, gasp and scoff. “we want to win!”

“then get off your fucking asses! I don’t have time to be doing this shit with you all!” he snaps aggressively, uncharacteristically pissed off, whether it’s because of the teams misdirected frustrations, or something else. either way, the school paper is long forgotten beside their bags and the team is splitting into practice teams.

it doesn’t matter…

it doesn’t matter that you made a deal with suguru geto and satoru gojo. and the captain pushed you to seal that deal with the information about coach — and they broke it. none of it matters! you still should’ve taken those photos, especially when you’re receiving an earful from your editor, and then sulking through the week of classes.

“what’s your problem,” your friend, shoko, cuts in, snapping you back to the campus day festival. you were once again sulking on the picnic bench, ice cream melting in the cup as you stare off.

“you’re gonna get annoyed…” you mutter, brows pinched in agony.

for most passing by, they immediately steered clear of you, not only did you carry a lethal rbf, your words of “agony” really translates to, you’ll rip someone’s head off and if looks could kill, everyone would be dead. it was quite funny, considering how you’re pretty sweet when you want to be, shoko quietly thinks. still, most would rather avoid you, thanking the heavens that you stay behind the camera so you don’t interact directly with people.

“don’t start,” shoko groans, piecing together the not so subtle mystery.

you frown, “i didn’t even say anything!” you whine even more, glaring at your ice cream. your pretty camera sits on the table beside you, collecting dust when you should be photographing this event. “I just screwed myself over,” your tongue laps at the dripping ice cream.

“agreed.”

your glare snaps to your friend, to which she brushes off with a shrug.

“you should’ve taken those photos,” she starts.

“I know…”

“then you would’ve made your editor happy,”

“I know…”

“and then you wouldn’t have to do this event.”

“I know.”

“and you’d have more weird pictures of coach toji.”

your heart drops. eyes snapping to shoko. “what?!”

shoko goes mute. suddenly realizing what she said. “nothing.”

“pictures?” you repeat, “I have weird pictures of the coach?? I don’t—why would you even say that??“ you’re not subtle at all. and shoko feels guilty at your horrible lying skills, but still…she confesses…

“you uploaded photos to your drive, when we’d study together,” she tries to hold in her laugh as heat crawls up your neck, “like more than once.”

you glance away, eyes flicking over your camera, “that’s it?”

shoko raises a brow. “yeah…what do you mean?”

you look back, “like that’s how you know, it’s not like you heard from someone else or anything?”

shoko shakes her head, “no, who else would know?”

your cheeks are burning at this point, and it was written all over your face now. the realization hit shoko in seconds. “no…” you’re silent. “does the coach know about your photos?”

you don’t want to make eye contact.

“how?!!”

even though it happened days ago, why is it now starting to feel even more embarrassing. maybe because of your cool headed friends reaction— “it was an accident.”

“how did he find out though?” shoko pushes.

you cringe, “well…” you swallow, “when I first spoke to him, remember…” shoko nods, “I let him use my camera because he was interested.” you pause, reliving the humiliation all over again. “then he kept swiping to see the pics, and just found them…” your hands slap your face, “that’s not bad!”

shoko is getting second hand embarrassment, “dude.”

“STOP IM GONNA KILL MYSELF!!” you cry out, humiliation seeping from your pores.

shoko is trying not to laugh, but it’s quite hard not too, especially when you’re groaning like that. “what was his reaction?”

“I obviously said it was an accident, and he was like whatever and seemed fine,” you explain quickly, trying to cool the situation. “It’s not bad!”

“okay okay!!” shoko laughs, trying to calm your reaction. however, shoko knows about your huge crush, what she didn’t know is about a deal her two friends made with you. heck, she didn’t even know that you interacted with them. not until those two men are standing directly behind you, sweaty and pissed. “what the hell—“

“I guess you don’t know how to keep your word,” geto spits, bag dropping aggressively on the bench beside you.

you jump, then, your eyes flick over your shoulder, immediately rolling them when you see them. you turn back to shoko.

geto snaps. “there wasn’t a single photo of us!”

“not my problem,” you scoff, attitude returning in seconds, shoko completely used to it. but she’s shocked that you know gojo and geto. “not like you guys even played well.”

gojo’s vein bulges, “we played fucking good, we didn’t lose!”

“you didn’t win,” you shrug, cold.

that’s when gojo and geto both glance up at shoko. shock crossing their expressions. “you know her?!” they both point down at you.

shoko raises a brow, “she’s my friend.”

“she’s a bitch—“ geto spits, just to receive the worst glare of his life from you, but he just rolls his eyes. “how the fuck do you know each other?”

“I just told you she’s my friend. you’re the ones that screwed her over.” shoko takes your side.

gojo gasps, “we didn’t screw her over! she screwed us over! you saw the paper this week—not a single highlight!”

you glance at shoko, ignoring the men behind you, “how do you know them?”

“we went to high school together,” shoko throws with a bored wave.

frustrated, geto straddles the bench facing you, his hand falls on top of your camera, immediately making you snap your attention to him.

“hey—“

“listen. our deal was that you get access and then we get photos, you didn’t finish your job,” he keeps a grip on your camera. shoko frowns.

“you guys didn’t give me access—i got like ten minutes before the match, then I couldn’t even go in during halftime where everyone was pissed, so what’s the point?” you snap, getting in his face.

“the point is that has nothing to do with me!” geto shouts, your eyes pierce his in two, but neither of you back down.

“it literally does though!”

“guys,” shoko and gojo attempt at intervening, but neither of you will back down. especially when geto won’t let go of your camera.

“let go,” you seethe, hand on the camera as geto flexes, grip strengthening around it.

your heart pounds against your chest, the hot spring sun beats over the four of you, sweat building on your neck while geto scoffs. “you better take those photos of us this week—“

“or what?” you glare, “are you seriously threatening me?” you were dripping with ego and confidence, except for the fact that your eyes kept darting to your camera, your poor, expensive, beautiful camera—

“is this your first time being threatened—“

“the fuck.”

the deep, intimidating voice breaks the argument in seconds. geto’s eyes widen as he feels the gravity taken away from him and being lifted off the seat. the collar of his jersey tightens around none other than toji’s brutal grip.

your eyes break into hearts, grasping your camera before it clatters back on the table, glancing up to see geto gripping his coach’s forearm.

“since when do you fucking shout at girls. you?!” toji barks, baffled. sukuna sure, gojo maybe, but geto?!

“I wasn’t fucking shouting, we were talking,” geto tsks, neck red from embarrassment.

toji shoves him back. geto slams on the bench. you hadn’t realized it but they all looked like they just finished practice, geto and gojo both still in practice uniforms and duffle bags, and coach toji wearing his usual black cargos, and that compression shirt that left nothing to the imagination.

geto scowls, rubbing his back in pain.

“you were shouting, that’s why i came over—“

“she was shouting at me!”

“so what!?”

the table is quiet. a few passerby’s glance over before quickly walking away. it isn’t a shock to know how unbelievably hot your face is right now. especially when coach toji continues his stern lecture to geto.

“you’re defending some girl that can’t keep her word, mind you,” geto mutters, flashing you a glare—his breath catches. you’re not even looking at him!! shoko stifles another laugh along with gojo, because you really were, truly, unbelievable.

how can you look at someone like that?!? like he’s some idol?! him! a musty ass college coach?!

but none of it mattered, not when toji’s attention shifts to you!!! a warm heat floods between your legs, as your lips part. then suddenly, you glance away…

“I actually did shout too…” you confess, taking accountability. “and kinda screwed them over.”

gojo, geto, and shoko, stare at you in shock.

toji sighs, like some grown ass man (which he is), his hand settles on his hip as the other scratches his hair like he’s surrounded by immature children and figuring out what the fuck to do with you all. so he decides to confess too…

“i told security not to allow any outsiders.”

your heart drops.

“including you.”

oh shit.

the three audience members immediately glance at you, and what none of them, not a single one, expected, is to suddenly see the your eyes tear up.

toji felt a sharp twist in his gut, eyes widening for a moment, before sighing. “it wasn’t personal.”

your throat feels dry, unable to look away until now. a tear hits your camera. “how is that not personal,” you whisper, bottom lip trembling.

shoko’s brows pinch in hurt, at least out of everyone, she knows how much and how long you’ve liked this man. and then sulking and now— she knows you’re absolutely shattered.

“I needed the team to focus, and you’re press,” he states like some cold fact, and that hurt even more.

your grip tightens on the camera. “but…” your not a stranger anymore…. but you can’t get the words out…your heart pounds loudly in your ears, the heat surrounding you felt suffocating, and your head was growing dizzier by the second. and the only thing spinning in your mind was how fucking embarrassing this is.

“don’t be upset.”

you manage a small nod, though another tear falls on the camera, and your body freezes. “how can i not be upset?” your small voice catches toji off guard.

you’re standing up, eyes hot with tears, walking past the esteemed coach.

“wait,” he catches your wrist, “if you have something to say don’t just run away.”

you’re fuming, your pretty chest rises and falls, the disappointment turning into built up anger, “I don’t have anything to say right now, and it’s stupid—“ your hand twists in his grip. “let go.”

he does.

you’re practically heaving, tempted to turn away, especially when the dryness in your throat gets worse. the stinging behind your eyes burns like hell as you try to rip your gaze away from the towering man. you really are stupid…

toji wets his lip, head tilting as if disinterested, but the cooling in his chest says otherwise. why does he have a weak spot for women?

“we can talk.”

his words hang in the air. a silent, open invitation for her. it’s a clear sign of his guilt for making this cute college girl cry. he was too blunt, forgetting she isn’t one of his boys.

your hand comes up to the bridge of your nose, quietly recentering yourself as this older coach watches. your shoulders rise with a deep exhale, then inhale.

pull yourself together…

you nod. cute.

you swallow the embarrassing lump in your throat, clearing your throat. “can we talk while walking…I have to work,” your usual clipped tone used for everyone except him, comes out, but he can hear the slight shakiness.

“sure.”

gojo, geto, and shoko are left in utter shock. it’s not until you and toji completely disappear into the crowd, do they slowly exchange looks.

“what…”

“the fuck,” geto finishes shoko’s sentence.

gojo stares baffled, “did we just set them up?!”

geto’s brow jumps up, “why is he always saving her like some knight?? and he was the one that screwed us all over!!”

gojo shakes his head in agreement, “nah for real, what the hell, blaming us but it’s all him.”

geto slouches back in the picnic table, rolling his eyes. “still,” he tsks, “she didn’t have to be so bitchy and not take our pictures. isn’t it her fucking job—“

“hey!”

“ow!” geto feels a slap upside the head from brunette, her eyes harsh. “what the hell!”

“don’t call girls bitches what’s wrong with you?!” shoko huffs, baffled by geto’s attitude.

gojo snickers beside the man, “he’s been like this since he met her.”

“I haven’t,” he grits, rolling his eyes at the thought of you. “she’s just a—she just gets on my nerves.”

“really because she reminds me of you,” shoko cuts him off. geto’s eyes widen, as gojo breaks into a loud laugh.

“WHAT?!”

“oh god BAHAHA she does!” gojo’s obnoxious laugh sounds like knives stabbing his ears.

shoko hums, “she has that rbf look, intimidating, very blunt, but also so cute with her friends.”

“cute?” geto frowns.

gojo smiles, “it comes out when you’re hanging out with ussss.” gojo and shoko dramatically strike a cute pose. geto tsks.

the campus was packed with students and faculty roaming to booths and small events. it was the university’s 102nd anniversary, and as memorable as it is for the students to enjoy the activities during this nice spring day, you couldn’t bring yourself to give a shit.

not only did your editor scream at you all week, still pissed about the shit photos you took during the match, he also threatened removal if you didn’t take good photos during this event. and now, after sulking with shoko, then procrastinating some more, you decided you’d be able to take such fanatic pictures while your idol and crush trails beside you….sure.

toji lets out another sigh, hands in his pockets as he stands to your left watching you snap some shots of laughing students beside a booth.

“it’s not a big deal,” you mutter, behind the camera. toji notices the twitch in your fingers. “I overreacted, so it’s whatever.”

toji wets his lip, “sukuna and a couple others jus’ get jumpy with cameras.”

you hum, looking at the photos you just took. “I understand.”

“I didn’t know about this deal you did with geto,” toji admits, hand instinctively coming to your waist and guiding you away from some unaware boys shouting and laughing. your cheeks flush, stepping away from his hand. toji notices. “we didn’t have a good game anyways.”

“I know, so it whatever. not a big deal,” you sigh, heat crawling up your neck. this is so embarrassing, so embarrassing! ugh you really don’t know how to keep a cool head at all when it comes to this coach. you overreacted during the match, then blamed geto for screwing you over, then almost cried because the coach locked you out on purpose, and now—

“I feel bad.”

your heart stops.

toji glances at your manicured nails holding your camera, your cute necklaces dangling on your exposed chest, cleavage glistening from the heat. but then his eyes flick up, and you’re staring at him like he’s holding the entire world.

“I didn’t mean to make you upset,” his voice is softer, gentler, nothing like how you’ve heard him for months, shouting, harsh. your stomach heats up, face stinging.

his hand, unexpectedly, comes up, feeling your hair between his fingers. “you work hard, and all your pictures come out so nice…” the compliment hits your heart. “but I couldn’t risk the boys getting distracted.”

your face suddenly twists, lips pursing and jutting out just a bit, your brows pinch. your dewy makeup makes you look like a fucking doll, he thinks. “I was jus’ gonna take photos in the corner, not interview them,” you reply harshly.

“you saw how they are when they talk to you,” he cuts in. your brow quirks, noticing his sharp inhale. “sweetheart, you’re hot.”

your face bursts into flames, pupils turning to literal swirls, and brain getting fried in seconds.

what?!

your reaction was priceless. toji controls his smirk, thumb brushing your adorable cheek, glancing at your glossy lips then your eyes. “I know you’re a professional, but most of those boys aren’t, y’ understand?”

you nod, cheeks sizzling, you’re surprised his thumb isn’t burning.

“so you see why I couldn’t allow you in the locker room then, and i won’t next time,” he watches you nod again. god, you’re fucking precious.

then, your tongue wets your bottom lip before speaking… “are they the only ones that would’ve been distracted?”

shit. can a grown man really pop a boner that fast?

toji’s chest heats up, glancing between your pretty eyes filled with hope. this isn’t the first time a younger girl has crushed on him, and it also isn’t the first time he’s nice to one. but what really got him, is the way you’re maintaining eye contact, almost afraid to look away, and you’re holding your ground against him.

“no,” he admits, “they’re not the only ones.”

oh. your lips curve into a smile toji hasn’t seen before, and his hand flexes in response. you look like you’re going to eat him alive right there, and he’d let you, no questions asked—

“that’s good to hear,” you pull away. you touch your heated cheek with the back of your hand, wetting your lip as you glance over the coach’s flushed face. “your cheeks are red.”

what?! his eyes bulge, catching you off guard as you break into a loud laugh.

“tch,” he looks away, his own hand rubbing down his face. it really is burning out here. but even so, his emerald eyes look through his fingers at this pretty college girl laughing at him and he doesn’t know why his chest warms at the sight.

“I can buy you ice cream. I feel bad now that you had to explain yourself when I was just being the unprofessional one,” you start, already leading him to the nearest ice cream booth.

your camera hangs over your shoulder as you point to your favorite flavor than glance up at him, he points at the cookies n cream. “oh! I love cookies n cream,” you say, reaching for your phone to pay.

ding.

your eyes widen as toji pays instead.

“wha—it was supposed to be my treat, man,” you huff, accepting the cone he gives you, hand on your lower back as he guides you away from the booth. neither of you batting an eye to the multiple people gawking at the renowned coach of their soccer team, walking around with the hot, rude, student photographer.

“as if I’d let you pay,” he snorts.

your brows pinch as you take a lick of your ice cream, the cool sensation leveling your body temperature. your eyes narrow at him as he enjoys his ice cream, grateful to have something that cools the heat building up under his skin. “so not fair,” you mutter.

“how come?”

the two of you walk across the quad, sun still beating down.

“I wanted to use it as an apology,” you say, “I said that.”

“you don’t need to apologize,” he shrugs, casual, unbothered. you huff again. this time toji smiles, scar twitching up. “you can pay next time.”

your heart skips a beat, stomach doing a stupid flip.

“….next time.”

toji catches the smile behind your cone, his eyes trailing over the ice cream coating your tongue, your pretty hand wrapped around the waffle as your bracelets clank around your wrists.

“there’s other things you need to apologize for,” he coolly says, finding a bench and dropping his weight, eyeing you as you sit close beside him. unashamed.

your brow quirks, eyes narrowing, full body facing him, “what other things?”

toji shrugs, “we can talk about it next time.”

“but I can’t just be left in suspense, that’ll give me anxiety?!”

toji snorts, loud. his big tongue is finishing the ice cream so quick he’s already eating the cone. “don’t be anxious,” he says with his mouth full.

you tsk, rolling your eyes, and you don’t notice the twinkle in the older coach’s eyes. he can definitely see geto’s point about your attitude, but if he leans over—

your eyes go wide. stomach flipping.

he takes a bold bite of your ice cream, emerald eyes shut, and thick lashes kissing his flushed cheeks. your heart feels like it’ll break from your ribs, then, he opens his eyes. he doesn’t pull away yet, instead his tongue cleans his lips, humming in low delight. the heat around you wasn’t helping your own body temperature as it skyrockets.

“taste’s sweeter than mine,” his voice his huskier than before, catching you by surprise, and the heat pools between your legs.

“i—“ you can’t even form words! your eyes won’t tear away from his lips, and your chest is moving erratically because he’s so close.

