Untitled

The minute you have slipped your cover off, his eyes were on you. The lacking material of your bikini left little to the imagination. And damn was he imagining.

All he wanted to do was rip it right off of your body. But he was going to take his time. Especially if he had you in such a compromising place. The pool wasn’t exactly private and Whiskey wasn’t exactly complaining.

“Well, sweetness, what do we have here.” He says as you wade over to where he is lounging at the shallow end of the pool.

Of course, you feign innocence, “I’m not sure what you mean.” As you speak you let your hand run across his chest. The water helping you easily slide your legs over his, straddling him.

“Wearing almost nothing.” He whispers, taking the sight of your breasts in fully, now that they were right in front of him.

“Thought you’d like it.” Your hands make their way around his neck.

He lets out a mix between a laugh and a groan at your statement. Hands now finding your waist as he pulls your body into his crotch. You feel him already getting hard.

“Whoa, cowboy, this turned on already?” Now it’s your turn to laugh. You bite your lip.

“Got me all excited.” He says, simply.

His hand leaves your hip to make its way to your core. He slips his fingers past your bikini bottoms and finds your clit quickly, massaging it. You whimper at the sudden feeling.

"That's it, baby, feel it. Let me pleasure you." You're whimpering again at his words. His index finger dips past your folds, quirking them a bit to hit your g spot.

"Jack-" You whimper.

"Words." Is all he says back, not needing to say more.

"Need you, quickly. We are so exposed here."

"Really? Thought my little exhibitionist would like it out here. What with the way you teased me at dinner the other night." His other hand has now made contact with your clit, rubbing it in time with his fingers.

"That was-that was different."

He tsks at you, "Not sure it was, pretty girl. I mean you're putty in my hands right now, I think you like it."

Instead of responding you just moan at his words and reconnect your lips to his. Biting down on his bottom lip with his fingers hit extra deep inside of you.

Now he's moaning into your lips as your hips buck into his hand, trying to get yourself off. You can tell he wants you as much as you want him. He's enjoying the fact that the two of you could be caught at any minute just as much as you are. You can especially tell by how easily he reacts to your touch when you decide to tease him back.

Your hands have found their way to his hardened dick, teasing him through the fabric of his swim trunks. He is once again left moaning, as his hips are now the ones bucking up. You giggle slightly at how much he reacts to you.

"Think teasing me is funny?" He says simply. The words are laced with subtle annoyance, more from a place of dominance than anger.

"Just want you so bad, daddy." The nickname makes him pause for a second. You smile to yourself, knowing what it does to him.

"You won't be laughing when I've spanked you more times than you can count later. When I bring you to your edge over and over again, but don't allow you to cum." Although the words are talking about punishment, they still make you wetter at the thought. A little whimper slips past your lips at his words.

Now he's laughing, before slipping his fingers out of you. You let out a whine at the loss, but he just tsks again. Pulling his trunks down just enough to let his dick out, he grabs your hips and lets the water help guide you down on it. You moan instantly at the stretch. Not giving you much time to adjust, he starts to lift you off of his dick before pushing you back on it. His hips move upwards to press his member even deeper into you.

He continues this rough motion, keeping the pace fast, trying to bring you both to orgasm quickly. You aren't sure if its because you teased him so much, that you are out in public, or because he can't wait to get your back to the bedroom. But whatever the reason you aren't complaining. Especially when his dick hits your g spot, causing you to fall forward slightly, loosing your balance.

He's laughing at you again, "See, putty." The words are matched with his thumb finding your clit again, working it in circles. His lips find yours and kiss you, hard. Slipping his tongue past your lips when you gasp at the mixture of feelings.

The water moves with his thrusts, splashing up around you two. But you are too busy to notice the chlorine in your eyes, not with the beginnings of your orgasm starting. Your walls clench around his dick, signaling your impending peak.

"Cum with me." Is all you need to hear before your walls are spasming over his dick, drawing his orgasm also out of him.

As your walls continue to milk him of his cum, his thrusts become slower and so does his thumb on your clit. When he has figured, you two are fully down from your highs, he pecks your lips before leaning his forehead against yours.

"Well, that was fun, but we might wanna calm down and get out of here. I think some people are coming." He says before tilting his head towards the sound of people yelling and laughing coming closer.

Quickly you lift yourself off of him, causing him to hiss at the speed you did it at. You fix your bikini bottoms as you walk up the steps and out of the pool.

Winking back at him as you purposefully show your ass to him before slipping your cover over yourself. More specifically your ass that he was eyeing like he had never seen anything like it. As his view is covered he looks up to your eyes, your eyes spark with play.

You bend down, face inches from his, "Come on, daddy. Why don't we try out the sauna?"

Your lips brush his, before pulling away right before he can kiss you. He falls forward a bit, expecting to meet you instead of air. You stand and saunter off towards the sauna. Swaying your hips, knowing that his eyes are bearing into you as you walk away.

<- Previous Day | Next Day ->

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@britlord @kittenlittle24 @godlypresley @amyispxnk

(my man’s in touch with his emotions / my man won’t touch me with a twenty foot pole)

you were always over confident in your self restraint. you gave yourself far too much credit. 

you truly thought you were smart enough to not allow spencer reid to loiter in your apartment.

especially not when you were running on fumes with a to-do list a mile long and a nauseating work event peering over your shoulder. 

apparently, you were wrong. blame it on the puppy dog eyes and not your severe lack of better judgement when it came to your boyfriend. 

after reluctantly letting him through your front door and explaining how paralyzingly busy you were, he kissed you like he missed you, as he so often did, and successfully disarmed the drowning overflow of anxiety spilling from your brain. 

maybe having him over wasn’t exactly a bad thing.

he helped you relax in the form of kissing you until you couldn’t breathe. standard practice for him, really. and somehow thirty minutes had elapsed and you had somehow materialized into your bedroom–now straddling his lap on your bed, late, and rethinking the stability of steady income and appearances, in favour of sucking spencer reid’s pretty little face off until he was a mess of purple splotches and swollen lips. 

you would’ve–if he let you. you would’ve been peeling off your top in his lap instead of by your lonesome in your bathroom, if he let you. 

but of course, despite claiming not to be, spencer reid was a tease who worked you up and then forced you to well, work. 

all in good conscience he says, you can’t afford to miss it he says, i’ll be here when you get back he says. 

you wished he was saying less and touching you more, yet as it goes, that was not the case, and you were once again left blue balled by your ever loving boyfriend. 

though thankfully, you didn’t go down without a fight, or rather, without punishing him in return. spencer would’ve fed mushu and folded your laundry without your insistence that he do so, but you led yourself to believe that he was just as annoyed at the task as you currently were. balance. a true 50/50 relationship.

you were tortured. getting ready for a night filled with fake smiles, and people you hated for the sake of god knows what, at a horrible venue, with portion sizes that would have spencer pulling into a drive-thru once he picked you up, was absolutely not something that filled you with joy. 

you considered yourself less than gracious for the opportunity, and would’ve much rather played hooky and tangled yourself into your pink sheets, naked with your naked boyfriend, happily practicing the basis of human nature recreationally. sex. 

yet, you had even been deprived of that. you didn’t exactly take spencer for some sort of nympho, but you’d assumed his libido wouldn’t have allowed him to kiss you with such fervour and then proceed to innocently peck your nose and drag you off of his lap instead of into his bed. 

did he have an aversion to sex in general? were you the problem? did he just not want to fuck you? 

spencer was, by far the best man you’ve dated. the kindest, the one who truly cared for you the most. but he was also the only man you’ve ever dated who hadn’t made any moves on sleeping with you. 

spencer had an exceptionally intelligent brain. it was beautiful, it was part of why you loved him, yet it was still the brain of a man. and you were concerned as to why he spent so much time thinking with it instead of with well, something else. 

a knock on your on-suite bathroom’s door startled you out of that spiraling tangent and back into a reality where you were still late and still in only your bra. 

“i have a feeling you were looking for these?”

spencer always brought you back to your feet when your worries were throwing you out of your own control. god you hated him. you loved him. 

you cracked open the door separating your partially undressed body to your boyfriend’s fully clothed one, and watched as his bashful expression averted his eyes and instead ushered his hands towards you, hands which held the outfit you’d planned for the night, which had been sitting on your dresser. 

spencer once again offered you a small salvation, and you were unbelievably glad he hadn’t questioned what you’d been doing for the past three minutes with nothing to change into. generous in ways you didn’t deserve.

“right. thank you. um,” 

your gaze drifted to the laundry spencer had folded with military precision on your wrinkled sheets. sheets that had become wrinkled because of him. sheets that you had just washed but would gladly dirty if it meant you could fuck him in them. 

the flame in your stomach re-ignited as you felt heat creep up the back of your neck, filling every crevice of your face until it forced you into an awkward smile. did he have any idea that you were fantasizing about devouring him, or did he find your constipated expression endearing?