“do you want a taste of mine. I took a bite without asking yo—“

his words cut the minute your lips press against his.

shock prevents him from reacting, eyes going wide. you gave in so quick, sure he was teasing, but still. he could feel the certainty in your kiss, along with the warmth, and anxiety. after a long ten seconds you pull away—

you pant against his lips, chest rising and falling, brain scrambled. “i jus’…” your heart is beating loudly in your ears. mind trying to keep up with what your body just did. you kissed him. you kissed the coach. the one you’ve been idolizing and photographing for months—

“we can do it again.” his free hand tilts your chin up, lips hovering over yours again. his breath is warm. “kiss me.”

you do.

this time you’re a little bolder. your lips connect with his, soft again, sucking his bottom lip, skillfully. slowly. he brushes your jaw with his thumb, humming in delight just like he did with the ice cream. but the sound goes straight to your core. completely unbothered by the rowdiness of the uni day activities around you. your free hand rests on his thigh, leaning more into the kiss.

“open,” you murmur against his lips. you can feel the the shit-eating smirk that breaks his face, groaning just low enough to make the heat furiously spread under your skin.

then, his lips part.

his tongue immediately connects with yours. caressing the wet muscle. he tastes the ice cream, delving a little more. it was just so easy taking control, and your little whines are too sweet for him to stop. his jaw opens wider, taking the lead as you follow. his hand cups the side of your face, unexpectedly possessive, ignoring the alarms sounding off in his head.

you had a crush, you’re fucking adorable, and you kissed him. plus, you make these cute sounds when he shoves his tongue against yours, thumb pressing into your cheek. how could he resist?

your grip against his thigh tightens, his back is pressed fully against the bench, while you were practically leaning over him, trying to swallow him whole.

“breathe,” he mutters, lips hovering close, waiting for you to inhale. his scar quirks up, you’re so cute. his thumb brushes your cheekbone again, eyes glancing between your fluttering lashes. “if we keep kissing, I’ll have a problem.”

your face burns, eyes darting down to the tent pressing up near your hand. and unlike toji, you let your second ice cream of the day melt and fall to the ground. you were a mess. you carefully lean back in your seat, the sudden space between you allowing you to take another deep breath. being near coach toji is intoxicating. it’s not that you didn’t feel like yourself, but you definitely throw all common sense out the door when he’s in front of you.

“are you staying to see the booths and stuff?” you clear your throat, trying to ease your erratic heartbeat.

toji finds it cute. his hand once cupping your face, slides down to brush the hair off your shoulder, fingers brushing the multiple earrings that dangle from your piercings. you’re much more stylish than he is…your accessories, the cute tank top that hugs your breasts, and embroidered low rise flared jeans.

“nah, gotta drive back home so i can take my son to practice.”

toji eases, not a single thing can bother him. it was a routine, the subtle throw away line about having a son that scared off many young women, or had them wanting a one night stand with the older dilf. so his eyes flick over you, the second he finishes his sentence.

your freeze.

your blood runs cold, eyes flicking down to his ring finger.

even if you’re looking, you know he isn’t married. you know. you’ve been photographing him for months, and not a single time have you ever seen him daunt a ring on his finger.

“there’s no one waiting for him at home?” you question, wetting your lip.

toji’s fingers slide from your earrings to the dried ice cream on your chin. “nah, if I’m late he’ll go to his friends house.”

you nod, anxiety slowly dissipating. “how old is he?”

“ten.”

your eyes light up, “my nephew is just a year older, that’s when they get really fun to hang out with,” your voice is so light and sweet, toji has to shove down the weird somersault his stomach does.

“really?” toji is not convinced. “all my son does is give me attitude and bully everything i do.”

you laugh, waving your hand, “yeah they get super opinionated, but it’s funny—trust trust he’s just doing it because you’re an easy target.”

“I’m an easy target.”

you nod, waving a hand again, “your his dad, my brothers and i were the same to our parents.”

brothers? toji doesn’t comment how that peaks his interest, but he naturally asks, “how many siblings do you have?”

“three older brothers,” you nod.

damn….toji hums, that explains your attitude and how you can handle geto’s bitchy moods. what also quietly settles in his mind is how your oldest brother would probably be around his age, considering your nephew is a year older than megumi. is that why you’re easily holding a conversation this long…maybe the age gap isn’t that big then…

“they were so freakin bossy, definitely why i pushed to dorm away from them,” you huff, toji zoning back into your rambling. it was cute watching you talk mindlessly, hands waving making your bracelets clank against each other. the sweat glistened across your skin, making you look eternal, which is amusing since you’re just talking.

but still, toji is the one to lean up this time. his hand settling on your waist as a anchor and he presses a firm kiss to your warm cheek.

your glossy lips part in shock, heart stuttering again. unbothered, toji casually stands up, towering over you as his hand gently settles atop your head. “i have’ta get going, but I’ll see you next week for the match. I’ll also let em know you can come in before and after the game, but not during halftime. okay?”

you nod.

“I’ll see ya’ sweetheart.”

and with a wink, he solidifies the fourth arrow straight through your heart.

—

it was very likely that your entire week looked like sunshine and rainbows, all because you had a full on make out session with your idol on a park bench. you couldn’t bring yourself to care much about anything else—well except for your job. you had to scramble to get photos after toji left, afraid of staying on your editor’s bad side.

luckily you pulled through, and convinced him to keep you on for the semi final match this coming weekend.

which leads you to your current blissful state. watching toji speak to the team in the locker rooms. unlike last time, you grabbed different shots, smiling every time toji glanced at the camera, but frowning any time any of the other boys looked.

“surprise surprise, couldn’t stay away too long,” gojo coo’s after the team breaks to finish changing.

“don’t bother me or I won’t take photos of you,” you throw, eyes flicking up at the tall man.

gojo pouts, “but I’m just talking to you,” his words drag.

geto is scowling a few feet away, jaw tightening and relaxing, until he finally comes up to you. your attitude shifts, eyes narrowing up. geto holds eye contact, chest rising with a subtle inhale. but once he exhales, his shoulders ease, and his eyes close, the fakest smile you’ve ever seen graces his naturally attractive features.

“I’m looking forward to seeing your photos after the game.”

your lips purse, brow quirking. “yeah…”

geto leaves. shortly after, the team gets called out. gojo utters the same line geto had just said, but much more cheerfully, all while toji walks up to you. brow furrowing at the two athletes as they walk towards the exit.

“they still bothering you?”

your eyes light up the moment you see him. “s’ fine,” your pretty lips pull into an easy smile, unexpectedly warming the coach’s heart. is it that easy to smile because of him?

“I’ll tell them to fuck off again,” his voice is naturally deep, hand subconsciously roaming up to the strap of your camera.

you smile, “okay.”

god, you’re really cute. his hand cups your cheek, leaning down and easily locking lips with you.

you’re immediately caught off guard, but his hand is so firm on your cheek, you just melt. your lashes flutter shut, leaning in more. he’s so big and tall. your cheeks sting, humming against his lips, trying to fight off the butterflies in your stomach. but it’s worse when he pulls away, and your heart leaps into your throat as he brushes his rough thumb against your lip, dragging the spit across the plumpness.

“I’ll c’ya after.” he winks.

you barely feel your feet when you step back out onto the field. your camera in hand, strap tight around your neck, everything exactly where it should be, and still, your entire body is giddy.

toji….toji toji toji—

you press your lips together, trying to fight it down, but it’s useless. your mouth keeps twitching, threatening to break into a smile and you can’t help it! he kissed you. twice now! like it was nothing—

you snap a shot.

sukuna’s first goal. the team and stadium erupts, and you’re already capturing it, body moving before your thoughts can catch up. you don’t need your editor screaming at you this time, so you shift angles, crouch lower, shoot through. geto lines up for a penalty shot, and you catch that too. the strike, the follow-through, and the way the net snaps back as the ball hits. you don’t miss a second of it.

but…inevitably…your lens drifts…to him. you can’t help it!

toji’s on the sidelines, where he always is. his sleeves are pushed up again, pacing, shouting, running a hand through his hair. you catch the flex of his arm, his biceps bulge and you feel heat pooling between your legs. you catch the drag of his palm across his broad huge chest, the set of his jaw when gojo almost tackles into another player.

you shouldn’t be taking this many photos of him. you know that, but you take them anyway. your chest feels tight with every picture, cheeks still burning, and your smile impossible to get rid of.

halftime comes and goes, and you don’t even try to get into the locker room this time. instead, you linger with the rest of the press, nodding along to conversations, camera hanging loose in your hands. you don’t care. not really. not when your mind keeps replaying it—his hand on your face, the way he looked at you after, the wink.

the second half starts and you’re back in position immediately. getting more action shots of the players—ugh but you keep stealing other moments too…small unnecessary ones. his biceps when he folds his arms. the scratch of his chest. the tilt of his head as he watches the field.

your thoughts don’t stop. why did he kiss you? why did he kiss you again? what is that supposed to mean? is he going to kiss you again??

the spiral doesn’t fully come to an end until the pitch breaks out into celebration. the team is off to the finals!

managers and the rest of the team flood the pitch as the stadium breaks out. you do your best to get the best shots of the team together, and you stay after to capture them talking to journalists, and press. unaware of the coach that slips away.

you follow the team and a couple managers back to the locker room as they continue celebrating. you can’t help the smile about how happy they are, they played well.

“how was the match?” geto corners you quickly.

“good,” you nod casually, fixing your flash. “you guys played really well.”

geto’s brow quirks. that’s nice….his lips purse. “I scored.” he mutters, glancing at the multiple piercings on your ear as you tuck a hair behind it.

“yeah, it was a nice shot,” your eyes flick over your camera before glancing up to meet his eyes, testing, “you wanna see?”

his eyes narrow again, “no.”

he’s quick to ignore your eye roll, as he points over his shoulder. “coach is calling for you.”

you can’t control the way your head whips to geto, then following the direction he’s pointing at. you don’t hesitate, your legs carry you across the locker room, and into the steamed shower room.

your heart hammers against your chest, putting the lens cap back on your camera and carefully sliding it off your shoulder, afraid to step further in until you put it back in your bag.

a single curtain is closed. shower running.

“coach toji?” your voice echos.

there a beat of silence, then…

“that you, sweetheart?”

you flush. controlling the smile that breaks your face as you hum, “yeah.”

the shower is still running, steam collecting in the room. your heart is beating erratically, you barely register anything aside from the fact that coach toji is definitely one hundred percent fully nude just a few feet away. his clothes are laid on his duffle on the bench beside the door.

“sweetheart?”

you jump. “yeah?”

“you gonna come in?”

you blink. again, then once more. then— “WHAT?”

your screech bounces off the tile floors, making you shrink at how loud you are. but it was a normal reaction. he just asked you if you wanted to come in? how else would you react—

“leave your things by my bag,” he doesn’t even react, like what he’s saying is the most casual kind of flirting. the kissing was one thing, but this…

your camera is zipped back in your bag, and in seconds, you’re peeling your panties off standing completely naked in the middle of a shower room. goosebumps break out, necklace and bracelets still on as your nipples harden.

what’re you doing, seriously?

one, this is highly unprofessional (whatever). two, you haven’t even gone a date with this man. and three, w-why would he even ask you to come in?!?! does he like you?! he does—he has too—

your bare feet pad against the steamed tiles until you reach the curtains. your hands won’t stop shaking, face burning hot, and lips parting as you let out a shaky exhale. then, you slowly pull back the curtains—

“come in before someone sees you,” is what you hear just as you’re being dragged into the steaming water, curtain pulled closed behind you.

the steam wraps around your skin instantly, thick and suffocating. your pretty nipples perk up in seconds. and standing right in front of you is the 6’5 two hundred pound man. water cascading down his body in slow, steady streams. you don’t even realize you’ve stopped breathing until your chest tightens, and your hands hover close to his forearm.

you’re so close.

your gaze is eye level with his broad solid chest, rising and falling slow and controlled like none of this affects him. like you standing in front of him naked is something he expected. but your too dazed to care. especially when you follow the droplets sliding over his muscles, catching the shallow lines as you continue going lower, and lower. the heat pools more obviously between your legs as you see the thick patch of dark coarse hair…then you see it.

your face burns hotter, stomach flipping hard making you even dizzier.

his cock twitches under your gaze. your knees almost buckle just at the sight. it’s huge. you have to suppress a whine, lashes fluttering as you feel a strong hand cup your chin.

“say hi first,” his voice is unbelievably deep, tearing your gaze away from the monster between his legs. his dark forest green eyes sink into you.

“hi.”

shit. he bites back a groan, eyes trailing down your naked body. nipples already perky and standing all pretty for him. his hand comes up, cupping the side of your face as he leans down, lips colliding with yours.

you whine immediately. your lips move together, tongues colliding as your hands slide up his muscular chest, feeling the deep ridges of his abs as he holds the side of your face, dominating the kiss.

it was overwhelming, the shower box, his body heat, his cock touching your thigh, it was all making you dizzy in the best ways possible. he pulls away, letting you catch your breath, but he stays close, brushing his lips over yours like it’s not enough. because it isn’t.

“did anyone see you come in?” he husks, hand still cradling your face as the other brushes your naked waist, pulling you closer. your skin is so soft under his palm.

“no,” you shake your head adorably, tongue poking out to wet your lip, “I don’t think so.”

the older coach hums, his hands freely roaming your side as he nudges your nose with his. “good,” is all he adds before he resumes the heated make out.

your tongues collide and caress, jaw falling slack as you moan a little louder when he grips your ass. groaning into your lip when your arms lock around his shoulders, wet chest pressing against his. you were such a sweet tasting girl.

his hand nudges your thigh. “jump.”

you gasp when he easily picks you up, back already pressed against the tiled wall. the hot water cascades down his back as he continues kissing you. “were you mad at me?”

you pull away, breath hot as you glance at his features. he’s so handsome, your hand cups his face, pushing his drenched raven hair back. “why would I mad?”

“because I kept ya out during halftime.”

you shake your head, lips curving as you trace his wet eyebrows, chest rising and falling. “no,” you drawl, wetting your glossy lips again. “I was jus’ confused about how much you kiss me.”

his scar tugs up, biting back a smirk threatening to break free. “you kissed me first.”

“that one time.”

“you started it,” he leans close, lips brushing yours, “so you can’t blame me for getting hooked.” his eyes are lidded. “it’s really hard for me to break bad habits.”

this time you kiss me.

you’re so unbelievably hungry for this man’s affection, you can ignore all the blaring red light going off in your head. he’s so hot, he’s so big, and he’s so fucking sexy! your mind has been completely and utterly fried and you don’t care.

“fuck, you’re dripping,” toji husks, his finger collecting your juices from your pussy, groaning at how turned you are. “kissing me makes ya feel that good? your cunt always dripping like a fountain?”

“yeah-aah—“ your lips part as he shoves a finger inside. he groans against you, chuckling at the choked whines leaving your pretty lips, your nails dig crescents along his shoulder.

his lips trail down your neck, tongue flattening against the wet skin and licking until you squirm a cute whimper. his smirk is impossible to hold back. he sucks a dark bruise as another finger pushes in your fluttering hole.

“c-coach—“ you gasp, lips so wet from spit. you try to look down at his fingers pistoning inside you. every muscle on his body flexing, keeping you up like you weigh nothing, while fingering you against the little shower wall. “fu-fuck, I’m gonna—cu-uhm—“

it really is too much for your obsessed brain.

coach toji’s fingers are inside you. he’s kissing you like he’s hasn’t pleasured a woman in years. and his groans are going straight to your pussy—

“I wan’…coach—“ your whine drawls a little longer, thighs shaking, and arms locking around him, head falling to neck.

the older man chuckles close to your ear, voice deep and husky as you fall apart, in his arms. hugging him like he’s your savior. his fingers curl, slowly pumping you through your orgasm. “that was quick. my baby hasn’t cum in awhile?” he says as a matter of a fact, but you just hug him closer, lips pulling away to trail kisses up his neck. your fingers coarse through the back of his head, grasping them as you kiss the corner of his mouth.

“it’s b’cause of you, toji.” you kiss his scar, panting as he pulls his fingers out and lifts you up suddenly, hooking his arm under your knee.

“you want a good fucking princess?”

you nod frantically, cheeks dewy and stinging, as you glance over his face then his chest, then you feel his cock between your slick folds.

“it’s a big stretch,” he mutters against your lips. “you saw.”

you nod, nervous stirring at the way he’s preparing you. but you don’t break away. you doubt you physically can, when your mind is only screaming his name over and over.

“I can take it, coach,” you nod, determined.

“you’re so fucking cute,” he snorts, a light blush dusting his cheeks as he kisses your lips in quiet reassurance. “ever take a cock this big?”

you shake your head, water droplets falling from the tips of your hair. your pretty necklaces still wrapped around your neck, all wet and glistening between your perky breasts.

“it’ll hurt,” he strokes himself underneath you, thumb running over his tip multiple times before lining it with your pretty clit and teasing you. “then you’re gonna cry.” you gulp, nodding along. “then you’re gonna tell me to stop—“

“I won’t!”

he snorts. “it’s okay if you do.”

you shake your head, “I won’t I’ll be okay. okay coach? I can take it, I wan’ you inside me. please.”

the tug to his heart is immediate. how can it not be when this cute hot girl is begging him to fuck her? but he can’t even formulate this emotional string that’s tying him to you. the only physical response coming out is this fucking erection that feels like the most painful shit he’s experienced, twitching after he first spoke to you and then again when you kissed him. surely it’s disgusting….an older man like him getting that quickly turned on…

but maybe it was the way he’s only felt this tug in his chest one other time in his life, and even if it didn’t end the way he wanted, he never regretted pursuing his baby mama.

so he’s all in right now.

“deep breath, sweetheart.”

you inhale sharply, just as toji pushes his engorged tip past the tight rim of your pussy, and you suddenly clench—

“shit!—“

your eyes widen, “I don’t feel anything,” you mutter, glancing down to see his ears burning a deep shade of red.