“would you mind putting the laundry away as well? and fixing up my bed a bit? if that's okay?”

all the demanding tone that had filled your throat mere minutes before dissipated, as spencer had reduced you to mush by the heinous act of simply being himself. you were a pitifully horny excuse for a woman. 

“you got it.”

spencer handed you your clothes and gently closed the door, now happily busying himself with the simple task of cleaning up for you. 

normally, a man that had graced your past dating history would complain about such tasks. normally, you wouldn’t be changing in the privacy of a second room. normally, you would have tumbled out of the door with your makeup half done and your hair a mess because said tasks were completed half-assed and had to be onced over by you. normally, a relationship would only bring a constant state of feeling as though you were taking care of an incompetent child, who couldn’t understand the purpose of caring for another without expecting something in return. 

spencer reid was everything but normal. and you adored him for it. 

something as trivial as sex didn’t really matter when a man like spencer loved you, right? 

not when you had to cover the soft break in your voice with a cough when he returned to the bathroom door–knocking first, of course, to hand you your designated “going out” jewelry when you hadn’t even asked him to. 

he was so sweet he almost made you cry off your mascara, curled up on the cool tiled floor of your bathroom. over a pair of earrings. 

if spencer only wanted to kiss you, you were fine with it. 

you could take care of yourself in other ways.

said ways made themselves abundantly clear nearly two days later, after spencer had taken care of your far-past-tipsy self post work event, where you had taken the liberty of indulging in one too many glasses of complimentary champagne. 

now, as the clock beside your bed flashed too bright numbers in your face, confirming it was far too late in the night for you to be awake, you thought about him as you rolled over for the umpteenth time in a measly matter of minutes. 

he’d stroked the soft curls of your hair with the sort of reverence that would’ve made your knees buckle had you not been so inebriated and girlishly ecstatic to see him. 

he’d kissed both of your cheeks and returned every “i love you” with just as much genuine certainty as the last. because he was perfect.

he’d cleaned you up. washing your face, fussing over you as he helped you brush your teeth, handed you your comfiest pair of pajamas and turned around so you could change into them, because he respected your space and privacy even when your drunken lack of cognition was unable to uphold it. 

and of course, because he wanted to kill your now sober self, you recalled how he then proceeded to help you get your tank top on straight after your drunken self had gotten all tangled up. you were a mess in every sense and he tucked frizzed locks behind your ear and kissed your forehead despite yourself, like it didn’t matter. 

now, with a completely dissipated hangover (thanks to a certain someone insuring you drank almost copious amounts of water, while leaving two advil on your bedside table) you were left unbelievably, and irrevocably horny. as it often went. 

you’d woken up to a cold bed and even colder messages. a local case and an incredibly busy boyfriend. spent your day stupidly sad, as if your entire life revolved around him, and now you lay awake. and thinking of him so late at night–or at this point, early in the morning. this never did you any good. 

the conclusion you came to was more indulgent than anything. less than forty-eight hours and you couldn’t bear it (pathetic!). you were sure tiring yourself out another way would lull you to sleep when soft forehead kisses and backrubs couldn’t. 

such thoughts only made you more ridden with guilt. as if masturbation (while thinking of him, for that matter), was the only way you were able to satisfy a gluttonous hunger and offer yourself rest sans spencer reid. 

you didn’t allow yourself to dwell on it, one track mind already sending your holy hands crawling between your legs.

the same could not be said for your tragic, tortured boyfriend. 

poor spencer had gotten home late, not wanting to wake you with a text, he’d landed on going over for breakfast in the morning. he’d find a way of making it up to you, he always did. 

and now the universe had found a way to pay any of his misdoings back to him, tenfold. 

the walls separating your apartments were thin, the two of you were more than well aware of this–a past you having been the cause of many sleepless nights for spencer. it was how you first met, now a silly little love story to be told with shining eyes and full hearts. 

the flimsy, un-soundproofed structures dividing your homes had become such an insignificant issue it was never even thought of. practically all of your free time was now spent together, and any noise was welcomed as a soft comfort of connection. 

and now horror had come back to bite him. because spencer reid sat painfully awake in his favourite reading nook, listening in on none other than your moans. 

you were dating, you took pleasure in calling yourself his and vice versa, but it was still wrong, a cruel invasion of privacy, destroying any semblance of respect he harbored for you (which was most definitely saying something), but spencer could not find the strength to tune your sweet sounds out. they were too beautiful. he absolutely did not deserve you. 

no, spencer did not carry the power to not eavesdrop on his girlfriend masturbating. it was far too difficult for him to withstand, his mind folded embarrassingly easily when it came to you, he always did, especially when he could picture you oh-so perfectly.  

he’d first seen about two days ago, he couldn’t manage to muster up the exact amount of elapsed time, which only spoke to how greatly you affected him. a completely useless mess of a genius. he couldn’t even remember the details of the case that had dragged him away from your drunken bedside. just you. you you you. 

he’d been putting your laundry away while you got yourself all dolled up for what–according to you, scarcely deserved your beauty. such a routine would have been completely innocent and disgustingly domestic had it not been for the fact that he had soiled the light of that memory with the distraction of your… undergarments. 

there was most definitely no saving him now. spencer reid was a pervert. through and through. 

he swore he had never meant to think of them, or of you that way, but holding silken fabrics and pretty lace of which he knew had adorned your most intimate parts was not shy of sexual for spencer. and while unbeknownst to you, his arousal was quite easy to earn when you were mixed into the equation. 

he was turned on by practically anything regarding you. his blessing and his curse. 

he’d only folded them, then put them away as per your instruction. he absolutely did not steal anything, despite the incessant, disgusting voice in his brain that practically screamed at him to do so. because he was seemingly unable to do anything involving his girlfriend without his thoughts ruining it. 

without him ruining it.

and when he finally managed to cool himself down and shoo away his dark thoughts? one brush of his organizing hand revealed something that made every synapse in his brain misfire. pink silicone slithered into his view. his feigned innocence in an attempt to recover some sort of decorum, now reduced to prey which fell for a serpent's trap. 

a vibrator. 

his skin burnt up with a ferocious shade of red as he hurried to put away the rest of your intimates and slam your dresser drawer shut. yet his speed was no match for the guilt as blood travelled down, until he couldn’t think straight and the heat in his skin wasn’t the only thing that was rising. 

he wasn’t surprised, no, obviously such items were exceedingly normal despite the embarrassment of societal taboo regarding sexual pleasure. it was the confirmation that you in fact, also harboured sexual desires that got to him. that was now real, and completely unignorable. 

he wasn’t stupid, he felt the disappointment seeping through your skin each time he held your hips still, the small sigh when your attempt to chase his lips was futile, he was aware of what he was depriving you of, but he hadn’t found the courage to speak of it, to actually tell you what was going on inside the brain that you constantly praised him for, instead opting to completely ice you out regarding anything intimately physical.

because he was scared.

he was cruel. 

were you this worked up because of him? 

guilt seeped through the cracks of his daze as his right hand traveled the wide valley between his spread thighs. his eyes were glossed over, body moving in a sinfully practiced familiarity rather than under the control of his better judgement. 

his fingers faltered at his belt. this was wrong on so many levels, something he would never manage to come back from, he’d swim too far and drown in his own self disgust. he wasn’t able to bring himself to speak to you about what had caused him to hold himself back, but was completely fine indulging in his own pleasure. pathetic. 

had he really changed in the ways his mind had convinced him of? would he never regain the innocence of who he used to be? 

a particularly loud moan snapped him out of his own head, a thick fog clearing out as you dragged him from the deep end, saving him as you always did. 

you. he could picture you now, panties soaked and sticky with the evidence of your unholy arousal, hot pink tip of your toy making a mess of your swollen clit. you were pretty, he didn’t have to see you to know so. his pretty girl with a pretty mess between her thighs. 

he should be the one pressing such unrelenting vibrations against your core, soaking up every praise that left your perfect lips. you would tell him how good he was through broken breaths. he knew that.