“your cunt squeezed me too early and shoved me out,” he wets his lips, as he crashes his lips against you. “relax, baby,” he husks.

you whine against his dominating mouth, lower body relaxing as he lines up again and the moment you ease up, he snaps his hips in.

“angh!—“

your jaw slacks, and he continues kissing, groaning at the unbelievable tightness that’s squeezing every corner of his tip.

“Mmm so warm, took me in good,” he groans, rocking his hips and grabbing a handle of your ass. “you’re gonna make me feel good?”

you nod, lips connecting with his, it’s messy, teeth clashing, spit mixing.

toji’s guttural groan echos through the shower, bouncing off the tiles as he rocks his hips, going in inch by inch, until he’s finally shoving his entire length deep inside your cunt with one mean thrust.

“fhuck—“ he chokes, jaw slacking as you clamp around him again. “full?”

you nod, brain scrambled as you glance at your tummy, cheeks stinging at the obvious bulge. “keep going,” you pant, securing yourself better as he grunts, pulling out and snapping his hips back.

it was mind numbing, toji holding you up with his strong arms hooked under your knees, hands gripping each ass cheek as he ruts into you like a beast in heat. the squelch and clapping was deafening as it bounced off the walls, the steam enveloping you closer as your whines flow right into his ear.

“nghhh—gettin’ me worked up,” thrust. “when you squeeze me,” thrust. “with this tight.” thrust. “fucking.” thrust. “cunt!”

his massive cock is stretching you in ways you never could’ve imagined. his blunt tip slams into your cervix with every thrust. your thighs shake, eyes filling with unshed tears as your nails dig into his tough skin.

“m’ s-sorry—haah ah coa—ahh! it feels s’ fuhh—fuh’me ple-easee—ahh!” your pretty lips were so glossy, drool coming down as water droplets fall from your pretty breasts with each vicious slam of his hips.

he was unforgiving. and his laugh like groan didn’t help your pussy from fluttering and tightening around his chubby cock. you can feel every thick pulsing vein and ridge. it was numbing your brain to mush. your fingers curled into his hair, tugging as he gives your ass a mean, violent, spank!

“angh!” your eyes bulge, a wave of heat crashing into you.

toji laughs, gripping your ass as he quickens his pace. “admit it,” he husks, voice condensing, and eyes dark with lust. “this is what ya’ wanted.” you’re falling apart around his cock, and he’s not slowing down, even as the tears finally break, making you look even more irresistible. you’re gasping like you can’t breathe. “you always wanted the coach to fuck you. taking those dirty photos of my bulge—nghh!” thrust. “imagining how big my dick is.” thrust. “how big is it baby, tell me.” thrust!

you were fucked dumb.

your face is flushed, eyes glossed over, as you whine like a full blown slut. and even with your two orgasms in a matter of minutes. your mind was still screaming one thing: toji.

“c’mon baby, I know you’re still with me,” he snorts, ears red, and body flushed with sweat as he feels his climax edge closer. “tell me—fuck—how big is it?”

your stupid brain catches his words, and your fingers dig into his neck as you gasp and moan, the stimulation of his massive cock slamming into you was ruining you. mentally and physically. it was humiliating. but still…

“haah—fuh its’ it’s so big— i wan’ you to cum in me! please —wan’ your cum so bad, wanna feel your big fat cock cum inside my pussy toji—ahh!”

anothet sharp spank takes your breath away.

toji is at a loss.

his grunts grew louder and thrusts sloppier, until finally, he gave you one final thrust, and stilled. his ass tightens, body pressing you into the tiled walls, face buried in your neck, and teeth sinking into your shoulder. toji completely unravels in the shower, holding up a pretty college girl that whines so beautifully in his ear he thinks he’d never cum this hard again, but sure enough—

your adorable whine has him rutting shallow thrusts into your pussy, like a fucking dog. his cum pumping out as he continued stuffing you full, purposely milking out ever drop as his dark wet pubes rubbed against your puffy clit.

you both catch your breath. your lashes wet from tears, as the water from the shower head fills the silence. after a moment, toji pulls away from your neck, his lidded eyes, hypnotizing as he stares up at yours.

you don’t know why you suddenly feel shy. your cheeks burn as the emerald irises bore into your own. lips parting, and a gentle hand coming up to his cheek. you brush back the raven hair flattening against his features, smiling softly when his full face comes into view.

and he could’ve sworn you looked like an actual angel at this moment.

your eyes twinkled above, face illuminating in the dark shower, and body glistening like you’re an eternal being.

“toji…” the soft call has his heart doing something it hasn’t done in years. and that has his soft cock twitching inside you. “I’m,” you lean closer, arms wrapping around his shoulder, lips hovering near his, breasts smushed against his chest. your confidence comes back the moment you feel the man lean closer..but you continue. “I hope you don’t think…i wanted to have sex…just because i thought your dick was really big.”

toji blinks.

then he does the worst thing ever.

he laughs.

your cheeks sting, watching his head fall back in loud laughter. your hand flys to your face, embarrassed. “I’m being serious!” you yell.

toji laughs louder, body shaking as he lifts you up, his cock slipping out. he carefully sets your shaky feet down on the wet tile. the height difference returns, making you even more ticked off, your little attitude was oozing out, and his slick cock couldn’t help but twitch against his thigh at your pouting.

god, you’re fucking hot.

he brings your attention back to him. hands cupping your face, tilting your head to look up at him. your brows are pinched together, and lips pulled in a subtle scowl.

toji smirks. “don’t worry, I know you also took pictures of my face.”

you flush, rolling your eyes. “those were accidents.”

“so you just wanted pictures of my dick?”

your eyes widen, “no! i told you they were all accidents.”

toji clicks his tongue, leaning down to your level, making your tummy flip “you’re fucking cute, but let’s not lie to adults.”

“I’m an adult though,” you raise a brow, pushing back, and god if that wasn’t the hottest thing ever.

but still, toji’s easygoing smile remains on his playful lips, “it’s embarrassing. i understand,” he softens the blow as your face heats. it was humiliating when he found those pictures, “taking photos of the coach like that. but now’s the time to take some accountability.”

you lick your teeth, eyes boring into him, narrowing. but it’s toji. toji is asking. and you can’t hold back any longer…

you exhale, glancing away, even though he’s still cupping your face. “yeah, obviously I took those photos on purpose,” your eyes meet. “happy?”

water is still running down his shoulders as he keeps your face tucked carefully in his hands like you’re something precious despite the grin threatening to split across his face again.

but then toji smirks. “ecstatic.”

your eyes narrow immediately, “you’re so annoying.”

he huffs another laugh under his breath, quieter this time, thumbs brushing over your heated cheeks. standing this close to him is ridiculous now that the adrenaline’s settling. he’s huge. his broad chest still damp against yours, muscles flexing every time he shifts, towering over you while you stand there completely naked except for the necklaces you’re wearing. the little gold chains glisten under the shower head, delicate against flushed skin, and toji’s eyes flick down to them for a second before returning to your face.

that look in his eyes makes your stomach tighten all over again. he knows he’s not trying to be mocking, or casual like before. it’s fondness.

“those shots were real creative, sweetheart,” he says, voice rougher now. “nice and close too.”

you groan, immediately trying to shove his chest, but he barely moves. “oh my god, can you let it go already?”

“can’t,” he answers easily. “been thinkin’ about it for weeks.”

your face burns hotter. weeks?!

toji watches it happen in real time, watches the attitude crack just enough for embarrassment to slip through, again. and it does something terrible to him. you’re sharp with everyone else—cool, hard to impress. he’s seen it. seen the way you brush off gojo and geto without a second thought. but with him? you melt.

even now, glaring up at him with your brows pulled tight, lips still swollen from kissing, legs trembling from the multiple orgasms, trying so hard to stay irritated while your body keeps betraying you. it’s fucking adorable.

“don’t look at me like that,” you mutter weakly.

“like what?”

“like you know things.”

his grin widens instantly. “but i do know things now.”

what proceeded after was the thirty something year old coach, dropping to his knee and lifting your leg up, burying his face between your legs like a starving man. your lips part in shock.

but still, as toji works your pretty body to another orgasm, tongue shoved inside, cleaning this little pussy up, jaw slack as he gulps down his own cum. your fingers thread through his hair, tugging whenever he’d give your clit a mean rough suck, cheeks hollowing. his hand, grips your ass from behind, squeezing and slapping as he pleased, until you were falling apart.

afterwards, he cleaned you up. this time with some soap. his big hands roamed your body, every crevice and curve, hands massaging your breasts as he had your back pressed to his chest, chuckling when you’d whine. thumbs tugging playfully. hand rubbing between your legs, head tucked in your shoulder as he watches your smaller hands hold his forehead, face hot.

“toji,” you whine, embarrassed, as he teasing a finger against your hole again.

“what,” he smirks, watching your reactions, “I’m jus’ cleaning you up.”

he’s a fucking perv. but still, he teases you through the whole shower, keeping you close to his body and even letting you wash his back, admiring the muscles and ink that decorate his skin.

eventually, he steps out first, keeping you inside so he can grab an extra towel. his own wrapped around his waist.

that was the start of all of it.

three months later….

you and shoko are sitting out in the quad. table covered in assignments and forgotten laptops. all while you explained to shoko how your weekend went.

“no, we definitely got along. megumi is so cute!” you gush about the ten year old, describing how your first meeting went. toji had spoken about you enough to prepare megumi, waiting until the right time to introduce you both.

and now, you’re going to every single one of their soccer games, toji and megumi’s.

and eventually, after another hour passes by. a group of athletes comes walking down the path. covered in sweat, holding their duffles, and behind them is a very hot coach, already breaking into a smile when you jump up.

“toji!”

it was a routine. your arms thrown around his shoulders, as he lifts you up with one hand. zero regard for any pda, as he kisses you deeply. smiling as you hum, pecking him over and over.

“why do you guys look like that?” shoko grimaces, looking at gojo and geto who look far worse than the rest of the team that leave.

geto scowls, glaring at his best friend, “fucking coach overhead him again.”

shoko shakes her head, rolling her eyes, at the white haired idiot. “you need to stop—“

“it’s been three months and she’s not over that old man?!”

“he’s not even that old!” shoko defends.

but gojo scowls harder, glancing over his shoulder at you laughing and talking, hands animated, like the man in front of you was holding the world. “it’s always the mean girls.”

shoko frowns, “you’re messed up in the head.”

but even geto narrows his eyes when toji wraps a possessive arm around you, glaring up at the two players.

it was clear as day.

you’re his.

a/n: this was LOONG overdue, mb guys!!! but i hope you all enjoyed it!!! ahhhh i love coach toji sososososo much—like its a serious problem, i cant make reader behave normally when its toji, like she has to be obsessed with himmm

“M-Mhmm,” You squirm, throating his length with great fervor as his sudden thrusts take you by surprise.

Although you can’t see it, Sukuna flashes a wide grin before pulling his bottom lip in between his teeth and letting his brow furrow.

“Yeahh, I bet you do.” The man rasps, fingertips pressing into your head a little firmer, “You’ve probably wanted me to fuck your mouth first thing in the morning like this so many times, hm?”

Your throat tightens around him before you try tugging your head away, only to be stopped by a low grunt rumbling out of him.

“Ohhh, don’t take this away from me now. Come closer, let me give my wife’s throat a proper stretch.” Sukuna rasps heavily, a wet slick of precum dribbling out against the center of your tongue. You then swirl the oral muscle around his cock and feel it twitch in reaction. “Mhmm, love it when you spoil me like this.”

You can’t see it but your husband’s got the biggest grin on his face, cheeks tinted in a rosy hue and breath growing heavier by the second. His hips buck a bit harder and you could feel his rhythm steadily growing erratic as his cock swells further against the tight walls of your throat.

Thick spurts of salty precum flood into your mouth as you happily slurp over every ridge and vein pulsing down his dick. As your lips kiss his base, your nose is quickly left buried into the coarse hairs of pink at his groin. Your eyes roll further back into your skull and you release a moan in between your desperate sucks.

A guttural groan is ripped straight from his chest as his fingers begin to twist into the sheet over your head, anchoring your mouth in place just to feel the way your throat struggles around the thick girth of his cock. His tip smooches a little deeper and you're left to gag softly as a breath gasp jumps out of him.

Sukuna has always looved head, so to have you waking him up like this was nothing more than a wet dream come true.

One last thrust into your mouth takes place before there's a rope of warm cum pouring down your throat. His hand gets impossibly heavier against the back of your head and you swear you hear him choke before uttering, "Milk me, y-yes. Fuck, s'good."

Then a slight arch forms in his back as you swallow everything flooding into your mouth, earning a sinful purr out of his throat just before the thin sheet yanked away in one swift motion. Your flushed face and swollen lips are left exposed to his gaze and you try not to smile at how flushed his face is.

"Show me," Sukuna murmurs with a carefully cocked brow.

You obediently open your mouth and lull your tongue out flat to display the emptiness on it—no evidence of him ruining your throat left aside from the glistening traces of spit sheening over your lips.

The sight of you like this first thing in the morning doesn't fail in the slightest to have his cock twitching right back to life as if you'd never sucked him off to begin with. Sukuna's never had a long refactory period but fuck, you didn't think his cock would be curving up for your attention that quickly.

With a brash grin on his face, your husband casually gestures his hand your way as if to tell you to take care of him again. He's sure your mouth and throat are already tired but it'd be cute to actually see you struggle on his—

You're cutting off his train of thought by swallowing up his dick without the slightest bit of struggle. The way your mouth slops past his thick tip and suctions his length in to the deepest corners of your throat has Sukuna choking.

The moment you hear him do so, you flick your eyes up at him and let your tongue slather against the prominently throbbing vein resting at the left underside of his cock. Sukuna's hand curls into the sheet he'd pulled off of your head just moments ago and he weakly pushes his hips up and then tips his head over to the side.

In doing so, he just barely catches sight of how his dick is outlined against the clenching muscles of your throat.

"Fuckkk, that's it." He praises hoarsely before moving his shaky hands to the sides of your face. Then he steadies you completely and maintains eye contact with you for a couple seconds, smirk widening out across his face. "Swallow my cock juuust like that," Sukuna coos in between the next few slow rolls of his hips.

His hands tighten against the your face before he starts fucking himself into your mouth again, quickly picking up his once shallow pace, and letting his brows furrow at the sight. He watches closely as your eyes gloss over and specifically waits for you to gag loudly around his dick before he smiles.

Then Sukuna starts nodding as if to let you know he's about to cum and you don't think there's anything sexier than the face he makes every time he does. His brows would twist upward and his jaw falls open, bottom lip quivering ever so slightly while a louddd groan bellows out of his throat.

The feel of warm cum flooding down your gullet is just enough to serve as some form of breakfast for the morning and you're entirely content with that. Your husbands hips are relentless as he fucks his second load das deep as he can and you try your best to swallow every drop just as you did the first time.

Once Sukuna pulls out, you're finally allowed a moment to gasp and cough a couple times while he slumps back against the pillows.

It's quiet for only a few seconds before his head rolls over to spare you a glance and then his hand reaches out to cup your jaw and tilt your face up. Your lips are all swollen and slick, throat still tensing from the proper stretching he just gifted you with.

He thumbs at your bottom lip and then parts it to inspect the insides of your mouth again.

Making sure to whisper, “S’pretty,” as if to not let that go to your head and then moving to haul you up by your arm so he can lean in and kiss you—shamelessly licking at the corners of your mouth and capturing the few drops of his cum that somehow failed to run down your throat.

After quickly devouring your mouth to replace the taste of his cock with his tongue, his hands are felt at your waist, and he tugs you impossibly closer before hugging you. The gesture is unexpected—despite your many years of marriage—but his next few words make it all make a lot more sense to you.

“Next time, I should like to wake up and see you on top of me," Your husband demands.

You stare at him all innocently, “I dunno about all that, Sukuna.”

His somewhat affectionate stare quickly fades into a sharp glare, “I wasn’t asking.”

“Oh.”

☆ Geto Suguru

As soon as you sat up one morning, something thick ‘n sticky began to ooze out of you, warm rivulets of cum trickling down your inner thighs. The panties you had on the night prior? Gone, vanished without a trace. Your boyfriend of many years? Sound asleep next to you!

Just as you shift slightly, feeling the slick mess between your legs, the man in question begins to stir awake and releases a soft hum just as his eyes flutter open. Your gazes meet once he props himself up on one elbow, his eyes dropping before yours get the chance to as he catches the evidence of his indulgence seep out of you.

"Morning, sweet girl," He hums rather innocently before leaning up just to kiss at your cheek and whisper, "I left a little something inside you while you were sleeping.” Geto points out casually, “Hope you don’t mind.”

Truth be told, part of him hoped you would mind. He hopes you’d scold him for being soo perverted, despite the fact that you’re the one who told him you wanted him to use you whenever, even if you were asleep.

He hardly waited two days after receiving that consent of yours before he was fucking you while you dreamt of god knows what.

Even seeing you under the gentle glow of the morning's light, it's all he can think about. The way he'd spread your legs apart with insistent hands, feeling your unaware frame fall exactly how he needed it to whilst he positioned himself between your thighs.

Geto stuffed the thick head of his cock into your sleeping pussy, letting each inch stretch you out nice 'n slowly, your welcoming walls hugging him with a sloppy heat that made his breath hitch. Drool seeped from the corner of your lips as you readjusted yourself in your sleep, eyes remaining closed, and lashes fanning slightly against your cheeks.

The first thrust into you almost made him feel bad, considering how your body had rocked forward and your cunt clenched ever so sweetly around him as if to gasp.

“You’re s’good to me,” Geto mumbled into the dark room, “F-Fuck, look at you…” His hand went caressing across the side of your face before he tilted his head, “Don’t even know I’m inside you right now, huh?”

He couldn’t help but reel his hips back as he caught the faintest scrunch in your nose. Then he leaned over your body a bit, caging you underneath him and doing his best to hold back from fucking you like he really wanted to. Even though you weren’t awake to make fun of him for it, he still didn’t wanna cum too soon.

Geto’s cock plunged in a little deeper—slathering right against that spot he knows normally has your body arching away from him as if you couldn’t take it, “Would it be bad if I kept going til’ you woke up? Mngh.. you’d probably like that too much.”

Just then, your pussy decides to respond with a ringing squelch! around his cock as he bottoms out. You’re so wet around him that even the dark silks of hair decorating the skin just above his base is shimmering over from your slick. The bed below your bodies is already soaking and Geto nearly feels worse for knowing he’s doing all this to you and you’re missing it.

A pout pulls out his bottom lip for a moment before he shoots his gaze down some more just to watch your juices spill out all around his cock as he slowly rolls his hips back ‘n forth in a languid motion.

“Mmnh..” You’re grumbling in your sleep, but to him the noise sounds mostly like one of pleasure.

One warm breath falls from his mouth as he looks back up to your face, “Moaning in your sleep,” Geto whispers, stilling his hips a moment so that he doesn’t wake you. “So cute.”

While part of him wished you were awake to react and be in the moment of sex with him, the other part of him relished in having you so pliant. None of those whines you spew his way when you swear he’s going too fast or too hard or too slow or whatever-the-fuck. The list of complaints you teasingly throw your boyfriend’s way just to irritate or taunt him while he’s got his dick inside you is quite endless.

You once spent thirty minutes begging to suck him off just to complain about him “bruising your throat” the following morning.

Did you show all symptoms of having a bruised throat that morning? Perhaps. Is that his fault? Nooo, of course not!

Either way, Geto’s appreciating being able to fuck you while you’re sleeping. It’s a little surreal here ‘n there—considering how he’s talking to himself instead of talking you through it—but it’s enjoyable nonetheless.

Especially when your cunt seems to be wide awake as his pace picks up a little. You’re squeezing around him just how he likes it and it’s pulling the oxygen right out of his lungs, leaving him a panting mess above you within mere minutes.

Geto finds it moderately unfair how perfect you are for him even while you’re sleeping.

“Nngh-, shit. I’m gonna cum,” His brows furrow tightly, hands having found security on your hips in a neat fashion to keep your body a bit more steady for the way he rocks his lengthy dick into you. “You want that? My sleepy girl, you’re gonna wake up s’full of me.“

His rambles continue on as he grows closer to something creamy gushing out of his cock, words of filth flowing so naturally out of his mouth that anyone would assume it to be second nature to the man.

Then his tip crams up against a particularly sappy nook of your cunt and a whine squeaks past his lips, “Ah, imagine.. all my cum just leakin' out this pretty hole of yours.” Geto huffs as his hands trail further up your body just to give your tits a hearty squeeze, “Bet you’d call me a perv if you woke up right now—tell me how wrong it is to fuck you while you’re sleep...”

He knows that’s only half-way true, considering you did give him your full consent to this. But the thought of it. The thought of your eyes fluttering open with a gloss of confusion shimmering over them, your steady breaths quickly turning into panting moans, and your entire body awaking to your whorishly gorgeous boyfriend fucking you like the freak you’ve always known him to be…

That’s what gets him.

“You trust me so much.. hahh, fuuck..“ Geto chokes as the realization sends something sinful down his spine, his cock throbbing against your dormant walls, “Gets me so fuckin' hard I can barely think.”

Even though he’s keeping his voice pretty low, it’s getting harder ‘n harder to maintain that volume. You snore softly beneath him and somehow that makes your pussy feel all the more clenched around the head of his weepy dick.

“Mgh-, baby.. you’re getting tighter on me, c’mon now. I don’t wanna cum yet,” He puffs desperately, billowing his hips with slower thrusts as if to combat with your body’s natural reactions to him. “Relax that pussy for me, c’mon. Relax for Suguru, let me make you feel good.”

Your body does exactly that as if used to his cooing words—cunt adjusting to his size within the next few thrusts, oozing out slick all around his deft base as his balls are left flush with your skin.

“Atta’ fuckin’ girll,” Geto purrs hotly before letting his jaw fall open, “Uhuhh, you feel even better now. Can’t believe you listen to me even when you’re sleepin’.”

He thoughtlessly swishes a hand down in between your bodies, his thumb locating your clit and rubbing something utterly delectable into you. Something light like a moan escapes your throat and he worries for a moment that he’d just woke you up—his movements coming to a sharp stop.

When your boyfriend hears that alleged moan fade into another snore, he exhales slowly and then plucks his hips all the way back. His long cock bobs out of your pussy and the dew sight of slick ‘n filth alone is enough to make him draw his bottom lip in between his teeth.

Then Geto takes ahold of his shaft and pumps himself a couple times before tapping his tip against your puffy folds, swatting his cock in between them and then groaning out, “M’gonna cum. F-Fuuck, gorgeous…”

You just-so-happen to move in your sleep after he says that—unconsciously pushing forward and swallowing up his plump tip.

Geto’s face contorts into something just short of pornographic before he whines, “Y’gonna let me do that to you? Cum inside you while you’re sleeping? Ohmygoddd.”

Then he’s inching his hips forward as much as he can before cumming all inside your pretty pussy, leaving you nice and coated with his seed.

He had to put a hand over his mouth to conceal the sounds he’d let out in fear of waking you but right after he’s emptied himself into you, Geto pulls out and hastily holds a finger to your pulsing hole to stop his cum from spilling out.

Smirking, “You’ll probably wake up ‘n get soaked as soon as you feel what I left inside you….”

Which ultimately brings you back to now—the following morning where you’ve done exactly that.

You hadn’t minded what he’d left inside you at all. It may have been a little uncomfortable for you to sit up with the feel of gooey cum dribbling out of you in nasty globs but, it’s swiftly accompanied by dews of your morning arousal.

Then you were leaning back a bit and sending your boyfriend that looks he knows and loves, “Well? Are you gonna sit there ‘n stare at me all day or are you gonna clean up your mess?” You huff towards Geto.

His eyes seem to have a twinkle in them upon hearing those words, his body melting into position in between your legs faster than you have time to process.

You feel his palms come sticking to your thighs as he pushes them apart and swats his tongue over his lips, “You’re the one who said I could use you whenever I wanted. Don’t be such a brat about it, princess.”

Peering down at him, you cock a brow his way, “Yeah well, I didn’t tell you to leave your cum in me all night. Now less talking and more cleaning, perv.”

Oh fuck.

Do you even have any idea of what you just started?

Spoiler alert: no.

☆ Gojo Satoru

You made a mistake.

Giving your "sweet" husband Gojo the permission to bury his dick inside you whenever he wants was probably not in your best interest. Fairly enough, you'd given him that permission about a month ago now and he's only exhausted that free use a handful of times.

You expected him to be all over you nearly every night but, that simply wasn't the case. Instead, he waited for rather specific situations to pull the free use card.

Specific situations such as now, while you're laying across your living room couch with your phone pressed up to your ear. You'd received a call from one of your exes and now you're listening to him ramble on about how harshly life's been treating him since you left.

You swear you were seconds from hanging up the phone, but you were never quite given a chance to do so since the sound of your husband returning home from a long day of work pulled you out of the dully dragging, one-sided conversation. Before you could turn your head towards the hallway that led to the front door, you felt this sudden weight shifting down onto the backs of your thighs.

When you glanced back over your shoulder, Gojo was giving you this deceivingly innocent smile as his big hands moved to slide against your sides.

You gave him a greeting smile of your own before he leaned down to kiss at your forehead.

Then his ears caught the familiar voice on your phone.

He'd been no stranger to this ex of yours since you'd shared the many, many horror stories about what you'd experienced with the him over the years. But, Gojo wasn't in much of a mood to care or question you about it right now.

Not after the looooong day of work he's had—having spent the majority of it fantasizing about returning home to his beautiful wife.

Hence why it only takes one short push of his hips for you to feel the lump of his cock bulging out against his slacks and pressing into the cushioning of your ass. You gasp at it but quickly cover it up with a fake cough before the idiot on the phone could ask you any questions about it.

Then you look back at your husband again, only to find that all his attention is on your ass. His hands move to squish your cheeks together as he bites his lip, cheeks hued in blush just from how aroused he already is. Fuck, he'd been thinking about this—about you—all damn day.

And now you're in his hands, all soft 'n pliant for him. Gojo feels you glaring at him from just beyond his peripherals but he still doesn't care. In fact, he lifts one of his hands to wave your starring off entirely—silently signaling you to focus on your little phone call instead of what he's doing.

You let it slide for the time being and turn your head away with a roll of your eyes, humming into the phone in response to whatever your ex had last uttered to you.

This continues on for a few minutes with nothing unusual happening until Gojo smacks at your ass and you feel his cock rutting in between the valley of the two mounds. His pants are still keeping him constrained but it doesn't do much to conceal how much he's twitching beneath the fabric.

Nor does it aid with how hot you begin to get as he shamelessly begins to hump you. The sounds of his soft pants fan out from behind you and you're hoping this is all he'll do before he cums and leaves you to work your way off the phone.

Unfortunately for you, that's not at all what happens.

Gojo's hands get greedier as his dick gets impossibly harder and you feel his palms sneaking to your waist for a moment before he slips them right under you. Your stomach is given a soft squeeze as he smiles and then his hands are traveling up to your tits—successfully groping at them in sync with the rocking of his hips.

Sometimes you think he forgets just how big he is. Those long limbs of his are straddling your legs but that doesn't help with the weight of his firm body pressing down against you.

Then he has the nerve to crane over to your other ear. "Need you," Gojo whispers whilst his hips thrust lightly, his hands having snuck under your shirt by now.

He thoroughly cups your breasts and lets his fingers dig into your flesh while leaking an embarrassing amount of pre into his boxers—the moisture seeping through enough to leave a wet patch against his dark pants.

Before you can mute the phone to respond to him—or do anything, really—he's kissing at the side of your neck and muttering into your skin, "Gonna fuck you now, okay?”

As quickly as you can, you move the phone away from your ear and hope it doesn't catch your voice as you huff, “Satoru, wait.”

“Shhhh, you told me whenever I want, remember?” He cuts off quickly. His hands are moving right after he says that, reaching the flimsy waistband of your bottoms and tugging them down along with your moderately soaked panties to reveal your naked skin.

You look back with a pout on your face, gesturing slightly towards your phone, “But—“

Gojo meets eyes with you shortly while his hands fly to his thick belt to tug it out the way and then unzip his pants. His chin nods towards that pesky call of yours, “Who is that anyway?” He asks as if not already aware.

“Uh," You swallow thickly, "Remember uhm… Naoya?”

Unbothered, your husband flashes a smile. “Ohhh, that’s your ex, right?” He hums back to you. Your head nods in response and he scoffs in between his fingers steadily unzip his pants, “Fuck's he want?”

“He said I-, ah—Satoru..” Your breathy moan was prompted by the heavy thump of his cock against your ass with all its veiny weight as Gojo lets it bob and then slap at your cheeks.

Still looking at you, “He said you what?” Gojo asks.

Your lashes flutter—and despite the hushed back and forth going on here, your clueless ex is still talking to himself on your phone. “—Said he found some stuff I left over at his place, and then went rambling on from there.”

You mostly expected this to be the part where Gojo acts out of possessiveness or jealousy, but to your surprise, he only shrugs. "Why didn’t you hang up?”

“I was curious," You tell him honestly.

He nods, “Oh yeah?”

Your eyes drop to the way his hand is rubbing along his cockhead, smearing his own pre around his pinkened tip and leaving it to glisten under the dim living room lighting.

Then you gulp, “...I figured something might be wrong, but he’s just talking to me n-normally,” Your stammers come from his cockhead shhlicking down between your folds, kissing your hole all sloppy.

“Mh. Alright,” Gojo murmurs, nodding his head toward the phone again as his attention falls elsewhere, “Keep listening to him then.”

“But I thought you wanted to—“

His hand finds the back of your head all of a sudden and he pushes your face down against the couch cushions a bit, doing so to muffle the expected moan that’s ripped out of your throat as he bucks his hips forward all meanly.

“You heard what I said.” He warns as he watches you shakingly obey via drawing the phone back up to your ear. “Uhuh, don’t even worry about me, sweetheart. Just let me use this pussy til’ I’m satisfied. Pretend I’m not even here.”

It’s quite difficult to do that as Gojo wastes no time sprawling the lips of your pussy out around his wide shaft. Those gorgeous white lashes of his flutter in relief as he first begins to feed his cock into your cunt, eyeing the way you suck him in despite having to bite down on the couch to stop yourself from moaning directly into the phone call.

In courtesy of said call, your husband is even nice enough to go easy on you!

…For the first few minutes, anyway.

It doesn’t take much longer before his hands are properly anchoring your body down against the couch via your hips and his thrusting is timed perfectly with each time you try to open your mouth and speak to that stupid ex of yours.

The first few times you were able to play your moans off as a cough and told the bummy Naoya that you’d probably come down with a cold or something. You knew if you tried to work your way off the phone—even though you’d been doing so long before Gojo got home—your husband would probably punish you by edging you til’ your legs lost functionality in them and your pussy was a leaking mess all over this very couch.

So, you did your best to maintain the one-sided conversation for as long as you could. The only bad thing about it was that your talking and moaning made you squeeze Gojo’s cock all the more tighter and he fucking loved it.

He just couldn’t get enough of how wet this was getting you—how you seemed to relish in this kinda situation. It quickly let him know that this should be a reoccurring thing he does.

Free use is one thing, but executing it only when you’re talking to someone else was definitely in Gojo’s best interest now.

So in between him purposefully waiting until you’re mid-response to fuck you harder, he’d angle himself over and talk into your other ear all nasty, “Yeahhhh, you like this, don’t you? Getting fucked real good while that pathetic ex of yours rambles to you? Makes me wonder if you’d be this wet if I did this more often—fuck you while you’re on the phone…”

Then his hand would come down against your ass again, the smack surely loud enough to be heard on the phone.

“What was that?” Naoya’s grating voice asks through the call.

You bite down a little harder on the bit of cushion you already had in between your teeth so you could drool out a moan before lifting your face up and gasping. “M-My husband dropped something. Don’t worry about it,” You breathed out.

The man on the other end of your phone didn’t seem too convinced but he was in the middle of explaining something before he interrupted himself with his own question so, he returned right back to the topic.

Gojo’s lips curl against your ear—having picked up on the sly way in which you tried to remind Naoya that you’re married, clearly hoping that it would get the call to end sooner.

“Should I wait til’ you get a call from work next time?” He grunts into your ear just as his cock knocks into your cervix, smearing the area over with a glimmer of his glossy precum. “Think you could hold in your moans if I did that?”

You mindlessly move the phone away from your mouth and let your maw hang open as you look back at him, “Toru..”

Gojo gives you a toothy smile before shaking his head and tugging your body back to meet his heavy thrusts, “Uh-uh, answer my question.”

His hand then tugs your face all the way up by your jaw and the phone falls as he plows into you. In doing so, he also manages to force your body into this nasty arch against the couch that has all noises heard by your ex on the phone.

You even hear Naoya’s sentences fall short as he pauses for a long moment and listens closely. Then, “The fuck is that noise—“

Plap plap plap!

The smacking of Gojo’s hips to your ass is picked up by your phone in the best of quality, each slap of skin heard perfectly by the man on that call.

Eyes narrowing on his end, even though you can’t see it, Naoya glances at his phone sideways and his face twists up, “—Are you…”

“Mmgh! Fuuck, Satoruu,” You choke out helplessly. “R-Right theree, ah!”

The sudden encouragement from your lips is exactly what eggs Gojo on into grunting all loudly and leaning his body up. The prone bone position you two have been neatly tucked into this entire time is unmoving as he continues to pull you back onto his cock.

He moans upon feeling you cumming around him and leaving this creamy mess all over the thumping veins that decorate his length.

Shamelessly talking at a normal volume as if that call of yours isn’t ongoing. “There she iss, there’s my perfect wife.” Then Gojo reaches over and swipes up the phone, talking right into it, “Sounds s’pretty doesn’t she?”

Naoya’s spewing and sputtering out curses to the both of you but Gojo tosses the device faster than he has time to hear or care. Then his hands pin you down against the couch by your waist and his bucking becomes insistent.

The couch moves slightly, scraping the floor with how rough he was being before Gojo lets his leg slide off slightly so he can steady himself. Then one of his hands move to the side of the couch to hold it still while his dick angles somewhere to the left inside you.

You sometimes forget just how big ‘n strong your husband is—how easily he can fold your body and handle the janky movement of furniture at the same time. And it seems you’d forgotten it so much that now you were trying to run from him a bit.

He notices how your hips pull away whenever he tugs them onto himself and the cute attempt makes him grin. To distract you from your futile attempts of escaping him, Gojo weighs his head to the side and huffs, “You uh, you never answered my question, sweet thing.”

Your eyes roll back almost instantly and the man feels his heart throb at how pretty you look getting fucked out on him already. “Yes, ‘Toru. Hnngh-, fuck! I’d love it if you-, ohmygod… i-if you did this more often,” You moan to him.

“Babyyyyy,” Gojo coos, pearly sloshes of cum quickly pouring out from the head of his cock but not stopping nor slowing that bullying pace of his, “That’s so slutty of you. Wonder where you got that from.”

You just barely send a glare back his way. “D-Don’t act innocent.”

His brows shoot upward and he grins cheekily, “Hmm?” It’s almost like he wasn’t actively flooding your insides with cum. “Are you implying that I turned you into this?” You nod and he tuts, “Say it then.”

You hated loved when he challenged you like this—as if you were scared to admit it or something. Swallowing down your moans firmly enough to breathe, “You did this to me, Satoru.”