“fuck! spence–”

it was like you could hear his thoughts as clearly as he could hear you. you said his name. you were sleepless thinking about him. worked up thinking about him. 

spence. spencer spencer spencer. he would die a thousand deaths, bleed at your unyielding hand, just to hear you moan his name again. 

what was wrong with him. 

he hadn’t even realized he’d began palming himself through his trousers until he was too far gone to stop. was it better because he was demonstrating some sort of control by not stroking himself fully? or was it simply more wretched that he managed to get off through such light touches by completely tainting your glowing image. 

he landed on the latter, as his self loathing would not allow him to think highly of himself in such a pivotally low moment. but his greed was too strong, festering until it consumed him. he hung onto every sound that passed your lips, small praises as you thought of him. soft whimpers a harmony of your pleasure, and his misdoings. 

he was a horrible boyfriend, as he feared he would be.

which was exactly why his palm didn’t stop its cruel pace against the growing flame in his core. 

his hand moved with an uncoordinated velocity saved only for the desperation of you, chasing a high where you were at the peak. 

your sounds never faltered, the comfort of letting go, of foolishly thinking you were in the clear to let two months of built up tension escape through your spent throat. spencer hated himself for getting off on the fact that you had no idea he could hear you, that you truly didn’t know he was aware of how badly you wanted him, that he felt the same, if not more in return. 

revolting. anyone would be revolted if they knew, if they could see what he saw, hear what he heard, if his vile actions were to ever be exposed he was sure he would curl up and die, unable to face the extent of his shame. or maybe he was so unworth saving that the humiliation would only push him further.

he hadn’t any way of knowing, because this moment, not unlike many other thoughts, would end up locked in an impenetrable vault where anything undeserving lurked, each disgusted in their own likeness. it was suffocating. he wasn’t sure where else to keep them. 

it was almost ironic that his own self disgust sent him barrelling over the edge, so quickly he had no way of stopping its path. he couldn’t keep breathing, he had to rip his teeth into his bottom lip in order to not make a sound, he was loud, he knew so, had been told so in the past. louder than you were, yet he suppressed it because something had told him that he had to, that he’d changed. 

spencer sat in the shame of sticky soiled slacks, with the taste of iron on his tongue as he listened to you finish with a squeal of his name.

spencer had thought he would become distant, he laid awake, now to silence as he watched wisps of sun dance across his ceiling through the gaps in his curtains, and felt you in every fleeting moment of warmth they provided. he knew he would implode from the lack of you, even if every moment felt like he was stealing what he would never have the grace of deserving. 

spencer reid, was in his own eyes, more selfish than what he knew to do with. 

things felt simpler in the time before, when he first realized he liked you. when he spent his time dreaming up little what-ifs. when every miniscule queue, every blink, every breath, felt like he was grasping at air searching for even a hint of love, love for him. 

now he knew that you loved him. and knowing should’ve been enough. more than enough. selfish. he felt he was being selfish. 

selfish because he wouldn’t–couldn’t–tell you what was wrong with him. he wanted you to keep him. he didn’t want to give you an out because what he wanted more than anything was for you to stay. selfish.

so selfish that he blinked and he was outside your door. he’d changed since the mess of prior… events. he’d cleaned up. something in him wanted to be pretty, for you. to feel like he wasn’t lying about who he’d become.

selfishness reared its ugly head and formed itself as a desperate knock turned crashing of lips. the swapping of spit, as if transferring just a bit of you, your bacteria, your soul, your anything, could fight whatever infected him. fix him. he believed you were pure enough to do so. 

“spencer?–when did you get back?–”

he tried to let you speak, he swore it. pulling away because you deserved to be heard, because he wanted to listen. yet he dove back in because he could feel the rot writhing back every second he was away from your skin.

his mouth melded with yours as if it were meant to be, and he let himself believe it was, before pulling away to mutter a useless string of apologies. you weren’t here to save him, but he’d keep crawling back like you had the power to. 

“spencer–”

he wouldn’t let you finish, lips already back on yours because he couldn’t breathe on his own, contrasting how his anatomy actually functioned, you rewired him completely. he backed you into a wall, hard, without meaning to, hands too busy cupping your perfectly warm cheeks, body too busy pressing into yours, mind too busy being full of you. he wouldn’t have noticed your discomfort if not for the small wince you kissed into his lips.

the drop in his chest settled like an anchor in his stomach as he pulled off of you so quickly he surely gave himself whiplash, hands empty, body cold. 

“did i hurt you? i’m so sorry–i–”

he couldn’t even find the words if he tried. the vast library of knowledge that was his brain rendered completely useless. he was only thinking of himself. what he thought he’d done. aggressive, violent, unpredictable. he felt like he was once again looking over his shoulder when he was only looking at you. 

“what? no–i just slept weird the other night and have a kink in my back, it’ll pass… are you okay?”

you missed him. you wanted to simply hold him, wrap your arms around him and rock back and forth like a calm ship at sea. a soothing rhythm. though, you weren’t sure if he’d accept your touch if you tried. you’d never seen him so scared. 

all he wanted was to feel you. and when your hand tentatively met the flesh of his cheek, he melted into it so quickly it was hard to keep the threatening tears in his eyes at bay. you were too good to him. you were perfect.

“when you were drunk?”

he was asking about your sleep. something that felt extraordinarily minor in this current moment. you were far more occupied with his sporadically odd behavior and concerned with the fact that he was ignoring it. his touch was always welcome, but spencer had a way of pushing his needs aside, and his actions felt weirdly forced in a way you weren’t familiar with. his affection typically felt more natural. 

“yes i guess so, i kind of woke up sort of folded in half–i guess? i’m fine now,”

you made a small gesture with your hands, demonstrating the pretzel shape that had haunted your drunken dreams and left you with a deadly case of neck stiffness. entirely untreatable. fatal, judging from spencers abhorrent expression. 

hypocrite. this was a moment that required your concern for him. something that he did not offer up lightly. 

“so… when did you get back? how was the case? have you eaten?”

the strategy of bombarding him with so many questions that he was actually forced to answer at least one had yet to be patched (small wins), and spencer smiled as his hand stroked short circles at the small of your back. 

his touch was soft, skilled yet still delicate, as if you were something fragile and would shatter under the lightest impact. but not in a way that ever made you feel small. just, wanted.

he was so gentle with you now, the striking jump leaving you dizzy when his taste was still prickling on your lips. 

“everything went fine, don’t worry–it was local–but you know that…”

he was doing everything not to lie to you and still failed.

“i got in about an hour ago, i didn’t want to wake you i guess–sorry… let me help with your back and then i’ll make us something to eat? yeah?”

not exactly the truths you deserved. anything to deter from the fact that he had definitely been home for hours and definitely knew how much you missed him. 

“you didn’t want to wake me at nine o'clock on a sunday?”

your brow curved, spencer’s brain perceived that as an obvious message for something along the lines of i know you’re a pervert and now you have to explain yourself in excruciating detail you disgusting dog when he really knew you had only meant it as a tease. 

“yes… you like to sleep in.”

how had he circled the conversation back to you again?

“you didn’t want to wake me with a text… so you waited around for an hour and showed up at my door…”

it could be believable, he hoped. there truly was zero method to spencer’s madness over you. nothing had to make sense. it just was. he’d hoped you’d buy it so he would not be sent to the pound with his tail between his legs. 

“exactly. i just missed you too much. needed to see you.” 

he used his stupid looming-over-you-turned-bending to shove his nose into the crook of your neck and then proceeded to nuzzle himself in the warmth there as a means of disarming you. don’t be fooled by the shine in his eye and the way his arms wrapped your shoulders, he was evil. 

you mumbled a curt missed you too into his hair because it worked. you were easy. 

“let me fix it now?”

you could feel his teeth against your skin as he spoke, his breath sweltering against your already hot flesh. was this a practice of persuasion? some sort of profiling technique, making you malleable enough to blindly follow what he says without so much of a second thought?

“hmm? fix what?” 

you ran your fingers through his messy chestnut hair, two could play at that game, spencer. you could even out the playing field. you scratched his scalp ever so slightly, tips of your fingers worshiping, lulling, until he was just as dazed as you. 

he was easy too.

“lemme rub your back for you. get the knot out of your shoulders… please it’ll feel so nice.” 

and, fifteen minutes later your face was buried into the same pillow you’d gripped only hours before when you were… thinking of him. 

your top half was bare (because spencer swore it was better that way) and you didn’t have it in you to argue with science, or the fact that he had asked you to take your top off in the first place. a simply demure woman. 

shirtless face down while spencer’s left thigh cut into the curve of your right ass cheek. he was bony. long a spiraling and so devastatingly climbable and– if this was a ploy to take your mind off the insignificant sting in your shoulder, by making you ridiculously horny, it was absolutely working. 

if he moved a good four inches left you were sure you could make something else bony. 

you moaned when his thumb dragged over the harsh blade of your shoulder. he was really, really good with his hands. what wasn’t he good at? 

the cool metal of the watch he hadn’t removed was a striking temperature against the burning heat of your back, which had been lathered in some warm essential moisturizing oil you rarely touched, that he’d found in the mess of products in your bathroom. because lubrication was important (was everything he said sexual or had your brain already melted?)

his hands were big as they were long. sheer size most definitely spanning across the width of your face with ease, and currently covering large sections of your skin with ease. he practically kneaded your flesh like dough, following a strict stress reducing pattern he’d undoubtedly studied.

if he went just a little bit lower his hands would be on your ass. that was honestly what was keeping the fire between your thighs ablaze. that and his scent. and his voice. and him… come to think of it, spencer had never really touched you there, his hands always seeming to stop just a touch too low on your waist, yet still remaining too high to actually make themselves useful. 

maybe he just wasn’t an ass guy. 

actually. you’d caught him staring in the reflections of full length mirrors far more than once. you’d spared him his dignity when your eyes had met. you regretted it now as he drained what felt like years of weight off of your shoulders, and sent every electric shock straight to your cunt because he was incapable of achieving perfect domestic boyfriend status without turning you on. 

but that was as much your fault as it was his. 

back to his hands though. they were good. great even. gold star worthy (you knew he had a praise kink, and you’d use it against him if he wasn’t literally against you… you should be stronger than this.)

his deft fingers traced little beauty marks and blemishes you hardly recognized the existence of. you knew every pattern he found in your skin would be catalogued in the files of his brain, most definitely in his favourites folder. 