That dopey smile of his returns to his stupidly angelic face and he’s fucking his cum into you real’ good whilst talking, “Oh yeah? What’d I do, baby? Talk to me nice.”

“R-Ruined me,” You cry out with drool dribbling out from the corner of your mouth, “Turned me into a slut for you.”

“Fuck yeah I did,” Gojo replies proudly. Then he looks down and rocks his hips forward before stilling himself inside you just to feel you clench and unclench around him. “Now, are you gonna cum for me again or do I have to get that ex of yours on FaceTime?”

Your eyes widen, “You wouldn’t.”

“Hah,” The phone he tossed earlier is swiped right back up and you hear that signature ringing faster than you have time to process anything.

Naoya answers after only two rings. Though, it should be noted that he never even hung up the regular call.

“The fuck?” He spits as he’s met with your husband angling the phone up just right to show his smothered cock tucked inside you.

Gojo moves to tap at your head next, meeting eyes with you for half a second once you glance back at him, “Smile for me, sweetheart.”

☆ Nanami Kento

“You said anytime I want, my love.”

You didn’t think he would finger you while you had company.

It was movie night with a great deal of your friends scattered around your shared living room and yet here your fiancé was forcing your legs to spread open while you sat on his lap.

Two thick fingers were idly rubbing against your pussy over the fabric of your panties—a small blanket the only thing concealing the sight.

You whispered back to the man as quietly as you could, not wanting to deal with what was to come if anyone around you two figured out what exactly was going on under that blanket, “Kento this is absurd!”

“Shh, shh," Nanami hummed deeply, his eyes trained forward just over your shoulder whilst his fingers continued with their motions, "I can’t hear the movie.”

A frown took over the shape of your lips, “But—“

Already annoyed, “Shut up,” He cut off before glancing away from the TV screen to make sure no one was looking at you both. With no peering eyes found, he decides now as a good time to stuff your mouth full of his free fingers. “Isn't this so much better? Now suck.”

Your cunt twitched against the digits he had neatly rubbing against you and he took that as a sweet reply from you, your lips slowly molding around his fingers before you bobbed your head forward ever so slightly.

You made sure to keep the sounds of your sucking to a quiet slurp that could easily pass off as one of you sipping on something—and this surprisingly worked just fine for the next few minutes.

...At least until Nanami pulled your panties to the side.

Then his fingers lifted away from your skin for a few seconds to allow your poor pussy a moment to throb 'n clench around nothing before he smacked! at it lightly. The wet plp that rang out into the space surrounding you both surprisingly wasn't loud enough to cause any heads to turn.

Which, of course, was what you preferred.

But it did cause you to moan, "Ken," as his fingers fell from your mouth.

Nanami suppressed a groan but he couldn't quite stop his crotch from shifting under your ass. The hand that'd been occupying your mouth fell for a moment as one of your guests looked into your direction—to which your fiancé kindly sent them an innocent grin and then glanced to you as if you two had been having some casually whispered conversation that totally didn't involve him playing with your pussy.

He tipped his mouth up to your ear for a moment and made sure his words didn't escape the space between you whatsoever, “They’ll catch on if you keep moaning my name like that.”

Despite his warning, he purposefully begins to feed his thiiiick fingers past your dewy entrance—which accepts him nicely via squelching hotly in between your thighs.

“Fuck,” You whine after bringing some of the blanket up to cover the bottom half of your face.

As if that would properly conceal your sounds or something...

Nanami's behind you grinning as his free hand fingers your hip and forces your body to push back 'n forth against the very prominent erection in his pants, “Can you feel me? Feel what this does to me?” He asks softly, breath cascading down the side of your shoulder now, “Fuck, I’ve been thinking about this all day. Seems like you have too.”

Just as he points that out, he's poking two fingers into your cunt and letting the tips of them swipe against your sopping walls—earning a gorgeous gloss of liquid arousal to spurt out from where you're currently connected.

Your body naturally slumps back against his a bit as your legs sprawl out some more over his. “Please...” You huff, unsure of what exactly you were even begging for.

“Your squirming will only make it worse, y'know," Nanami warns far too kindly.

“Nngh-," You moan again.

It's almost like you were caring less and less about the surrounding company!

“You're a mess, my love. Can you really not handle a couple fingers without my others in your mouth?” He sighs, sparing you no time to answer, and letting his fingers scissor out against your walls as they dig further into you.

He easily fucks himself knuckle deep and leaves his pointer and pinky to press into the plush of your surrounding skin.

Then, after plugging your mouth up with his digits yet again—since you can't seem to behave without them—his whispers felt like warm honey against your ear, "I suppose this means I can go faster now, no?"

“Mmgh!” Your grumbling around his digits truly has his cock aching in his pants. But he doesn't want to fuck you in front of everyone like this.

At least, not yet.

Though, the thought is most definitely tempting.

You figure this much based on how taunting his voice soothes out against your ear again, “Do you want them to see you like this, darling?” Then his fingers slide against the center of your tongue whilst his others curve into your cunt, “Should I move this blanket and let them?”

Your head shakes frantically and you even move a hand of your own to push at the one he's got buried in between your thighs, inaudibly begging for some sort of break or moment to at least gather your thoughts.

“Ohhh, don’t do that.” Nanami purrs in this suddenly condescending tone, tongue peeping out past his lips to lick a stripe against the side of your neck. Then his words feel just as warm and feverish as his breath is all pressed up against your skin, “I think you want it. You want me to toss this blanket and let everyone here watch me fuck you.”

“M-Mmph!” You grumble before slithering your tongue in between the fingers he's got lodged past your wobbly lips.

“Look at you, practically crying for it," He adds on in reference to your currently sobbing cunt. If only he could see how wet you had his slacks right now. Feeling it is one thing, of course, but he knows setting his eyes on it directly is another thing in itself entirely. “You want all our neighbors to see how pretty you look bouncing on my cock?”

Nanami slides his fingers out of your mouth just to let you respond with the quiet whimper of his name, “Kento..”

“I want them to see," He admits naughtily, “Want them to watch how wide I stretch you, watch how I make this pretty cunt squirt… shit.” Now his fingers were diving in and out of you at a faster rate, sloshing left 'n right each time they came out to slander your slick all over the place.

A friend or two surely caught on to what was happening under that blanket by now.

But... you think both you and Nanami lost it in yourselves to care enough by this point.

Which is confirmed and doubled down on as your head angles back and you lose all your senses with the way you kiss him.

Nanami groans lowly into your mouth, the sound vibrational. Then he sears his next array of admissions in between your lips, “Mmh, I knew it. You want it too, huh?”

“Yeah,” You huff, nodding slightly.

Neither of you were thinking things through at all. Moreso him than you, though.

Which is proven in the next number of minutes just after Nanami adjusts his cock out of his pants and works it past your quivering ring of resistance in slow motion. The wide stretch had your body squirming all over the place and the hand that covered your mouth was most certainly a necessity by this point.

Although one or two people in the room had caught on to what might have been happening between you and Nanami, they couldn't be entirely sure just yet. It was still dark in the room and the TV was loud enough in the moment to mask your muffled cries of pleasure.

“If you moan too loud, I’m moving the blanket and fucking you in front of everyone for real," Nanami warned—trying his best to at least let you try to give this a solid attemp-

“K-Kennn,” You whimper beyond the palm of his hand, killing that attempt entirely.

With a scoff, “Oh. You don't think I'm being serious, do you?”

One moment his cock is fully inside of you and the next... the blanket flies off.

Shit.

☆ Choso Kamo

Legs pressed up to his chest, thighs clasped together tightly, and something hot ‘n rock hard rutted in between them—occasionally nudging in between your folds and against your clit—you were woken up to the sight of your rather depraved boyfriend fucking your thighs.

Whimpering as quietly as he could, “FuckFuckFuckFuck-, nnngh… fuuuck-,” Choso gasped all pathetically.

The two of you had been napping and cuddling together just minutes ago but then he woke up so painfully hard with his cock already crammed up against the pretty curve of your ass. He just couldn't help himself!

And surely you didn't expect him to ignore his boner when you specifically told him that if he ever needed you, he could have you—no matter the place or situation.

So when you turned over in your sleep and he saw how nicely your thighs were hugging one another, he just couldn't help but imagine what his flushed cock would look like smudged in between them. He's already shown you time 'n time before that he's dangerously obsessed with your thighs.

Well, technically he's obsessed with all parts of you but, something about your thighs make him dizzy in his own arousal. Every time Choso has you riding his face, his hands are always groping and squishing your thighs. And he can't deny how attractive he thinks it is when you've just finished sucking him off and his cum spills down past your face and into the perfect crease of your clamped legs.

Which is exactly why he didn't waste much time repositioning himself so that he could hold your legs up now and slowly nudge his dick in between your legs. He tried to be careful of rubbing against your cunt as he held your limbs up against his chest with one bulky arm, the other propped somewhere to the side of him so that he'd be in a decent enough position to thrust against you.

“S-So pretty,” Choso grunted as he saw just how much he came already. Creamy globs of cum coated the entirety of his cock and smeared all nastily along your inner thighs, making it easy for his still-rigid length to slide back and forth now. All while he whispers, “I love you, baby. Love f-fucking you like this.“

His pelvis would clash with the back of your legs over and over again, the rough motion hard enough to have your torso rocking further up against the bed. If not for the pillows he adroitly set behind your head prior to getting off with your legs, you surely would've woken up from the top of your head knocking into the headboard.

Luckily enough for Choso, you wake up from feeling the other thing he'd been trying to avoid—the friction his cock created against your pussy.

It was an accident, really. He wanted to use your thighs really quickly and then go back to cuddling with you as if nothing ever happened but... well, after he came the first few times he was still hard.

He had to do something about it, right?"

“Go faster, Cho,” You're heard murmuring while your sleepily rub over your eyes, “C’mon, if you're gonna fuck my thighs like this then do it properly.”

“O-Ohh shiiiit,” Choso's breath gets tangled up almost immediately. He saw that you started to move and knew you were waking up but he didn't expect you to start talking to him like that so abruptly.

Then you give him a cute, but groggy smile as he mindlessly follows your instructions and picks up his pace, “There you go—good boyyy.”

Choso's eyes roll back and his hips are moving uncontrollably now. He probably would've ended up like this even if you didn't say anything but fuck, now that you have? Oh, the poor man was done for.

“Gonna cum,” He pants, watching through glossed eyes as you move your hand out to stroke at his cock each time it slots through the small gap he's created in between your thighs, “Gonna cum on you-, shit. Your thighs are s’warm.. They-, hahh-,” He’s cut off by you squeezing your legs—his eyes rolling back, headboard knocking up against the wall, and raw, husky groans pouring out of him.

Then you watch silky strings of cum spurt from his flustered tip, landing all over your torso, and even flying up to hit your mouth a little.

Choso's brows are left taut as he tries his best to keep himself from falling over on top of you and tugging your pajamas off just to plop his creamy cock inside you. Instead, he maintains his balance just fine and sways his head to the right before looking down at the way his dick is rubbing against your core again.

“Does it feel good for you too?” He pants cutely, doe-like eyes running up to your face, “Can you still feel me there? Against your pussy?”

You've clasped your bottom lip in between your teeth by now and your hand is left wet from his cum but you still manage a nod in response. To which Choso releases an eased sigh.

Then he leans up to properly, keeping his body steady on his knees and wrapping his other arm around you to come and pinch your clit somewhere in between his somewhat jittery grinds.

“Choso,” You call out in surprise, your hand flying down to hold his wrist.

He flashes this fucked-out little grin your way, answering his own question, “Mhmm, you cann. Fuck, you’re so wet from this.”

You let off a moan and then smile right back at him, “So are you.”

“Uhuh,” He gasps, “A-Always wet for my girl.”

You giggle at his dazed way of speaking now, wondering distantly just how many times he came while you were sound asleep, “I don’t think that’s how it works, baby.”

Choso's eyes soften in awe of you. “Don’t laugh at me,” He says with his plump bottom lip begining to poke out.

You gesture your hand out for him to come closer to you, “Awh, c’mere. Don’t pout.”

Casually ignoring you, your boyfriend naturally presses your legs down flat against your chest and his cock pops out from in between your thighs, dangling in the air with a drooling string of cum dripping from his flushed head.

Then he uses his strength to hold you down with one hand, the other grabbing ahold of his dick and letting it pat against your pussy—watching the way your plump lips press out around his shape through the fabric of your panties.

“You’re soaked from all that," He points out, noticing how the majority of your underwear is a dark shade indicating just how wet you'd gotten from waking up to his actions.

“Choso..." You murmur as you unconsciously send him a frown.

He looks up at your face, “Aw, now you’re the one pouting.”

Accompanying his words is a steady build up of something sloppy rubbing back 'n forth against the outline of your pussy. He doesn't really feel like taking your panties off or even moving them out of the way just yet, wanting to drag out your need for him as punishment for your first act towards him being those taunting words you threw his way earlier.

“Stop teasing,” You end up whining after the first few slips of his dick.

Normally you'd be all for this kinda thing but considering you woke up and immediately got horny from seeing your boyfriend finally taking advantage of the free use you'd given him months ago, it was a bit difficult for you not to be impatient now.

Choso lets out a hot breath as he decides to try something a little different. You'd already seen enough of his pathetic needy side for the day so, he figures it's time he switches it up now. Rasping out a rather commanding, “Say please.”

“Please?” You beg instantly while sending him that look you know makes him absolutely weak for you.

For the first time in foreve, Choso manages to ignore that look of yours and tips his head back a bit while thrusting his cockhead in between your drooling slit—bumping his own against your clit. “A little more than that,” He requests in a softened tone, “Say, ‘can I please have your cock, choso’?”

“I…” You swallow thickly at first—caught entirely off guard by his specific request. The worst part about it was the fact that you know he felt the way your cunt went twitching and clenching in reaction, yearning to be stuffed full of him sooner rather than later, “Can I please have your cock, Choso?”

“Good girl," He hums in between the slightly shy smile he sends down to you, "Now you get your reward."

Your panties are torn right off within the following moment. Choso hadn't exactly meant to rip the fabric off of you like that but, y'know, he was still just as needy for you as you were for him.

He couln't help himself!

When his cock finally begins to push against your hole, he breaks your legs open and displays this whorish look you've never seen from him before. Sounding far too confident as he hums, “Gonna fuck you til’ you’re wishing I kept using your thighs now, princess.”

As if he doesn't end up cumming not even a minute after being inside yo.

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Sighing as you found yourself standing outside his room, pausing to peek through the now cracked window, watching Sukuna sitting on his too-small bed, back against the concrete wall with his muscled arms folded across his chest, completely fucking naked as his furry ears bristled in irritation. 

He was attractive, annoyingly so, enough to remind you every time you saw him why the hybrid population kept increasing every year, but you as quick as the thought floated up, you shoved it back down. 

You knocked twice on the door before scanning your card again, peeking inside before stepping in, feeling his stare on you before you looked up at the man of the hour. Or well, tiger of the hour. 

“Took you long enough,” he tch-ed, a low growl escaping his throat as he sauntered to his feet. 

“What did you do this time?” You wryly asked, nose scrunching up as you let your eyes scan the rest of his room. Someone must have tried to toss some toys in, as if he was a cub instead of fully grown, the remains of a plush mouse scattered across the floor. 

“The blonde tried to bathe me,” he indignantly scoffed, head held proudly up. You were tempted to tell him that he had a perfectly good bathroom already attached to his room – complete with a shower and tub he could use to wash himself, if he wasn’t so high and mighty to insist on being babied. Or, according to his perspective, treated like the king of this place he frequently insisted he hated so much.

You exhaled, shutting your eyes for just a second to massage your temples in an attempt to stall the headache brewing behind them only to open them and find him standing six inches away. Looking down at you. 

“I told her you’re the only one that can touch me,” he muttered, low and almost lethal. His hand reached out to skim over your bicep, barely touching but still enough for you to feel the pressure behind his fingertips. “She sent in the fucking vet to try to sedate me.” 

“And how did that go?” You sarcastically asked, as if you didn’t have a pretty decent inkling. 

“Well, they called you, didn’t they?” He sharply retorted, cocking his head to the side, jaw clenched as you chewed on the inside of your cheek. 

He got what he wanted. 

And you got to scrub a ridiculously oversized man in a tub for twenty minutes while he complained about not having enough bath salts, rubbing a sponge over his ridiculously ripped back muscles as he muttered about how awful everyone else here was. Grumbling with gritted teeth while your hands ran over his spine, damp sleeves rolled up over your elbows as you traced shapes along his strong arms, his slightly musky scent still invading your nostrils no matter how much soap you used. 

It wasn’t bad, even if it was strong. 

All masculine and warm, whatever pheromones he was putting off having a funny effect on your head the longer you knelt so close to him, sighing as you reached into the water and pulled up the drain. 

“Bath time’s over,” you muttered softly, standing up and grabbing a thick towel to hold out for him, making a point to not look past the thick patch of his happy trail when he wrapped it around his waist, even if you couldn’t not notice the way his damp tail dripped water behind him after he got out. 

“Where are you goin’?” He growled when you started to walk back out, his claws poking out in protest as your hand paused just before you could scan your key card to get out.

“Home,” you muttered. “You better have some clothes on when I come back.” 

The shelter sure spent fucking enough on custom robes big enough to fit him. 

He snarled, two seconds from making a snide comment, but you slipped out before he could. 

You were ready to crawl back into your own bed, curl up and get some sleep, maybe message your boss before you passed out that you’d be a little late in the morning since you had to come in overnight. Let yourself get an extra hour or two of rest before you had to deal with him again. 

Except, uh, your boss was already waiting for you in the lobby, Yaga leaning back against the receptionist desk and grimacing at the fluorescent lights as you stopped and stared. 

“Is everything okay?” You blinked a few times, just for him to fix you in a solemn stare.

And still, while your brain scrambled to come up with a reason for him being here too, you didn’t expect what left his mouth now as he jutted his thumb in the direction you came from. 

“Do you think you could foster him?” 

No. No, there was no way-

Except, um, apparently, there was a way when they offered you a hefty bonus and a few days off, and Shoko slipped a strong sedative in his breakfast so you could transfer him from his room back to your place – which you promptly had to Sukuna proof. 

You expected him to throw a fit when he eventually woke up, to try and break through your front door and escape. 

But he just sniffed the air slowly before he even lazily opened up his dark eyes to glance around your apartment, a crooked smile curling up as he centered his stare on you. 

“So I’m your problem now?” 

Was it too late to take him back? 

Trade in your annoying tiger hybrid for a fluffy housecat? 

In your personal experience, all felines were funny in that they could listen perfectly fine – they just didn’t care. 

And Sukuna was no exception. 

Shredding your curtains when you went out without telling him, sinking his sharp teeth into your pillows after you made him floss between them, turning your couch into his personal little nest and dragging your clothes from your closet into it. Judging the comfort of your blankets and commenting on how boring it was being here, acting like he’d rather be back at the shelter as he ate half the food in your fridge in a few hours. 

He was insufferable and spoiled and a million other awful adjectives you could assign him, but it wasn’t totally terrible to come home from your shifts to someone warm. Who’d begrudgingly let you scratch behind his ears and stroke his pretty, pink hair. You took him to the park as much as you could, ignoring the pointed stares you’d receive and the people who muttered that he should have a muzzle on while he begrudgingly stayed by your side. 

It wasn’t like you had a backyard he could stretch his limbs or lounge in. 

And two months in, you hadn’t exactly envisioned starting off your mornings with fur in your mouth and the weight of a full-grown man on your chest, but you guessed there were worse things. 

You might even miss him when all this came to an end, which, according to the text message you woke up to from Yaga, might be sooner than you think. Some rich guy had apparently called asking about him, claiming he owned thirty acres of land he used to house exotic hybrids and wanted to add Sukuna to his collection. 

Now you just had to figure out how to tell him that he might have a new owner. 

You tried to sneak over to the bathroom after carefully extracting yourself from underneath him, bare feet padding out while you glanced over your shoulder at the slumbering mass in your bed, a little bit of drool leaking down his lips as he snored on your pillow. 

He almost looked peaceful like this. 

As if you hadn’t gotten back from work last night to discover a stash of your panties underneath the daybed he’d currently taken over in your spare room. And the, um, dried substance they seemed to be coated in you’d desperately been trying not to think too hard about. 

Okay, perhaps he was closer to a perverted roommate than a pet. 

But you couldn’t scrub out the guilt that seemed to cling to your skin in the shower, hot water running over your body as you sighed to yourself and debated on how you’d break the news when he had started to settle in here. 

At least there he’d be able to have the space he needed, time outdoors, probably better nutrition than what you could afford to keep in your fridge and pantry, even with the added provisions your work provided for him. He was about as antisocial as it came – but there might be other hybrids there that he could actually stand being around. Closer to his spot on the food chain instead of the other ones he usually sneered down at. 

His new owner might even treat him like the king he thought he was. 

The shower curtain was abruptly pulled back, your arm rushing to cover up your tits, but his eyes were just on yours, his sharp nose scrunched up in a familiar scowl as he grunted good morning, his clothes already stripped off as he stepped in after you. 

“What is your problem?” You huffed at him, but he just yawned, toothpaste stuck to his bottom lip as he reached past you to grab the bottle of specialty hybrid shampoo you bought for him. 

“Didn’t you tell me yesterday we have to conserve water or some shit?” He grunted, lathering up his hair like his rock hard dick wasn’t out and poking you in the thigh. 

“I didn’t mean-” You started to groan, lips pressed together in a flustered frown. Swallowing hard as you struggled to keep your stare somewhere appropriate. You’d like to pretend your relationship was entirely platonic. That it fit perfectly in the boundaries of what it was supposed to. 

Where the only spot of your heart he occupied was pure. That the growing intimacy you’d been ignoring was innocent. 

It was getting a lot fucking harder to believe it when he felt more and more like a person to you every day. More human. 

“You were takin’ too long,” he added, moving over to bump his hip into yours to start hogging the hot water for himself. 

You stepped back, goosebumps trailing down your arms once you were out of the stream, holding your breath as you debated on ripping the bandaid off while he was washing himself for once. 

“Someone wants to buy you,” you heard yourself say, unsure of what emotion it was in your voice as he suddenly went still, tail twitching as his shoulders straightened. “Um, adopt, I guess.” 

He turned his head, just barely, enough for you to catch his nasty side-eye and locked jaw. 

“That’s not fucking funny,” he growled. 

“Yaga texted me,” you continued, careful to keep your tone steady. “Said some guy with a ton of acres wants to take you in. Guess he like, collects rare-” 

“No.” 

“No?” You incredulously repeated. “You can’t just-” 

“I’m not going to be some fucking breeding stock for an asshole who wants to stick me in an enclosure,” he declared, your mouth hanging open at the wild assumption he jumped to just from a couple sentences. 

“Who said anything about breeding?” You gaped, eyebrows arching up as you stopped yourself from stomping your foot. 

“You’re delusional if you don’t think that’s the only reason someone would want a problem hybrid like me,” he half-glared at you, molars grinding as you tried to come up with a reason to argue with him. 

“I-” You stopped yourself, blinking too hard and fast. 

“Tell them no,” he spat the word back out, thick brows furrowed together tightly as he shut off the water. 

“What if someone else wants to-” You started, and his whole body twisted around, his arms suddenly caging you in as you shrank back against the cold walls of the shower, all the air in your lungs ripped from you as he pinned you in. 

“I’m yours,” he hissed. “You can’t just toss me out like I’m some fuckin’ stray.” 

You were pretty sure you were gawking, grasping at straws to push him away when heat was pooling and simmering in the pit of your stomach. 

“They’ll be able to give you a better life than-” 

His mouth crashed into yours, fingers tangling in your hair while he shut up your stuttered gasp with his tongue slipping past your lips. 

He didn’t ask for permission. 

But maybe it was because he didn’t need to. 

Because when it boiled down to it, you’d let him into your home. Your shower. Let him slice and carve out half of your heart, even when you knew he’d probably just chew it up and spit it out. 

“Mmph, S’kuna,” you tried to breathe, placing a damp hand on his bare chest, fingers pressing down as he just kissed you again, struck by how strange it was to taste your own toothpaste on him, smell your soap on his skin and see the strawberry-scented shampoo suds running down his chiseled chest. His cute fuzzy ears standing up straight between his wet strands of pink hair. 

“You want me to stop?” He dared between kisses, moving down to your jaw, painting your skin with greedy wet sucks as he dragged his rough tongue across the sensitive skin. “Wanna keep pretending that I’m just your pet?” 

He wasn’t. 

And when your eyes skimmed down his pretty chest and his dripping cock, you couldn’t bring yourself to tell him no. 

“You know you’re not,” you whispered, as close as you could come to a confession. 

Let him grab you by the ass next, hoisting you up as his mouth returned to yours, matching his starving fervor, wrapping your wrists around his neck as he groaned into the kiss. And maybe it was how wrong it was, but you didn’t think any kiss before this had ever felt so right. 

His fingers dug into your soft flesh, dimpling it as he tried to claim you with his tongue and teeth, a low growl ripping from the deepest part of his chest you felt his cock catch right at your entrance. 

You sort of expected him to just cave into the desires you knew were hardwired into hybrids like him. Just jam his cock in and breed you until he had his fill, or uh, filled you up. It wasn’t like he could even get you pregnant, not when you’d been on birth control far before you met him. 

But before you could brace yourself for the burning stretch that was surely coming, he was ripping free from the kiss to lift you up higher. Like, a lot higher. 

Using that ridiculous strength of his to balance your weight as he pressed your damp body against the cold wall of the shower, ignoring your squirming until his your cunt was presented right in front of his mouth. 

Dragging his rough tongue across it, worming his way in before you could so much as mumble the probably needed what the hell was he doing. 

You guessed you already knew what the answer was. 

He was always starving, after all. 

You’d just become his breakfast. 

Your head leaning back against the shower wall while his hands steadily supported your weight, keeping your thighs spread enough to make room to bury his head between them. Sloppily swirling his tongue inside you, using the thick muscle to map you out, explore you with an expertise you hadn’t expected. An attention to detail you hadn’t thought he was capable of when it came to something that didn’t benefit him. 

Although, judging by the feral moans reverberating through you from his mouth, you guessed he was getting some pleasure in eating you out. 

Fingers digging in possessively to your soft flesh, his tongue flicking in-and-out fast, your chest straining to contain your rapid heartbeats as little jolts of electricity raced through the rest of you. Arousal and anticipation bleeding into each other as they overwrote your anxiety over what you were letting him do.

Just when his tongue slid back out, traced a messy line up to your needy clit, and you foolishly thought he was about to make you cum for him, his head turned up, looking up at you almost accusatory through half-lidded eyes. 

“You’re soakin’, brat,” he scoffed, and you could make out a hint of a crude smirk on his lips. 

“We’re in the shower,” you tried to retort, like heat wasn’t flooding your face – and between your legs. 

“Water’s been off for like, five minutes,” he reminded you. 

Your mouth fell open, but you couldn’t come up with a reply sharp enough to shut him up. 

It didn’t matter though. Because his hands shifted, and you were falling, a scary second passing before he grabbed you and pinned you back in the first position, chuckling with amusement as he lifted your thighs up, pressing them against your chest and squishing your tits as you tried to wiggle in his renewed grip. 

Stupid. 

He was too strong, his hold too tight, the tips of his claws teasingly pressing into your skin as you whined, more aware of the emptiness in your pussy than you’d like to be. The ache he’d left you with desperate to be soothed, stuffed. 

“You should go dry off,” he mocked, your heart stopping at his suggestion, playing right into his hand. “Aren’t you going to be late for work?” 

“Can’t you just shut up and fuck me already?” You hissed at him, swallowing the spit pooling in the back of your throat instead of stomping your foot like you instinctively wanted to. A little swish, a flash of orange caught your attention in the corner of your vision, a smile curling up on your lips when you realized his tail was wagging. 

He could play coy. 

Act sly and in control. 

But his body gave him away. 

And while you were distracted, he’d taken the chance to line himself up, angle and all, just to slide himself in like it was nothing, his saliva acting as lube as he shoved inch after inch in. His rather, ah, large girth barely able to make it through, your thoughts immediately fizzling out into a chorus of holy fucking shit, how much more is there only for it to keep going. 

His mouth returned to your face, leaving messy kisses all over your cheeks, down your jaw, wherever he could reach, like it could coax you through the mean stretch of his cock spearing you open. 

“So fuckin’ tight, brat,” he groaned, teeth gritted, his breath warm on your skin as you whined at the intense sensation of his hips moving, rolling up while you were struggling to even manage breathing at all. 

“Not my fault you’re so-” You couldn’t even finish, lips clamping shut as you realized you were about to stroke his ego. 

“M’so what?” He dared you to finish anyway, stalling inside you, making it obvious he wouldn’t move a muscle until you said it. 

Biting your lip as you begrudgingly murmured, “Big.” 

You were wondering who was really the pet here when it felt like you were being rewarded for good behavior after he pulled his cock out and pushed it back in, quickly picking up a steady rhythm – one that seemed specifically designed to unravel you. 

Pull you apart until you were reduced down to your basest instincts. 

Until you were like him. 

And even worse? 

It was working. 

A babble of syllables that sounded like his name falling from your mouth when he kept grinding into the soft, spongy spot in the back, pressing into it over and over again like it was a button built for breaking you down. Your sanity slowly dissolving into something he could swallow, his sharp teeth glinting when he bared them at you in a crooked smile. 

“You love me rutting into you like this, huh?” He growled, your head bobbing uselessly as his cock split you open deeper, grinding meanly into your cervix like it was his to claim. 

You did, and it, you were his, even if you sold yourself some other story to make yourself feel better. 

“A-asshole,” you groaned, grabbing a fistful of hair to try and find something to pull on, holding onto the slivers of rationality you had left by threatening to rip some of his hair out of his scalp. 

“Filthy fuckin’ girl,” he half-spat out, kissing you again so you couldn’t argue with him. His tongue returning to your mouth as he thrusted up faster, fucking you so full you were pretty sure you felt him in your lungs. Whining into the kiss until he pulled back, his dark red eyes glinting in the warm yellow lighting of your bathroom as he smirked, “What would your friends think if they knew you let me fuck you like this?” 

Pushing his lips out in a dramatic pout, but you just pulled his hair harder, trying to make him wince to match the weird feeling he kept stuffing down your throat, the hint of humiliation at knowing what he was trying to imply. 

That everyone you knew would judge you for sleeping with Sukuna. Say that you shouldn’t fucking have sex with the hybrid you were literally fostering. For good reason, too. 

But how the hell were you supposed to say no when his hands felt like they fit you? 

When every ridge of his swollen cock stretched you open just right? 

“I-I don’t care,” you protested, puffing out your chest despite your sore thighs being pinned to them. Muscles aching, straining as the rubber band you were currently clinging to threatened to snap hard the longer he rutted into you. 

But then, right as his fat tip grinded up against your womb, he stopped, ignoring your irritated huff for him to continue. 

“Kuna,” you started, but before you could form another syllable, you felt it. Him. 

The base of his cock slowly ballooning, his knot trying to take hold and work its way up inside you, to lock himself in. You made some strangled noise you didn’t even know you were capable of, a guttural sound torn from the deepest part of your throat as the pressure built and soared, feeling yourself getting molded and practically reshaped by his size. 

“C’mon,” he growled, just as raw and rough as you expected from him, one of his huge hands slipping between your thighs, a calloused thumb covering your clit as he started rubbing mean circles over it. Distracting you from the fact you were being destroyed, remodeled around his cock, flames of lust licking over your sensitive bundle of nerves as he sent another set of shudders down your spine. “Don’t tell me you can’t take it.” 

You could. 

You would. 

Just as stubborn as he was, even if you were shutting your eyes and biting the inside of your cheek until you tasted blood, the pain of the stretch melting into white-hot pleasure as he began kissing your collarbone, trailing up higher until his lips were pressed against the crook just above it. 

His teeth sank into your throat, your entire body shivering under the sheer force to it, something inside you pulling tight as you gasped some broken cry of his name. But he didn’t let go. Didn’t retract. Just bit down harder, feeling you spasm and squirm around him as he held on, the knot at the base of your entrance somehow managing to inflate more. 

You dragged your nails down his back, probably shredding the skin there, leaving long scratches of your own to mark him as yours too. 

“Mine,” he growled, licking the sore spot while your brain struggled to process what was happening. What he’d just done. 

You couldn’t exactly drop him back off at the rescue when he’d made you his mate. 

Left a huge fucking hickey you’d be stuck living with, a bond forged from baths and breakfasts and boring movies. 

You knew it was a bad idea. 

But you didn’t want to break it. 

He was yours, wasn’t he? Wasn’t it only right that you were his too? 

Letting all those negative thoughts fade as you gave into how fucking good he felt, his mouth on your neck and his thumb massaging your clit and his cock filling up every crevice until you weren’t sure where you started and he ended anymore. 

“Say it,” Sukuna gruffly grunted, his thumb hesitating, knowing just how close you were and still teasing you anyway. 

“I’m your mate,” you admitted, your weak voice coming out in a whimper as he dragged you to a climax with just a harsh swipe of his thumb. White stars splotching and staining your vision, heat simmering through you as your thighs trembled, muscles begging for relief as his heavy breathing undercut the drone of the bathroom exhaust fan. 

“That’s fuckin’ right,” he hissed, cumming right after you, still rubbing your clit through it, warm ropes of cum filling you up and getting plugged inside by his knot. Not even able to leak down your thighs as it held fast, your thoughts distant and dreamy as slowly floated back down to earth. 

Hesitantly meeting Sukuna’s dark eyes only to find them already focused solely on you, clouded with something that looked an awful lot like love up this close. 

“I’m staying here,” he grumbled, nose scrunching up as his tail wrapped around your leg. 

You didn’t think you’d be able to get rid of him even if you wanted to. 

Now how the hell were you supposed to tell your work? 

reblogs + comments are always greatly appreciated <3

He proposed to you the day he got back from his last mission. Maybe he should make it a tradition and marry you the day he returned this time. 

Skip the whole big wedding he talked you into the past few months in favor of a courthouse ceremony. Maybe drag Suguru back after the landing to be the witness. 

You made a face, nose scrunching up and lips parting like there was something you wanted to say, but you stopped yourself. 

“This is my last mission,” he reminded you, a weak attempt at reassurance as his thick cock rubbed against your clit. Your breath hitched, getting caught in your throat as he dragged it over the sensitive bud. 

“You said that about the last one,” you reminded him, and he didn’t have an argument to counter it. 

“Well, I mean it this time,” he muttered softly. He wasn’t particularly good at being soothing. Spectacularly bad, sometimes, actually. But you still stayed. 

Still smiled at him when he sucked at being what you needed. 

The moon hung heavy outside the window, a thick crack running across the glass pane as the night sky filtered through it and bathed the room in soft light. The apartment you shared wasn’t much, pretty shitty honestly, but it was just a stepping stone. A way to save money for when you’d really need it. 

Soon, you’d have the best. 

“Besides, I can’t leave again once you start having my babies,” he teased, moving a hand down to your stomach, feeling your soft skin. Dreaming of a future where you’d be waddling around his kitchen pregnant, trying to decide if he’d prefer a boy or a girl – only to land on wanting both. 

“So you’ll be here for them and not for me?” You huffed. 

“I just want to make sure I make a good life for all of you,” he replied, struggling to sound confident when you were looking at him with a faint hint of hurt shining in your eyes. 