“feels good, spence.”

that was practically the first time you’d spoken to him since he’d started. you hadn’t even recognized the sound of your own voice. was that even you?

he’d sort of expected you to instruct him where to touch, how much pressure to apply, how fast, how slow. you were demanding (lovingly) and he liked when you told him what to do. 

weirdly enough you remained relatively silent throughout the whole process (minus every little open mouthed sigh that was muffled against the growing pile of drool under your chin.)

he had reduced your brain to slop, absolute mush, only senses remaining revolved solely around him and his touch and how you were clenching around nothing and–

“yeah? that’s good. told you, angel.”

why were you worried again? you could’ve sworn you were worried about something. 

right. he was acting weird. and also you wanted to fuck him. like right now.

spencer had stopped his endlessly strung together tangent regarding the benefits of back massages, and how they lowered stress and released endorphins and yada yada sexy science crap, loosening tight muscles (could’ve spent his time loosening something tighter) and all of the sudden you were begging him to continue talking. 

was it possible to reach climax via posture correction and induced blood circulation? it was, right? 

all he could make out were quite little whines which he had assumed were an okay to continue his ministrations. little whines that were definitely not you pleading with him to never stop talking. 

wow, covering up an all consuming guilt with a hands-on anatomy lesson for your girlfriend surely proved itself a great diversion technique. way to go spencer!

and then you started rolling over and his brain literally stopped working. 

spencer had been compared to a deer before, something about his lanky clumsiness and beautiful big brown eyes (your words, not his.)

and now said comparison was proving itself undyingly correct as he stared at your chest like your pretty nipples, which now consumed the entirety of his view and thoughts, were the headlights of the most beautiful semi truck he’d ever seen. 

spencer was lucky that thought was not one that ever left his mind. for the sake of his integrity and your confidence. don’t worry, every girl dreamed of being compared to a gigantic immovable force!

and oh look–he's dead. roadkill flat against the highway. he’d wear the tiremarks like a badge of honour, he’d proudly tell the whole world that his girlfriend’s stunning tits had actually killed him. 

he absolutely did not register how stupid he appeared in the moment, or how his jaw had slacked, his mouth was agape, or how you’d said his name. 

somewhere between the unheard begs and unchecked pulses between your thighs, you’d had enough. suddenly recalling that all confrontations were short-lived and you were exceptionally good at getting what you needed. (and there was also the months of becoming increasingly insecure about your sex appeal, which probably also contributed something.) 

so you flashed him–exposed yourself to him? whatever it was, it obviously caught his attention. seems not every plan had to be meticulously thought through!

“spencer.”

your voice of his name fell on completely deaf ears. 

his gaze followed your chest as you sat up, your face was level with the mid section of his frame, and his neck was cranked in a position that most definitely violated his previous lecture regarding the correlation between postural habits and back pain. he did not care. nor did he bother to notice the discomfort in his neck. 

your eyes were only slightly, embarrassingly teary, from the sexual frustration or from genuine hurt, you truly didn’t know. but you would simply not allow yourself to reach the low of getting off to a massage because you had literally nothing else to work with. 

“are you attracted to me, spencer?”

he wouldn’t have heard your words had they not been so paralyzing. he was both confused and growing red eared (and hard) from his perversion. 

before his loose, stupid lips could jumble together a useless string of yes of course, why wouldn’t i be? you’re the most beautiful woman i’ve ever laid eyes on–you saved him from mortification. 

“like physically… sexually. like do i even turn you on?” 

the words would’ve landed pervertedly condescending (because he was disgusting) if he hadn’t caught the break in your voice. suddenly his melted brain reformed and flipped the profiling-my-girlfriend switch on. his mind immediately darted to the unsteady beat of your chest and your averting gaze and the way your shoulders collapsed in on yourself and oh god. 

he was a horrible boyfriend. 

“of course you do–i don’t even… i couldn’t put it into words–what you do to me.”

your scoff came off more as more of a wounded cry than anything. frail and caught in a cruel trap that was your mind and his disregarding actions. 

“really? because–well i told myself i was okay with it... but i’m not. i can’t handle being undesirable and i need you so badly and i just don’t understand why you won’t–”

you stopped yourself because you were sure you would’ve literally choked on your own words had you not, and spencer only looked at you like you were all delicate and preciously pitiful until all that you felt was guilt. because how could you ever question his love when he looked at you like that? 

i can’t handle being undesirable.

he could live a hundred lives being the best possible version of himself and still remain undeserving of you. undesirable. you were the first thing that he thought of when he woke up and the last thing when he drifted to sleep. he saw you everywhere. in everything.  

his entire team knew practically every little detail about you. from the way you scrunched your nose when you read to how you always leaned into him while you slept. all he did was desire you.

he fell to his knees–albeit awkwardly, as if your words had literally stabbed him in the chest, he believed they did. he had said he would bleed for you.

and because he never learnt to articulate his emotions properly, his mouth started moving before his brain could stop it. 

“i heard you last night.” 

your eyes went unimaginably wide in horror. you spill your guts out to a man and he decides to leave you on the side of the road instead of stitching you up. great. 

“and i lied about it because. well because i didn’t want you to know how much it affected me. and–and i know how disgusting it is and i’m so unbelievably guilty at how much i… like it. and i swear. i swear i was going to stop and then you said my name and i just–couldn’t keep my hands off–and i know it’s disgusting and i understand if you want to scream at me… or–or hit me or run away–or even hate me.” 

oh.

“you touched yourself to… the sound of me touching myself to you…”

spencer ran a hand through the mess of his hair and squeezed his eyes shut, tightly, fingers pressing into his covered corneas so hard that he prayed he would do irreversible damage to his vision, and would not have to face your repulsed expression. 

“yes. i’m sorry.”

spencer spared himself a glance at you, remembered your tits were out and now quite literally in his face, and closed his eyes again. 

“then why won’t you… have sex with me?”

“because… i’m scared,”

he breathed hard, making preparations to finally reveal a reality he’d completely hidden from you. from the fear that he was too much, held too much baggage and was too insecure and had too many deep rooted issues to ever truly love. 

and with how he’d changed. how he wanted to preserve a version of himself that no longer existed because he couldn’t bear to accept that he had changed into something festering with an unrestorable rot. 

that terrified him far more than any dirty confession could ever manage to. 

“because. a lot has happened to me. because a lot of bad things have happened to me.  I’ve become… bad. and i’m scared that if i indulge in you, i’ll only confirm that i’ve been lost for good. i’m scared i’ll hurt you.” 

he hadn’t realized he was crying until your soft hands cleared the blurred lines of his vision and pulled him close to you. his face found the crook of your neck like it always did and you soothed him by carding your fingers through his perfectly tangled hair.

he looked up at you as you cradled his face in your palms. 

“there was this unsub. and she–she did things… took advantage of me to gain a psychological upper hand, to hold something over my head. and i did time. because of her. and she made me feel–i had never felt so angry–or violent or… the things i did inside. they’re unfathomable. and when i got out… all i wanted–i wanted to hurt her. i did. she ruined me and now i’m this disgusting visicious–thing that i don’t even recongize. and if i ever hurt you i could never forgive myself–because you are the only good thing in my life and i will never be worthy of having you. i shouldn’t have lied. i should’ve told you what i really was instead of tricking you into loving me. i’m so sorry.”

it was almost too much to process–it practically hit you in the face and stole the air from your lungs. because your boyfriend just spilled a lifetime of traumatic experiences and you were shirtless questioning why he wouldn’t sleep with you. 

above all, your heart ached for him in ways you never knew were possible. 

“spencer,”

his eyes were searching yours for the inevitable look of shame, disdain, the words of contempt that he knew were tragically bound to spill from your untainted lips. 

but none of that came. you only held him closer. 

“you’ve spent months showing me exactly who you are. and i will do anything to prove how beautifully kind, and sweet–and gentle you truly are.”

spencer had taught you the importance actions held above all. behaviour spoke louder than anything. there was nothing he could tell you that could ever deter you from his light. not even for a second. 

you had never known someone like him. never been graced with something so pure and heavenly. perfect in every nook of imperfection. your love was so undyingly devout you weren’t sure how you would ever be capable of forming it into words. 

“i’m sorry if i ever made you felt like your experiences made you less than–and i’ll do anything to show you how much my love transcends anything–everything… spencer you could never. and i mean never scare me away. you’re stuck with me.”

he’d spent so long being terrified of who he’d become, living in a body he couldn’t recognize, that he’d lost sight of the fact that he was still himself. 

you’d help him find himself again. because you cared. because you loved him. because he deserved it. 

he shied away from you again, the soft curve of his nose meeting the skin of your collar bone. his favourite hiding place. you could feel his smile, the sun peeking out from behind a cloudy sky. 

“hey… let me see you.”

you chuckled, watching as he blinked back the last of tears that prickled the sensitive skin surrounding the warm gold of his eyes. 

“only if you’re okay with it–ready i mean, i want you to tell me everything. i want to be here for you, spence.”

you watched as his rosy cherub cheeks perked, his lips curved into the most tenderly compassionate smile you ever had the honour of being familiar with as he nodded. 

“i think i’d like that.” 

you pressed him closer to your bare skin, in the sense of shared proximity and loving intimacy, dragging his willing form up until you pressed a delicate kiss against his lips. 

“great! um… would you mind grabbing my shirt now–”

spencer snorted as he rose from your carpeted floor and fetched the garment that had previously been folded with a now practiced precision (because of course he folded it!)

his new found confidence had him feeling rather risqué, and he teased you by pulling it closer to his chest. 

“how about we have this conversation under the condition that i get to worship the beauty of your skin beforehand?” 

you only rolled your eyes and raised your arms so he could pull the fabric back over your body. 

“maybe next time.”

because there absolutely would be a next time. 

“No, I’m serious!” You gesture wildly, nearly sloshing your drink. “Like, is it really that fucking hard to find the clit? Is basic anatomy that complicated?”

“Here we go,” Jay groans again from the floor, leaning back against Sunghoon’s legs. They’re playing some racing game on mute while everyone else talks over them. Reina cackles. “Who are we talking about?”

“That guy from Delta Sig I went home with last weekend.” You take a long drink. “Forty-five minutes of the most mediocre dick of my life and he had the audacity to ask if I came.”

“Did you fake it?” Liv asks, already knowing the answer.

“Fuck no. I told him the truth and he got all butthurt about it.” You roll your eyes. “Like sorry bro, maybe develop some skills.”

“Brutal,” Sunoo says, grinning as he passes the joint to Niki.

“Honest,” you correct. “I don’t have time to protect egos. If you can’t make me cum, I’m not gonna lie about it.”

Across the room, Jungwon is watching you with this amused smirk, one eyebrow raised. He’s been quiet most of the night, nursing the same beer, legs spread wide in that infuriatingly confident way guys sit when they know they look good. And he does look good—black t-shirt, gray sweatpants, hair falling into his eyes just right. “What?” you challenge, catching his stare.

“Nothing.” But his smirk deepens. “Just sounds like you’ve been picking the wrong guys.”

“Oh please.” You lean forward. “Like you’d be any different.”

Something shifts in his expression. His eyes darken, and he tilts his head slightly, studying you. “Want me to prove it?”

The room doesn’t exactly go quiet, but you feel like it does. Your stomach does this weird flip. “Prove what?” You keep your voice steady even though your heart is suddenly racing.

“That you’ve been fucking the wrong guys.” He says it so casually, like he’s commenting on the weather. But there’s nothing casual about the way he’s looking at you.

Reina makes a choking sound beside you. Someone—maybe Heeseung—mutters “oh shit” under their breath. You should laugh it off. Make a joke. Change the subject. But you’re drunk enough to be bold and curious enough to wonder if he’s all talk. “You’re that confident?” You raise an eyebrow.

“Yeah.” No hesitation. “I am.”

The challenge hangs in the air between you. You’re aware of everyone watching, waiting to see what you’ll do. Maya’s eyes are wide. Jay looks like he’s trying to figure out if he should intervene. “Okay.” You stand up, and Jungwon’s smirk falters for just a second—like he didn’t expect you to actually take him up on it. “Prove it.”

You start walking toward the hallway that leads to Jake’s bedroom, and after a beat, you hear Jungwon follow.

“Are they really—” someone starts.

“Yup,” Reina says, and she sounds absolutely delighted.

Jake’s bedroom is dark and quiet, muffled music and laughter filtering through the door. You flip on the lamp, suddenly aware that you’re alone with Jungwon and you just agreed to let him— “You don’t have to,” he says, and when you turn, he’s standing close but not crowding you. “If you were just calling my bluff.”

“Were you bluffing?”

“No.”

The word sends heat straight through you. You step closer, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes. “Then stop talking and do it.”

For a second he just looks at you, and then his hand comes up to cup your jaw, thumb brushing your cheekbone. “You sure?”

“Jungwon.” You grab his shirt. “I swear to god, if you’re going to do it, then—” He kisses you. Not rough, not tentative—just sure. Like he knows exactly what he’s doing, and honestly? The confidence is already working for you. His lips are soft and he tastes like beer and something minty, and when his tongue slides against yours, you make a sound you’ll probably be embarrassed about later.

But he groans in response, walking you backward until your legs hit the bed. You fall onto it and he follows, hovering over you, one hand planted by your head while the other slides under your shirt. “This okay?” he murmurs against your mouth.

“Yes, fuck—yes.”

His hand skims up your ribs, thumb brushing the underside of your breast through your bralette, and you arch into the touch. He’s taking his time, kissing along your jaw, down your neck, finding that spot behind your ear that makes you gasp. “Sensitive here?” he asks, sounding pleased.

“Shut up.”

He laughs, low and warm against your skin. “You’re mouthy.”

“You have no idea.”

“Guess I’ll find out.” He sits back and pulls his shirt off in one smooth motion, and—okay. Okay. You knew he was lean but you didn’t know he looked like that without clothes. He catches you staring and smirks. “See something you like?”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“Too late.” But his hands are gentle as he reaches for the hem of your shirt, waiting for you to nod before pulling it off. Your bralette follows, and then his mouth is on your breast and coherent thought gets significantly harder.

He’s good at this. The guy knows what he’s doing with his tongue, circling your nipple before sucking it into his mouth, teeth grazing just enough to make you squirm. His hand works your other breast, thumb and forefinger rolling and pinching until you’re panting. “Jungwon—”

“Hmm?” He switches sides, giving your other breast the same attention, and you thread your fingers through his hair and tug.

“Stop teasing.”

“I’m not teasing.” He looks up at you through his lashes, and the sight of him between your breasts does something to you. “I’m being thorough.” His hand trails down your stomach, fingers playing with the button of your jeans. “Can I?”

“Yes, god, yes.”

He unbuttons them slowly—too slowly—and slides them down your legs along with your underwear. You’re completely naked and he’s still half-dressed, and something about that makes you feel exposed in a way that’s not entirely uncomfortable. Jungwon sits back on his heels, just looking at you, and you fight the urge to cover yourself. “Stop staring.”

“Can’t help it.” His hands slide up your thighs, pushing them apart. “You’re so fucking pretty.” The praise makes your face heat. You’re not used to guys taking their time like this, looking at you like you’re something worth savoring.

“Let me know if anything doesn’t feel good,” he says, and then his mouth is on your inner thigh, kissing and biting a path upward until his breath is ghosting over where you need him most.

The first touch of his tongue is light—experimental. He licks a broad stripe up your center and you gasp, hips jerking. His hands grip your thighs, holding you steady as he does it again, more pressure this time. “Fuck,” you breathe.

He hums against you, and the vibration makes your toes curl. Then he finds your clit with the tip of his tongue, circling it slowly, and—oh. Oh.

You’ve had guys go down on you before. Most of them acted like it was a chore, something to rush through to get to the “main event.” But Jungwon is eating you out like he has all the time in the world, like he’s enjoying it as much as you are.

He alternates between broad strokes and focused attention on your clit, reading your body’s reactions—when you moan, when your hips buck, when your thighs start to tremble. And when he slides one finger inside you, crooking it just right while his tongue works your clit, you actually see stars. “Holy shit,” you gasp, one hand fisted in his hair, the other gripping the sheets.