You wanted to believe him. 

“Uh-huh,” you exhaled. 

He supposed he’d just have to remind you another way that you had his heart. That even if he left the planet for a few months, he’d always have to return back to you. 

His home. 

Your thighs opened up for him, letting him shut up all those awful thoughts with a kiss as he pushed the first few inches inside your pretty pussy. Felt you sucking him in, losing himself in your warmth as he pushed past that first ring of resistance. Filling you up until you were stuffed full, your head tilting back, lips parting in his favorite moan — his name falling from them in broken little gasps.

“Satoru,” you whined, wiggling under his weight as he leaned down to start trailing kisses across your jaw. Down the delicate skin of your throat, sucking greedily just to see what other sounds he could draw from you. 

“Mhm, sweetheart?” He hummed, pausing to drag his tongue over all the sore spots he’d left, tempted to sink his teeth back over them, to leave little bruises just so you’d have to keep thinking about him even when he was planets away.

“I don’t want you to go,” you huffed, forcing the words out between little whimpers, your body shivering as his cock slowly thrusted in and out, deliberately taking his time to stretch you out. He hesitated mid-pump, lips still pressed just above your collarbone as he tried to come up with something that would make it better.

“I don’t want to either,” Gojo softly admitted, kissing you again as if it would cure the ache in his heart or the one in yours. 

There was a moment of silence, seconds slipping by with tension that wouldn’t dissolve, and he wasn’t sure if he should keep thrusting or pull out.

But then your hips shifted, and his cock twitched, and he was already readjusting, palms moving to push your soft thighs against your chest with his cock still keeping you plugged up. 

And really, you couldn’t blame him for how pretty you looked in a mating press. 

Fucking you faster, the wooden bed frame creaking and bumping into the wall with every rough thrust, each harsh snap of his hips against your skin as he plunged his cock in and out, in and out.

Watching your face screw up in pleasure, lashes fluttering and nails scrambling for purchase in the sheets as his thumbs dug into your thighs. Holding onto you, keeping you firmly pinned between him and the bed, like he could imprint every ridge and vein inside you, supposing he’d just have to be satisfied with leaving the shape of both of you on the mattress. 

“I love you so goddamn much,” he murmured, chest constricting, heart racing as the pressure built and mounted in the pit of his stomach. Some invisible thread being pulled tighter, or maybe it was just himself, wrapped around your finger without you even realizing it. 

Ready to break just thinking about not getting to hear your voice every day, not getting to touch your skin, like he wasn’t still buried inside you.

“I love you too,” you whispered back, your voice quivering as you looked up at him with glossy eyes. 

He kissed you hard, teeth nearly bumping into each other as his tongue slipped past your lips. Tracing over your canines, tasting the hint of toothpaste on your tongue. The remnants of the candy-flavored lip gloss you’d been wearing earlier too. 

You were returning his fervor, squeezing down on his cock like you were trying to suck him dry like he wasn’t already struggling not to cum. 

He had to hurry to shift his hand, fingers rushing to find your clit, rubbing rough circles over it just to swallow every cute moan of yours that tried to escape. Cock twitching and aching for relief that he refused to give it, keeping an iron grip on his restraint as he waited for that familiar tremble, for you to really clamp down on him as shudders wracked through your body. 

Until you were crying his name in his mouth, whimpers muffled as he soothed you through your climax, rolling that sensitive bud between his thick fingers, only breaking the kiss to purr in your ears that it was all going to be okay. 

“That’s it, baby. Just cum for me, okay? It’s gonna be fine,” he promised, his voice cracking on the final word as he came with you. Finishing with warm spurts of cum filling you up, each thrust pumping more into you as he groaned your name, head collapsing into the crook of your collarbone. 

Sweat making your skin stick to his, your breathing mixing together as you both came back down to earth from your high. 

“Fuck,” you murmured, trying to shift underneath him, roll out from his heavy body. 

But he refused to budge, burying his face deeper into your neck just to smell your soap and shampoo, nuzzling his nose against your neck. 

He didn’t want to let go. 

And for a second, part of him considered cancelling. Backing out of the mission, coming up with an excuse or calling out sick. They had back up astronauts. 

They had a few people, perhaps not as qualified as him, but still acceptable, on standby that could take his spot. 

He might get fired. Shoved back to some bottom-tier desk position. 

But he’d get to stay with you. 

Would get to spend the next six months sleeping like this instead of alone in a spaceship compartment. 

“Satoru,” you softly said his name, shifting as he finally released your thighs, letting you lay them back down more comfortably – but still kept you caged in. 

“Can’t I just lay here for a while longer?” He groaned, jaw tightening at the idea that this was the last night he’d get this. You.

Cock still twitching as the last of his cum leaked out, some of it starting to spill down your thighs as he refused to take it out. 

You ran your fingers through his hair, scratching a spot behind his ears, sifting through the silky strands with a long sigh. “Sure.” 

That was just who you were. 

What you’d do. 

You gave him what he wanted. 

Even when you didn’t like what he asked for. 

“I’m sorry,” he muttered.

“Don’t be sorry,” you replied gently. “Just be sure you’re coming home.” 

“The stars can’t keep me from you,” he promised, moving to leave another kiss on the tip of your nose as you rolled your eyes at him. 

But you giggled, and that was good enough.

“Let’s get married when I get back,” he suggested. 

“We already-” 

“Like, the same day, sweetheart,” he insisted, lips curling up in a smile as he snagged your left hand, bringing it to his lips so he could press a kiss to your engagement ring. The big diamond glittering in the moonlight, accented with small gemstones that same shade as his eyes set in a white-gold band. One you picked out with him once upon a time. 

“You’re ridiculous,” you laughed, shaking your head like you weren’t grinning at the idea too. “Didn’t you want, like, the whole huge wedding?” 

“I just want you.” 

Gojo could make it six months if it meant you’d be waiting there for him when he got back.  

He just didn’t think everything would go to fucking shit in sixteen weeks.

Clinging to the same dream of you, the same memory his brain had chosen for comfort as he opened his eyes for another difficult day in a long line of them. 

Waking up to a window that only overlooked the cold, dark expanse of space instead of the familiar city. Missing your warmth in bed – trading it for a sleeping bag and a stiff compartment that they somehow still hadn’t figured out a better alternative for despite how advanced their rocketships had become. 

Sure, they could figure out how to simulate gravity inside the living areas now. But no, getting a good night’s rest was still impossible. 

They were only supposed to be running a supply drop off. Sending equipment to a planet a few other astronauts were previously sent to, one they’d recently started establishing a settlement on. Shoko was planning on staying behind there to be their medic – but he was supposed to return with Suguru.

It wasn’t the only habitable planet that had been discovered. There were a few, all being explored, data being collected and catalogued by various astronauts like themselves, sent back periodically and retrieved by relief missions like the one they were on. 

All just a galaxy away. 

It meant going through a wormhole to get to them, but according to all the calculations and the previous voyages, it was safe. 

Risky, sure, but it’d been done before. 

And to be fair, getting through it hadn’t been the problem. 

The problem was they were just outside the orbit of the wrong fucking planet. 

Whether one of them had bumped into the navigation system, inputted the wrong thing at the wrong time, or maybe some internal error was to blame, it didn’t matter. 

No, a more pressing issue had presented itself. 

A distress signal was being sent up. 

Someone was below – and begging to be rescued. 

“I have a bad feeling about it,” Suguru murmured, scowling at the screen as if he could make the message go away just by glaring at it. 

“You always have a bad feeling,” Shoko hummed, dark circles under his eyes as she scanned the data on her screen. 

“I think we should just continue to the correct planet. It’ll be a waste of fuel and time,” Suguru scoffed, ignoring her as his fingers flew across the keyboard, inputting either calculations or coordinates.

Satoru reclined back in his seat, fiddling with a pencil as his friend glanced up at him like he was looking for support here.

“Aren’t you supposed to be the one who wants to save people?” He asked, cocking his head to the side just to get a scoff. He’d known Suguru most of his life. Went to school together, graduated from the same program just to end up colleagues too. Between both of them, Suguru was always the altruistic one. The guy who thought of everyone else before himself – even if he was looking down at them from his moral high ground half the time. 

“Not if it means putting our mission at risk,” he argued, lips pressed together in a thin line. “Or us.”

“The last reported conditions there seem fine,” Shoko shrugged as she directed their attention back to what little data had been collected so far. 

Most of the planet was made of water, a massive sea dotted with a handful of islands, some mountain ranges that rivaled the highest peaks back on Earth. Two fellow astronauts were supposed to have been there for the last nine months. 

“Yeah, that’s why they’re sending a distress signal,” Suguru sarcastically grimaced. 

“You really want to just leave them?” Gojo asked, not sure how exactly to feel about it himself. Not wanting to totally throw away Suguru’s hesitation – but reluctant to just leave another astronaut stranded. 

“There are other people counting on us,” Suguru insisted, and Satoru knew he was right. Knew that you were counting on him to come back in one piece. “We can just send a message back to Earth and let them decide.”

Suguru knew as well as he did that doing that would most likely mean death to whoever was sending the distress signal.

It would probably be months before they sent another ship up.

And given that they didn’t have the data to know how fast or slow time passed below. No way to know when the signal they were receiving had started.

There was a heavy pause, all three of them weighing whether or not to take the gamble — and imagining what it’d feel like to be the one stuck on the planet praying for someone to come save them.

“I think we should check it out,” Satoru eventually spoke up, although he wasn’t exactly excited about it. 

He just wasn’t sure he could stomach the alternative. If he could handle coming back home to you and telling you the truth.

Risk you leaving him like they were about to leave the stranded astronauts.

“The extra data they have would be useful,” Shoko pointed out, tilting her head appraisingly. “If we needed to, we could bring them back to the other settlement.” 

“Two minutes,” Suguru begrudgingly gave in, irritation pricking in his voice as he stood up, rubbing his temple. “We shouldn’t spend more than ten on the surface when we don’t know how much time we could lose. Get there, see what’s salvage, get the fuck out.” 

Whether it was data or people, they’d just take what they could and leave. 

There was a chance that the relative time on the planet was off. That even just an hour on the planet could be the equivalent to a year back on Earth. 

“Yeah, agreed,” Satoru waved him off, watching him walk off, probably to start preparations for landing. 

He told himself it was the right thing to do. 

That it was what you would expect from him. 

He stood up too, walking around to one of the communication terminals they set up – where they could send and receive messages. 

You’d sent a couple videos, unofficial ones, of course, something he arranged in advance when he agreed to join the mission – that he’d be able to contact you and you’d be able to do the same. They were short, just a few minutes of you updating him on life back on Earth. How you were doing, how wedding planning was going, murmuring that you missed him in a soft voice before leaning in to kiss the camera. 

But a new one was waiting for him as he popped his headphones in to listen, leg bouncing nervously as it loaded, automatically smiling when your face popped up. 

“Hi, Satoru,” you greeted, but then you awkwardly looked down, fiddling with your fingers out of frame like you were shy all of a sudden. Biting your bottom lip, the skin there already broken like you’d been busy chewing it. 

He wanted to touch the screen. 

Caress your cheek and ask you what was wrong. 

“I, um, was gonna wait until you came back. But, uh, I don’t think I can keep it a secret that long,” you breathed, eyes glancing up at the camera like you were imagining him on the other side of it. 

And then you were picking something up, holding it out in front of you as the camera refocused and- 

Holy shit. 

“Surprise,” you excitedly called out from behind the tiny onesie in your hand. “You’re going to be a father.” 

A baby. 

He was going to be a father.

His brain stopped working. Shock freezing him in place as you peeked out from behind the onesie like you could see his reaction. Pride glimmered in your eyes as you grinned, his entire world sitting in front of him a galaxy away. His future wife and child just waiting for him to return.

“I wanted it to be a surprise, but it’s been so hard holding it in,” you continued, and he craved you even more than he had in the past few months combined. Dying to pick you up and press kiss after kiss to your lips, your cheeks, your stomach.

Aching to wrap his arms around you and start talking about baby names and nurseries, to take you out shopping for baby furniture and be there for your appointments. 

“There’s something else,” you said, reluctance creeping in. Glancing down at your lap again before pulling up a second onesie. 

No. You surely didn’t mean…? 

“I’m having twins,” you announced, a little awkward like you started second guessing how he’d take it. “Are you surprised?” 

It didn’t take his brain long to calculate the fucking odds of that, but his mind had a hard time accepting it, discomfort coiling in and mixing with the exhilaration in his stomach at the idea of you back in bed, carrying his babies, while he was up in fucking space. 

Unable to be there for you. To rub the lotion on your stomach, to sing terrible impressions of lullabies to them, to drive you to the doctor and hold your hand throughout all of it. 

You didn’t seem too bothered, or maybe just too excited to show it, holding up the ultrasounds next, proudly showing him baby A and baby B, talking about how you should find out their genders in just a couple weeks. 

“You better be back before I have these two,” you murmured into the camera, fixing him in a serious stare, your eyes shining in the fading daylight drifting in through your window. “Don’t make me go to the hospital alone.” 

Never. 

He’d fucking be there. 

“I love you, Toru,” you spoke softer, hesitating over actually hitting the button to stop recording. “Please don’t do anything stupid.” 

He’d already done something stupid by saying yes to coming here, hadn’t he? 

Still, he plastered on his best smile, sitting awkwardly in front of his own camera, recording you a message back. Making you a million promises, telling you how proud he was of you, how thrilled he was to be a dad. Selling you dreams of a life he was desperately trying to buy for your future family of four. 

“We’re, uh, about to go down to a planet to check out a distress signal, but, it’ll be fine, baby,” he informed you, hearing how stiff the words came out as he forced his palm to press down on his thigh to stop his leg from bouncing. “It’ll just be a quick pitstop before the supply drop, promise.” 

He paused, having to clear his throat, his tongue suddenly dry as he made himself look directly into the camera. 

“I’ll come back for you.” 

Gojo didn’t want to admit Suguru might be right when he had to sit with the heavy feeling in his stomach after he shut the camera off and sent the message back – knowing it would probably be a couple days before you saw it.

But it would be fine, wouldn’t it?

In a year, he’d be waking up in bed with you, laughing about how worried he’d been while you each held one of your babies. This would just be a memory. 

He wasn’t sure how long he sat there. Staring at the screen long after it shut off, replaying your voice in his head, itching to really hear it, to feel it on his skin, to touch you instead of just clinging to a digital copy of you.

“You ready?” Suguru’s voice called out to him, and he snapped out of his daze. 

Found his mouth opening, about to say no.

Tell him he changed his mind. Say he was wrong and that they should just save their fuel. 

But if you knew, if they knew, that he’d left someone to die just to come home to them sooner, would they look at him the same way? 

Would he be able to look his children in the eyes? 

He swallowed hard as he glanced towards the doorframe Suguru was standing in, slowly nodding instead of saying what he really wanted to. “Yeah.” 

Gojo wanted to believe that between their three-person crew, they’d be able to handle it. 

He just hadn’t realized that only two of them would make it back to the ship. 

𖥔 ݁ ˖

“You should move on.”

It didn’t matter how many people said it. How many times your therapist pleaded with you to put the past behind you.

You couldn’t let go of him.

Six months turned into six years without Satoru.

The one thing you were terrified of had come true.

You lost him.

Didn’t even have the fucking confirmation of his death. Just a gravestone with an empty casket, a plot picked out for you next to it — even if you’d never get to be buried by him. 

Wasn’t that the funny thing about taking risks? 

You always know what could happen. You just never think it will happen to you. 

It’s always someone else. 

Until it’s not. 

Until you’re the one waiting for a phone call you’ll never get or a knock on the door that will never come. 

“It’s not exactly like men are lining up to date me,” you muttered into the phone, tucking it between your ear and shoulder as you frowned at your reflection in the mirror, reaching up to fix a stray hair just for your still-shiny engagement ring to shimmer in the sunlight. Swallowing the lump in your throat before you turned away, nearly tripping on a toy. “With the twins-” 

“Guys like MILFs,” your friend teased in your ear, and you had to stop yourself from rolling your eyes as you bent over to pick up the stuffed bunny and toss it in an overflowing toy basket. 

You doubted they’d like one still in love with their babies’ father. 

Still holding out hope he’d show up with that stupid smile and wrap you in a crushing hug. 

Even if the rest of the world thought he was dead. 

When the government had declared his ship missing and him deceased. Cut you a check for it even though you weren’t technically Satoru’s spouse yet since you had his babies. A little boy that could be his clone and a girl that looked a little too much like you.  

Their check had been enough to get you out of your crummy apartment, to move the three of you in a small house in a quiet neighborhood. 

Suguru’s mother had ended up moving next door, offering to babysit and watch them during the day so you didn’t have to send them to daycare. Helping you raise your children while her child was still out there in space somewhere. 

She didn’t talk about Suguru with you. And you never spoke of Satoru. 

But you knew she understood anyway. Coped with it the same way you did. Skirting around their existence like it would lessen the hurt. 

“I know a guy who-” Your friend started, and your stomach lurched at the thought of being set up with someone who couldn’t come close to the man you were supposed to marry. 

“Look, I’ve, uh, gotta go get the kids. Their teacher wanted to discuss Apollo’s behavior. I guess he bit someone,” you muttered, heels clicking as you slung your purse over your shoulder and snagged your keys. 

She was disappointed, mumbling a goodbye that you tuned out, hitting end and dropping your phone in your bag with a sigh. 

You wondered what Satoru would’ve thought of it. 

If he would’ve laughed at his son picking fights at school or if there was a stern side to him buried somewhere beneath his goofy grins and cheesy jokes. 

You tried to pick out names he’d like. Even if sometimes it stung a little to think about. 

Apollo and Artemis. 

After the space missions. He’d think it was cute. Probably dress them up like little astronauts and kiss their foreheads, promising that he loved them way more than just to the moon and back. Paint stars on their ceiling and hang planets up on strings in their nursery. 

To be fair, you had done it in his place. 

Worn one of his old t-shirts as you bit your lip and bent over your swollen belly to get all the corners, carefully standing on a ladder to hang everything on the ceiling, standing in a nursery full of furniture you built yourself a month after his return date came and went. 

The last thing you heard from him was a video message where he promised he’d come back. If you shut your eyes, you could still see that look on his face, the flicker of nervousness that flashed across it as his mouth curled down into a frown before he admitted that they were about to go check out a distress call. 

And then nothing. 

NASA never told you if they had any additional information on it. But the conclusion they came to was obvious. 

Their mission was a failure. And your husband was forever missing. 

Somewhere you’d never be able to reach. 

You snapped on the twins' first birthday. You hadn’t even managed to bring yourself to throw them a party when Satoru wasn’t there to take the photos, to pick them up and blow out the candles for them. 

Carrying them next door to Suguru’s mom’s place, asking for her to watch them for a few hours just to come back home and rip down every stupid space-themed piece of decor you’d once painstakingly picked out. Throwing them all in a big, black trash bag before running out to the store to grab tarps and more paint. 

You didn’t stop until the entire room was drenched in shades of blue and green, alien toys traded in for sea animals.

At least the ocean was on Earth. 

It wasn’t like they were old enough to understand. 

But you couldn’t fucking stand the idea of losing them too. 

You had kept both their convertible cribs in your room since the day you brought them home from the hospital, unable to sleep without them in the same room. The crippling fear that you’d some intruder would sneak in and snatch them if you weren’t right there to stop it didn’t actually go away until they were big enough to toddle and talk. 

Now they were old enough to be in school, no longer babies, no longer toddlers, big enough to ramble on about what they learned every day, bicker over their toys and pick them back up before they went to bed. 

And Satoru had missed all of it. 

Every first they experienced tainted by the never-ending reminder that he wasn’t fucking here to see a single one. 

And like an idiot, you just kept recording message after message, setting up a camera and trying not to cry as you recorded yourself talking about the twins, showing them off to someone who should’ve been by your side every step of the way. You still had a few contacts with his old colleague, one who promised he’d send them all up anyway. 

Just in case Satoru was still out there in space. Still trying to come home to you.  

There wasn’t a single day that passed yet where you didn’t think about it. 

Him. 

But it appeared your attempts to keep him alive, to teach your kids about their dad, weren’t going so well when you replayed the voicemail you’d been left an hour earlier requesting you come in for a meeting after school was over when you picked up the kids. 

The soft voice on the other end apologetically explaining that Apollo had gotten in an argument with another kid to defend his sister, that no action was being taken, but that he’d still like to speak with you in person over it. 

You stared at the brick building of the elementary school, readjusting your purse as you swiped away another message from your friend sending you contact details of a man you certainly were not going to contact, steeling yourself for an uncomfortable conversation as you walked through the door and went into the office to get a visitor’s pass before you started navigating through the halls to look for the twins’ class. 

Suguru’s mom handled most of the pick ups for you, kept them at her place until you got back home from work in the evenings. 

Your boss had been annoyed that you’d taken off early, but you had to put them first. You were the only parent they had. 

You heard Artemis first. Her soft giggle twinkling as your steps picked up, her brother’s grumpy voice scolding her as you stopped just outside an open classroom door, pausing as you looked inside and saw sitting cross-legged on the floor with another boy who looked a couple years older, a bunch of toys dumped out between them on a carpet with the alphabet on it. 

“Are you their sister? I thought their mom-” A low voice spoke up, your head snapping over to see a dark-haired man stepping out from behind a desk. Warm brown eyes scanning your face as you stiffly shook your head.   

“I’m their mom,” you interrupted him, swallowing hard as you pushed your sunglasses back up in your hair before holding your hand out to shake. 

His hand was surprisingly soft when he took it, gently shaking it a few seconds too long before awkwardly letting go. 

“I’m Choso, their teacher,” he said, and you forced a small smile.

“I, uh, know,” you muttered, averting your stare back to where they were playing. 

“Yuji’s my little brother,” he added, pointing out the boy playing with yours, plucking out a toy from the pile and handing it over. 

You wondered if it would be awful to just ask him to go ahead and skip all the polite niceties, that you didn’t need them. 

“Sorry for making assumptions,” he awkwardly apologized, his dark eyes dragging over you again. “You just looked like you’re around my age, and I guess I forget sometimes that it’s normal for us to have kids of our own now.”

You blinked at him, trying to decide what to make of his slightly nervous rambling just for his mouth to open again.

“I wasn’t trying to comment on your appearance or anything, I mean, you’re beautiful-” His lips abruptly shut, cheek flushing pink in a painfully familiar way.

Your chest hurt.

Ached at the thought that Satoru was no longer the last person to call you beautiful.

“Um, thanks,” you murmured, looking at your outfit a little self-consciously. Wondering if he was just saying that to make you feel better or if he really meant it. You didn’t think you looked terrible. But without Satoru around, you’d sorta forgotten what it felt like to look in the mirror and see something pretty when you were struggling to survive most days. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologized, glancing down to the ring on your finger. Your throat started to close, palms getting clammy as he ran his fingers through his hair. “I didn’t realize you were married.” 

“I’m not,” you answered, a little too quickly as you folded your arms across your chest. Putting your left hand underneath your other arm as if it would make you stop thinking about it. Him. 

“Oh, um-” 

“I was engaged to the twins’ dad,” you explained, watching them giggle and pretend to eat the plastic food with their new pink-haired friend. “But, uh, he passed before they were born.” 

People usually asked too many questions if you told them the whole story. 

“I’m sorry for your loss,” he apologized, face falling the way everyone else’s always did. Regret etched into the soft lines of his face, nose scrunching up as the tattoo across his nose crinkled. “I had no-”

“It’s fine,” you lied, waving it off like Satoru didn’t still cast shadows across your thoughts. “So, um, what happened with Apollo? Is he in trouble?”

“No, no, one of the other kids tried to take a toy from Artemis, and he stepped in to stop it. I actually wanted to speak to you about him having a hard time making friends outside of her,” Choso spoke softly, obviously trying hard to pick his words carefully. “I was thinking of recommending they get put in different classes next year to help them socialize.” 

You bit the inside of your cheek.

Torn between immediately shutting the idea down and trying to argue against it before second guessing whether or not your parenting was actually just fostering codependence. 

Satoru would know what to do.

But he wasn’t here.

And all the decisions were yours to make.

Artemis was the outgoing one, inherited her father’s personality even if she pretty much got your face. Bright and brilliant, easy charisma that shined even at her small size. Apollo was reserved. Serious.

Scowling if he wasn’t with his sister, grumbling at the world like he already realized how it screwed them over.

“They’re just five,” you muttered, glancing over at where they were still distracted with his brother.

“Well, I guess we can see if there are any changes throughout the rest of the school year. I, uh, coach a boys soccer team on the weekends. He’s welcome to join, if you’re interested,” he said, running his fingers through the ends of his hair. 

You guessed if it meant your twins wouldn’t be split up in school, you’d sit on the sidelines to watch little kids try and fail to kick a ball across a field. 

Not that he was that happy about it when you told him he’d have to spend his Saturday morning in a soccer uniform with kids he barely spoke to before instead of playing with his toys at home. 

Choso grinned when you first showed up, one of those crooked ones that gave away his surprise when he saw you setting up fold-out chairs for you and Artemis. Even jogging over to tell you he was happy you came, squatting down to get on Apollo’s level to ask him if he knew how to play. 

He didn’t.

To be fair, after watching a single game, it was clear none of the other kids did either. 

Still, you left it with a schedule of practices and games stuffed in your purse, a couple of them circled and marked for your days to bring snacks and juice boxes for the team.

You told yourself that you were being an active parent. 

Showing up to every single school event. Refusing to miss a single soccer game even when Apollo spent half of it plucking weeds from the field to give to you afterwards. 

Taking him to play dates with his new soccer friends before taking Artemis to sleepover with her school friends, juggling their new social lives with your own work. 

And somewhere along the way, you supposed you’d made a new friend in their teacher too.

He went out of his way to talk to you at every game, greeting you at their school stuff with a shy smile and considerate questions while he updated you on how they were doing. 

The kids loved him, coming home chattering about what he planned and taught them during the day, complaining whenever he was out sick and they got stuck with a substitute. 

Wasn’t it normal to like someone if they made your children happy? 

Smile back when they spoke to you? 

Find your thoughts lingering a little on their dark-haired teacher when your son excitedly exclaimed that Choso promised to be his soccer coach next year too, your stupid heart stalling for a second when Artemis casually dropped that he helped her make a mother’s day card for you as she stuck it to the fridge with a magnet. 

You definitely didn’t pick them up from school yourself more often, swearing to Suguru’s mother that you were just trying to spend more time with them. 

But eventually, the school year wrapped up. 

You couldn’t really comprehend why some sliver of you was disappointed by that. 

Still, you suspected that it wasn’t just because Satoru wasn’t here to see it. 

A strange flutter in your stomach stirring watching Choso pass out printed graduation certificates to the class, plastering on a bright smile as Artemis proudly bounded over to show you hers. Toothily grinning as you sat and clapped for her in a cramped chair, a paper plate with a tiny slice of pizza in front of you as the other parents tried wrangling their own kids. 

Apollo was half-sitting on your lap, sneakily stealing your pizza after he polished off his own plate, enjoying their classroom party just to start bickering over which mini cupcakes they each wanted, eyeing the boxes Choso hadn’t given out. “Are you excited for next year?” You asked, barely able to stop yourself from rolling your eyes at their arguing. 

“No,” Artemis smiled immediately flipped into a frown as she flopped in her seat, folding her arms across her chest. “We’ll have to get a new teacher.” 

“Don’t be a baby,” Apollo huffed at her. 

“S’not fair, he’s still your coach,” she whined back, right in time for him to show up, holding out a plastic container with cupcakes to let them choose. 

They were quick to snatch them, thank yous muffled when they stuffed their mouths the next second, but to your surprise, he held out the box for you to pick too. 

“I, um, got enough for the parents too,” he awkwardly said, eyes hesitantly flicking up to meet yours as you chewed the inside of your cheek before accepting. 

“Thanks,” you murmured softly, selecting one with purple frosting as he smiled softly at you. 

It was nice of him. 

This was nice, actually. 

A classroom of sugar-fueled kids and hastily strung up party streamers wasn’t exactly where you pictured you’d be spending your afternoon a decade ago. Being a single mom had never been a part of your plans. 

But it wasn’t terrible. 

You loved your children. Loved being their mom. 

Maybe you could learn to love your life too. 

You stayed behind once the party wrapped up to help clean the classroom with a few of the other parents, stuffing greasy and frosting splattered plates into trash bags while the twins excitedly caught up with Yuji after his teacher dropped him off after the bell rang. 

“Hey,” a quiet voice startled you, your head snapping back to see Choso stiffly standing next to you, nervously raking his fingers through his hair. 

“Hi,” you breathed back, just as awkward. “The party was great. I think the twins will miss you next year.” 

You didn’t want to consider if you would. 

“They’re great kids. I know they’re gonna succeed some day,” he earnestly said, your mouth curling up as you nodded. 

You didn’t really mind if they succeeded or not. Wouldn’t hold them to the same standards their dad once held himself to. 

All you really wanted was for them to be happy. 

“Thanks, um, seriously,” you swallowed hard, throat constricting as you thought about how much Apollo had started to come out of his shell thanks to him. 

Choso’s intense stare swept over your face, scanning over your features like he was searching for something there.

His eyes were dark. 

Not blue. They didn’t shimmer, didn’t sparkle when the sun hit them. 

But they were deep. Warm. 

“I’m glad I got to meet you,” he started, speaking slowly like he wasn’t sure if he should even say it. “Getting to know you, um, it’s been great.” 

“Yeah, it has,” you agreed, actually meaning it too. 

He stepped a little closer, taking a deep breath as his gaze settled on your face. “You can like, slap me if I’m out of line here-”

“I’m not going to slap you,” you intercut, biting back a laugh as his brows knitted together seriously. 

“Would it be totally inappropriate to ask you on a date?” 

𖥔 ݁ ˖

Their mission was fucked. 

Suguru was dead. 

Body stuck on a planet of water and waves, left behind with the other astronauts that had died long before they even received their distress call. 

Swept under a fucking tsunami, unable to make it back on the ship on time in an attempt to save a stupid fucking data recorder. 

Now they had neither. 

The ship had been damaged in the process too, fuel wasted and plans derailed as they barely managed to get it off the planet before all three of them ended up as corpses. Water corrupting important systems as Gojo slammed his fists against the hard metal frame of a door, throwing off his helmet as Shoko said something his brain refused to process. 

Grabbing his arm to pull it back before he could fuck up his suit. Telling him to just take it off and cool down before he damned both of them too. 

Like his best friend wasn’t gone. 

He’d never get him back. 

No one would. 

Gojo just had to leave his body there for the tides to take. What the hell was he even going to say to his mom? How was he supposed to tell her that her son wasn’t coming home? 

He barely managed to get his suit off, stripping down and throwing it on the ground without giving a shit about proper protocol, storming off to his private compartment to stop himself from losing it in front of the only other person up here now. Shoko said something about getting everything back on course, but he wasn’t listening as he turned his back from her.

God, he felt like he was going to fucking hurl. 

The edges of his vision kept blurring, going in-and-out of darkness as he forced himself to change clothes, sitting hunched over the edge of his bed and burying his face in his hands, replaying the look on Suguru’s face when he realized he wasn’t going to make it. 

Rewinding and searching for some other way to change the past as he screwed his eyes shut. 

But he couldn’t save him then and there was no way to save him now. 

He wished you were here. 

Wished you’d wrap your arms around him and run your fingers through his hair and promise him that it would still be okay. That Suguru wouldn’t blame him. 

That his best friend was somewhere better. 

Even if everything scientific in his body swore that there was no better place waiting for him. 

Gojo pushed himself back up to his feet, jaw locked tight as he walked back over to the one piece of you he still had access too, tapping away at the controls to see if you sent any videos while he was out there making the worse fucking mistake of his life. 

Foot impatiently tapping against the floor as he reclined his head back against the floor, wishing that he’d never even come on this mission in the first place – if he hadn’t, Suguru wouldn’t have even answered the distress call, would he? 

He’d still be alive, and Gojo would be with-

The computer let out a beep, interrupting his thoughts as the screen came to life, loading everything up as he sighed with relief. 

Seeing your smile, hearing your soft words might not heal him, but it was the only thing he could think of to help the raw wound of loss ripping through his chest. 

Until the automated computer voice made an announcement right as he popped his headphones in.   

Loading messages from the past eleven years. 

No. No no no no no.

It was wrong.

It had to be fucking wrong. 

The computer had to be fried. Some water must have somehow gotten in it and fucked with the wiring and-

Before he could even hit a single button, try to troubleshoot, there you were in front of him, your hand on your swollen stomach, scowling in the camera as you asked where the hell he was. Fear creeping in your pretty voice that no one had heard anything from any of them – reminding him that he promised to come back. 

He did. He would. 

The small lump in his throat getting bigger and bigger as the video auto-played into the next one, where you were obviously about to pop, filming in a space-themed nursery, your anger twisted into worry, telling him that you didn’t want to do this alone. 

Begging him to not make you. 

Gojo froze. 

Shoulders stiff as he saw the tears rolling down your cheeks, stunned as his own brain short-circuited, the guilt swimming in his stomach threatening to drown him as you ended the message. 

Part of him wanted to hit stop. 

Like if he paused it now, he would be able to freeze time and somehow make it back to Earth in time to not miss any more of it. 

But his fingers weren’t fast enough. 

And the next frame came with the audio of a baby crying. 

Two babies. One swaddled in blue and the other in pink. Their names on knitted hats he already knew Suguru’s mom must’ve made, a strangled sob escaping him before he even realized he was crying. 

The twins. His twins. 

Sleepily yawning and opening their eyes just a peek, enough for him to see his son had the misfortune of inheriting his looks while his daughter came out like a miniature you. Someone else was recording you in the hospital bed, but you were talking to the camera like it was him, face soft as you giggled that he would probably bawling harder than the babies when he realized he missed this. 

Suguru’s mom laughed behind the camera. 

He was. 

Tears falling freely as the videos just kept playing. One after another. 

His children were growing up without him. 

From tiny and fragile bundles to bumbling toddlers to fuck, full-sized little kids. 

In what? Fifty minutes? 

Five entire years of their life, condensed down to a handful of clips. The first steps he missed, the birthdays and holidays and father’s day he’d never get back. 

They didn’t even look at the camera half the time. Too busy playing and giggling and laughing while you did your best not to cry in front of them. They didn’t know him. 

Their father was barely more than a fucking video camera being pointed at them. 

And you, god, his pretty, perfect you. 

Still sending him these even when you had to think he was fucking dead. 

Dark circles under your eyes and a hollowness to your face that only got worse over the years. Exhaustion in your expressions as you spoke to him like you didn’t think he was listening. 

You mostly updated them on the kids' life. Skimmed over the details of a job you obviously didn’t like. Told him how Suguru’s mom had basically become their grandma. Sometimes Artemis would be on your lap, squinting at a book or playing with a toy while you talked. 

His girls a wormhole away. 

Gojo wanted to scream. Shout at the world to stop fucking spinning for a while so he could make it back to you. 

But five years turned into six, and six turned into seven, and he watched in horror as it started to set in that he was losing you too.

What if it was too late? 

What if you moved on? What if your life had no room left in it for him by the time he made it back to Earth? 

The twins were already in school and playing sports and clearly didn’t miss the man they’d never met. 

Would you stop missing him too? 

He didn’t know how many videos he watched. Guessing the time jump between each one based on how much the twins had grown in the background.