He adds a second finger, stretching you, and the combination of his mouth and his fingers pumping into you is almost too much. You’re making sounds you’ve never made before, completely uninhibited, and he’s groaning against you like getting you off is getting him off. “Jungwon, I’m—fuck, I’m close—”

He doesn’t change what he’s doing. Doesn’t speed up or switch techniques like so many guys do right when you’re on the edge. He just keeps that same perfect rhythm, fingers curling inside you, tongue circling your clit, and you come harder than you ever have with another person. Your whole body goes taut, thighs clamping around his head as waves of pleasure crash over you. He works you through it, only lightening his touch when you start to squirm from sensitivity.

When you can finally breathe again, you look down to find him watching you with the most self-satisfied expression you’ve ever seen. “You were saying?” he asks, and you want to be annoyed but you’re too blissed out to care.

“Okay,” you admit. “Point proven.”

He crawls up your body, kissing you deep, and you can taste yourself on his tongue. His erection presses against your thigh through his sweatpants, and you reach down to palm him through the fabric. He groans into your mouth. “You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” You push at his shoulders until he rolls onto his back, and then you’re straddling him, grinding down against his clothed cock. “Unless you’re done proving yourself?”

His hands grip your hips, helping you rock against him. “Fuck no.” You lean down to kiss him while your hand slips into his sweatpants, wrapping around him. He’s hard and thick, and when you stroke him, his hips jerk up into your hand.

“Condom?” you murmur against his lips.

“Wallet. Back pocket.” You climb off long enough for him to shove his sweatpants and boxers down, and—yeah, okay, the confidence makes sense. You grab his wallet from his discarded pants, finding the condom and tearing it open while he strokes himself lazily, watching you with heavy-lidded eyes.

“Let me,” he says, taking it from you and rolling it on. Then his hands are on your waist, lifting you, positioning you over him. “Go slow. Take what you need.”

You sink down onto him inch by inch, and the stretch is perfect. He fills you completely, and when you’re fully seated, you both groan. “Fuck, you feel good,” he breathes, hands flexing on your hips.

You start to move, rolling your hips, finding a rhythm. His hands guide you but he lets you control the pace, watching where you’re joined with an expression that’s almost reverent. “Touch yourself,” he says, voice rough. “Want to feel you come on my cock.”

The words send a fresh wave of arousal through you. You brace one hand on his chest and bring the other between your legs, fingers finding your clit. You’re still sensitive from before, and it doesn’t take much—just a few circles while he thrusts up into you, hitting that perfect spot inside. “That’s it,” he encourages, sitting up to mouth at your neck, one hand gripping your ass to help you move. “You’re so fucking hot like this. Taking what you need.”

You’re close again, impossibly, and when he bites down on your shoulder at the same moment his cock hits deep, you shatter. Your orgasm rips through you and you feel him follow seconds later, groaning your name against your skin as he pulses inside you. You collapse against his chest, both of you breathing hard. His hand comes up to stroke your back, gentle and grounding.

“So,” he says after a minute, and you can hear the smirk in his voice. “Still think I’m no different?”

You lift your head to glare at him, but there’s no heat in it. “Okay, fine. You were right.”

“Say it louder, I don’t think they heard you outside.”

You smack his chest and he laughs, catching your wrist and pressing a kiss to your palm. The gesture is surprisingly tender for what just happened. “Holy shit,” you say, the reality of the situation finally catching up. “We just fucked in Jake’s bed.”

“Yeah, we should probably…” He gestures vaguely. You climb off him carefully, and he deals with the condom while you hunt for your clothes in the dim light. There’s something surreal about getting dressed in comfortable silence after what just happened. Like you’ve done this before, even though you haven’t.

When you’re both decent, you catch sight of yourself in Jake’s mirror. Your hair is a mess, lips swollen, and there’s a hickey blooming on your collarbone. “Shit.” You touch it gingerly.

Jungwon comes up behind you, meeting your eyes in the mirror. “Sorry. Got carried away.”

“It’s fine.” You try to fluff your hair into something less “I just got thoroughly fucked.” “Everyone’s gonna know, though.”

“They already know.” He grins. “We weren’t exactly quiet.”

Your face heats. He’s right—you definitely weren’t quiet. “Oh god.”

“Hey.” He turns you around, hands on your shoulders. “You good? This isn’t… weird?”

You consider it. By all accounts, it should be weird. You just fucked one of your friends on a drunken bet. But looking at him now, his hair messy from your hands, expression open and a little concerned, it doesn’t feel weird. “I’m good,” you say honestly. “You?”

“I’m great.” His smile is genuine. “That was—”

“Really good,” you finish.

“Yeah.” You stand there for a beat too long, and then you clear your throat. “We should probably get back before they send a search party.”

“Right. Yeah.” He opens the door and you walk out first, down the hallway back to the living room where the entire group is absolutely not pretending they weren’t waiting for you. The silence when you walk in is deafening.

“So,” Reina says, grinning like the Cheshire cat. “Scale of one to ten?”

“Reina!” Maya looks mortified.

You just laugh and drop back onto the couch. “Solid eleven.” The room erupts. Jay throws a pillow at you. Sunghoon looks like he wishes he could disappear. Heeseung and Jake are cackling. Liv just gives you a knowing look and passes you a fresh drink. Jungwon sits down across from you, and when your eyes meet, he smirks. You roll your eyes but can’t help smiling back.

Yeah, you think, taking a long drink. This is either the best or worst decision you’ve ever made.

It’s after three AM when the party finally winds down. People are crashed on various surfaces—Niki and Sunoo sharing the big armchair, Heeseung sprawled on the floor, Jay and Sunghoon having claimed the other couch. Maya and Jake disappeared into his room about an hour ago. You’re pretty sober now, sitting on the balcony with Liv and Reina, sharing a cigarette and watching the campus lights below.

“So,” Liv says, passing you the cigarette. “You gonna talk about it?”

“What’s there to talk about?”

“You fucked Jungwon.” Reina isn’t one for subtlety. You nod.

“And?”

You take a drag, letting the smoke fill your lungs before exhaling slowly. “And it was really good.”

“We gathered that from the sounds,” Reina says, grinning when you flip her off. “But like… are you gonna do it again?”

“I don’t know. Probably not?” Even as you say it, you’re not sure you believe it. “It was just a drunk thing.”

“A drunk thing where you came so hard we heard you through the door,” Liv points out. Your face heats. “Oh my god.”

“I’m just saying.” She shrugs. “That kind of chemistry doesn’t come around often. And you’re both single. Why not?”

“Because he’s part of the group,” you say, voicing the concern that’s been nagging at you since you got dressed. “If things got messy…”

“Things don’t have to get messy,” Reina says. “People have casual sex all the time.”

“Not with their friends.”

“Sure they do.” Liv stubs out the cigarette. “Look, I’m not saying marry the guy. But if you both enjoyed it and you’re both adults… I don’t see the problem.”

You don’t have a good argument for that, mainly because you’re still thinking about his hands on your body, his mouth between your legs, the way he looked at you like you were the only person in the world. “I’ll think about it,” you say finally.

Your phone buzzes at 4:17 AM. You’re in your own bed now, having gotten an Uber home with Liv and Reina. You should be asleep but you keep replaying the night in your head.

jungwon: you up? i can’t sleep

You stare at the message for a long moment before typing back. you: same

jungwon: kept thinking about earlier

Your heart rate picks up. you: yeah?

jungwon: that okay?

you: yeah. me too

There’s a long pause where you watch the three dots appear and disappear several times.

jungwon: look, if tonight was just a one time thing, that’s cool. but if you ever wanted to do it again with no strings. you said it yourself. good sex is hard to find

You bite your lip, thumb hovering over the keyboard. This is probably a bad idea. You should say thanks but no thanks, keep things simple.

you: no strings?

jungwon: none. just two friends helping each other out

you: friends who fuck

jungwon: exactly

you: you’re sure this won’t make things weird with the group?

jungwon: only if we let it

You think about what Liv said. About chemistry and being adults and not overthinking things. you: okay

jungwon: yeah?

you: yeah. but we need rules

jungwon: rules work

you: we can talk about it tomorrow. when we’re sober

jungwon: sounds good. for the record though

you: ?

jungwon: you taste amazing

Your face goes hot and you let out an embarrassing sound even though you’re alone in your room. you: go to SLEEP jungwon

jungwon: sweet dreams 😏

You toss your phone aside and press your face into your pillow, smiling like an idiot. This is definitely a bad idea. But god, you kind of can’t wait to make it worse.

You meet Jungwon at a coffee shop off campus, neutral territory where you’re less likely to run into anyone from the group. It’s Tuesday afternoon, and you both have a gap between classes. He’s already there when you arrive, sitting in a corner booth with two iced americanos, and when he sees you, he slides one across the table. “Wasn’t sure how you take it,” he says.

“Black’s fine.” You sit down across from him, suddenly feeling weirdly nervous. Which is stupid—you’ve literally had his dick inside you. A coffee meetup shouldn’t be the awkward part. But he seems to sense it because he grins. “This is weird, right?”

“So weird,” you admit, and you both laugh, and just like that the tension breaks.

“Okay.” He leans back, fingers drumming on his cup. “Rules.”

“Rules,” you agree. “First one: no one can know.”

“Agreed. Jay and Sunghoon would lose their minds.”

“Jay would literally try to fight you.” You take a sip of coffee. “And Maya would never let me hear the end of it.”

“So we’re careful. No disappearing together at group things unless we have a good excuse.”

“And we stagger leaving,” you add. “Like, if you leave a party, I wait at least twenty minutes before I go.”

“Smart.” He nods. “What about texting?”

“Keep it normal in the group chat. If we’re gonna hook up, we text privately.”

“Works for me.” He studies you for a moment. “What about other people?”

You raise an eyebrow. “Other people?”

“Like, are we exclusive? Or can we still hook up with other people?”

It’s a fair question, even if something in your chest tightens at the thought of him with someone else. Which is stupid. This is purely physical. “We can do whatever we want,” you say carefully. “But if either of us starts hooking up with someone else regularly, we should probably end this. Easier that way.”

“Makes sense.” He seems to hesitate. “And if one of us catches feelings?”

“Then we stop immediately.” You meet his eyes. “That’s the most important rule. This only works if we’re both on the same page.”

“Agreed.” He holds out his hand across the table. “So we have a deal?”

You shake his hand, trying to ignore how warm his palm is against yours. “Deal.”

“Cool.” He doesn’t let go right away. “So… your place or mine?”

Heat pools in your stomach. “Eager?”

“You’re the one who wore that skirt.”

You glance down at your denim mini skirt, then back up at him with a smirk. “I have class in two hours.”

“That’s plenty of time.”

His apartment is closer, a small one-bedroom he shares with Heeseung who’s conveniently at class until five. The second the door closes behind you, his mouth is on yours, backing you against the wall. “Been thinking about this since Saturday,” he murmurs against your lips, hands sliding under your skirt to grip your ass.

“It’s only been three days.”

“Three days too long.” He picks you up and you wrap your legs around his waist as he carries you to his room. It’s surprisingly clean—bed made, clothes put away, posters of various bands on the walls.

He lays you on the bed and steps back, pulling his shirt over his head. You prop yourself up on your elbows to watch, admiring the view. “Like what you see?” he asks, echoing your words from the other night.

“You already know I do.”

He grins and climbs over you, settling between your legs. “Want to try something?”

“Like what?”

“You’ll see.” His hands slide up your thighs, pushing your skirt up around your waist. “Trust me?”

“Yeah,” you breathe, and you mean it.

He hooks his fingers in your underwear and drags them down slowly, and you’re already wet just from the anticipation. He spreads your legs wider, thumb brushing over your clit almost teasingly before he slides two fingers inside you. “Fuck,” you gasp, hips rolling against his hand.

“Still sensitive from last time?” He pumps his fingers slowly, curling them just right.

“A little.”

He leans down to kiss you, swallowing your moan as he works you open. When he adds a third finger, the stretch makes your toes curl. He finger-fucks you until you’re panting, right on the edge, and then he stops. You make a sound of protest and he laughs. “Patience.” He reaches into his nightstand and pulls out a small vibrator.

Your eyes widen. “You just have that?”

“Ex left it here.” He turns it on, and the low buzz fills the room. “Never thought I’d use it, but…”

He presses it against your clit and you nearly jackknife off the bed. The sensation is intense, overwhelming, especially when he slides his fingers back inside you at the same time. “Oh fuck—Jungwon—”

“That good?” He sounds smug, but you can’t even be annoyed because he’s right. It’s so good you can barely breathe.

He works you with the vibrator and his fingers, watching your face intently, adjusting based on your reactions. When you’re close, thighs shaking, he leans down and sucks one of your nipples into his mouth through your shirt.

You come with a cry, back arching, and he doesn’t stop until you’re pushing his hand away from oversensitivity. “Holy shit,” you pant.

He turns off the vibrator and sets it aside, looking incredibly pleased with himself. “Good?”

“You know it was.”

“Want to keep going?” Instead of answering, you sit up and push him onto his back, straddling him. You can feel how hard he is through his jeans, and you grind down against him, making him groan.

“Your turn,” you say, working his belt open. You take your time getting him naked, kissing down his chest and stomach, enjoying the way his muscles jump under your lips. When you finally get his jeans and boxers off, his cock springs free, already leaking. You wrap your hand around him, stroking slowly, and he hisses through his teeth.

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to,” you cut him off, and then you take him in your mouth.

“Fuck,” he groans, hand flying to your hair. Not pushing, just holding on as you work him with your tongue. You take him as deep as you can, hollowing your cheeks, and the sounds he makes are incredibly satisfying.

You pull off with a wet pop. “You gonna tell me what you like?”

“That,” he says breathlessly. “I like that.”

“Be specific.” You lick up the underside of his cock. “I want to make you feel good.”

“Fuck—okay, um, tighter grip, and—yeah, just like that.” His hips buck when you comply. “And twist your hand a little when you—oh god—“

You find a rhythm that has him falling apart, alternating between your mouth and your hand, and when you cup his balls gently, he swears. “I’m close,” he warns, tugging your hair. “If you don’t want to—”

You double down, taking him deeper, and he comes with a groan, spilling down your throat. You swallow and work him through it until he’s shaking. When you pull off and wipe your mouth, he’s staring at you like you’re some kind of miracle. “You’re really good at that,” he says, voice wrecked.

“Right back at you.” You climb up to lie beside him. “This is gonna be fun.”

“Yeah,” he agrees, pulling you closer. “It really is.”

The first group hangout after your arrangement starts is at someone’s house party on Thursday. One of the senior volleyball guys is throwing it, and the place is packed by the time you arrive with Liv and Reina.

You spot the guys in the backyard—Jay and Sunghoon playing beer pong against Jake and Heeseung, Sunoo and Niki smoking by the fence. And Jungwon leaning against the porch railing, red cup in hand, talking to some girl you vaguely recognize from Psychology. Something ugly twists in your chest before you can stop it.

“Don’t,” Liv says quietly.

“Don’t what?”

“You know what.” She steers you toward the drinks table. “Remember the rules.” Right. The rules. You can both do whatever you want. It doesn’t matter that the girl is touching his arm, laughing at something he said. It doesn’t matter at all. You pour yourself a strong drink and down half of it.

“There you are!” Maya appears, already tipsy, Jake trailing behind her. “We’ve been here for like an hour, where were you?”

“Reina took forever getting ready,” Liv says, throwing her under the bus.

“Excuse me, this face is a work of art.” Reina gestures at her makeup. “It takes time.”

You tune them out, eyes drifting back to Jungwon. The girl is still there, but now he’s looking at you. When your eyes meet, he says something to her and starts walking over. “Hey,” he says when he reaches your group, giving everyone a casual nod before his eyes land on you. “You just get here?”

“Yeah.”

“Cool.” His cup is empty. “I’m gonna grab another drink. Want to come?”

It’s a normal question. The kind of thing he might have asked before. But Maya and Reina exchange a look, and you want to die. “Sure.”

You follow him to the drinks table, hyperaware of the space between you. “That girl,” you say as he pours vodka into his cup. “From Psychology?”

“Mina. Yeah.” He adds red bull, not looking at you. “She was asking about the midterm.”

“Right.”

“You jealous?” He’s smirking now, voice low enough that only you can hear.

“No.”

“Liar.” He leans in slightly. “You look really good, by the way.”

You’re wearing low-waisted jeans and a cropped black tank top, simple but effective. “Thanks.”

“Having fun yet?”

“I just got here.”

“Want to have more fun later?” The suggestion in his voice is clear.

“Maybe.” You take a sip of your drink. “If you play your cards right.”

“Challenge accepted.”

Two hours later, you’re drunk and high and dancing in the crowded living room with Reina and some people from your Communications class. The music is too loud, bodies pressed too close, and you’re sweaty and happy and not thinking about anything.

Until hands settle on your waist from behind. You know it’s Jungwon before you even turn around—you’re getting familiar with his touch. He’s behind you, moving with you, and it takes everything in you not to lean back against him. “Thought you were playing beer pong,” you say over your shoulder.

“Got boring.” His breath is warm against your ear. “This is better.”

You shouldn’t be doing this. People will notice. But the room is dark and crowded, and everyone’s drunk, and his body feels so good against yours. You let yourself grind back against him, just a little, and his grip on your waist tightens.

“You’re trouble,” he murmurs.

“You started it.”

One of his hands slides lower, fingers playing with the belt loop of your jeans, not quite dipping under but close enough to make you ache. “Your place or mine?” he asks.

“Mine. Liv’s staying at her girlfriend’s.”

“Meet you there in twenty?”

“Make it fifteen.”

He shows up in twelve minutes. The second you open your apartment door, he’s on you, walking you backward until you hit the wall. His mouth is hot and demanding, tasting like weed and whatever he was drinking, and you can’t get enough. “Fuck, I’ve been wanting to do this all night,” he groans, hands everywhere at once.

“You were talking to that girl for like twenty minutes.”

He pulls back to look at you, grinning. “You were jealous.”

“Shut up.”

“You were.” He kisses down your neck. “That’s cute.”

“I wasn’t—” You lose your train of thought when he bites down on your pulse point.

“Whatever you say.” His hands slide under your shirt, pushing it up. “Can I take this off?”

“Yes.”

Your shirt and bra hit the floor, and then his mouth is on your breast and you stop caring about anything else. He takes his time, sucking marks into your skin that you’ll have to cover tomorrow, and when he drops to his knees in front of you, your brain short-circuits. “These too?” He’s already unbuttoning your jeans.

“Please.” He gets you naked efficiently, and then he’s lifting one of your legs over his shoulder, face level with your pussy.

“Hold on to something,” he advises, and then his tongue is on you. You grip his hair with one hand, the other braced against the wall, as he devours you. He’s not gentle about it—licking and sucking and fucking you with his tongue until your leg is shaking and you’re barely staying upright.

“Jungwon—fuck—I’m gonna fall—”

He stands up, and before you can process it, he’s lifting you. You wrap your legs around his waist and he carries you to your bedroom, laying you out on the bed.

“Better?” he asks.

“Much.”

He strips quickly and you admire the view—he’s fully hard, cock jutting up against his stomach. When he settles between your legs again, you expect him to reach for a condom, but instead he slides down your body. “Want to try something else,” he says, kissing your inner thigh.

“Yeah?”

“Can I go down on you while you suck me?”

Heat floods through you. “Like 69?”

“Yeah.” He looks almost nervous. “If you want.”

“Okay.” He repositions so he’s on his back, and you straddle his face, leaning forward to take his cock in your hand. The angle is different like this, and when his tongue finds your clit, you gasp.

“Fuck—sorry—” You’re distracted, and you force yourself to focus, wrapping your lips around him.

It’s intense, trying to concentrate on getting him off while he’s making you feel so good. Every time you take him deeper, he groans against your pussy, and the vibration makes you moan around him.

You’re dripping on his face, riding his tongue, and his hands grip your ass, pulling you down harder. The obscene wet sounds fill the room, and you’re so turned on you can barely see straight.

When he slides two fingers inside you while sucking your clit, you come with his cock still in your mouth, and he follows seconds later, groaning your name. You collapse beside him, both of you breathing hard. “Holy shit,” you say eventually.

“Good?”

“So good.” You turn your head to look at him. “You’re full of ideas.”

“I like making you come.” He says it so casually, like it’s a fact. “Want to see how many times I can do it.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“If you want it to be.”

You glance at the clock—it’s barely midnight. “How many orgasms are we talking?”

“How many can you handle?”

“More than you’d think.”

His smile is wicked. “Let’s find out.”

Forty minutes and two more orgasms later (one from his fingers, one from actually fucking), you’re a boneless mess in your sheets and Jungwon looks unreasonably smug. “I think I won,” he says.

“You didn’t—I made you come too—”

“Twice. You came four times.”

“It’s not a competition.”

“Everything’s a competition.” But he’s smiling, tracing lazy patterns on your hip. “You okay? Not too much?”

“I’m great.” And you are—exhausted and satisfied and floating. “You’re really good at this.”

“So are you.” He kisses your shoulder. “We work well together.”

“Yeah,” you agree. “We do.” Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You reach for it and find a string of messages in the group chat. maya: where did everyone gooooo

reina: i saw y/n leave and jungwon left like right after 👀

jay: oh god not this again

sunghoon: can we NOT

heeseung: let them live lmao

reina: i’m just SAYING

liv: leave them alone

You show Jungwon the messages and he laughs. “We’re not subtle,” he says.

“Not even a little bit.”

“Does it bother you?”

You think about it. The teasing is annoying, but it’s not like you’re ashamed. “No. Does it bother you?”

“Nah.” He stretches, all long limbs and satisfied energy. “Let them speculate. As long as we don’t confirm anything, we’re good.”

“Agreed.” You type out a response. you: i left because i was tired. stop being weird

reina: SURE

you: i hate you

reina: love you too babe 😘

You toss your phone aside and curl into Jungwon’s side. He wraps an arm around you automatically, and it feels dangerously comfortable. “Should you go?” you ask. “It’s late.”

“Do you want me to?”

You should say yes. Letting him stay feels too intimate, too couple-y. But you’re tired and warm and he’s already half-asleep. “You can stay if you want.”

“Okay.” He’s already drifting off.

You lie awake a little longer, listening to his breathing even out, trying not to think about how right this feels. It’s just sex, you remind yourself. Really good sex with someone you trust. That’s all. You almost believe it.

Friday afternoon you have Intro to Film Studies, and you’re running late because you definitely overslept after Jungwon didn’t leave until 6 AM. You slide into your usual seat next to this guy Marcus from your dorm building just as the professor starts. “Rough night?” Marcus whispers, grinning.

“Something like that.” You’re trying to focus on the lecture about French New Wave cinema when your phone buzzes.

jungwon: you left your underwear in my car

You freeze. you: WHAT

jungwon: black lace ones. very nice btw

you: how did they end up in your car???

jungwon: you really don’t remember?

And then you do remember. Wednesday night, he picked you up after your late class, you made out in his car in the parking garage, things escalated, and apparently you forgot to put all your clothes back on.

you: oh my god

jungwon: don’t worry, heeseung didn’t see them

jungwon: i hid them before he got in

you: this is a nightmare

jungwon: or it’s funny

you: WHERE ARE THEY NOW

jungwon: my pocket

you: JUNGWON

jungwon: what? they’re safe

you: you’re insane

jungwon: you like it

You bite your lip to keep from smiling, hyperaware that you’re in the middle of class. you: i’m in class

jungwon: so am i. keeps things interesting

you: i hate you

jungwon: you definitely don’t. not after the sounds you were making wednesday night

Your face goes hot. you: STOP

jungwon: come over after class?

you: can’t. studying with maya

jungwon: tomorrow?

you: there’s that party at the phi delt house

jungwon: sunday then

you: sunday works

jungwon: it’s a date

you: it’s not a date

jungwon: right. forgot. just two friends fucking

you: exactly

jungwon: can’t wait 😉

You shove your phone in your bag and try to concentrate on the lecture, but it’s useless. You’re too busy thinking about Sunday, about his hands and his mouth and the way he says your name when he comes. This is getting dangerous. But you can’t seem to stop.

The party Saturday night is massive—Phi Delt always goes hard. You show up with your girls, already tipsy from pregaming, and immediately lose track of everyone in the crowd. You’re in the kitchen mixing a drink when someone bumps into you, sloshing vodka on your hand. “Shit, sorry—oh hey!”

You turn to find Mina, the girl from Jungwon’s Psych class. Up close she’s even prettier—long dark hair, perfect skin, bright smile. “No worries,” you say, wiping your hand on your jeans.

“You’re friends with Jungwon, right?” she asks. “I’ve seen you guys together.”

Something in your chest tightens. “Yeah, we’re friends.”

“He’s so sweet.” She’s making herself a drink, completely oblivious to your internal crisis. “We’ve been studying together for Psych. He’s really smart.”

“Yeah, he is.”

“Are you guys like… together? I don’t want to step on any toes.”

The question catches you off guard. “Oh—no, we’re just friends.”

“Cool!” She seems genuinely relieved. “I was thinking about asking him out. Do you think he’d be into that?”

You should say yes. Or say you don’t know. You should definitely not feel like you want to throw your drink in her face, because you have no claim on Jungwon. That’s the whole point. “You should ask him,” you say, forcing a smile.

“I think I will!” She bounces off, and you’re left standing there feeling weird and hollow.

You down your drink and make another one, stronger this time. “Easy there,” a voice says, and you turn to find Jay watching you with concern. “You okay?”

“Fine.”

“You’re drinking like you’re not fine.”

“I’m just trying to have fun, Jay. Is that allowed?”

He holds up his hands. “Okay, okay. Just checking.”

You feel bad immediately. “Sorry. I’m just… it’s been a week.”

“Want to talk about it?” You shake your head no. “Does this have anything to do with Jungwon?”

Your head snaps up. “Why would it?”

“Come on.” Jay gives you a look. “I’m not stupid. Neither is Sunghoon. We know something’s going on.”

“Nothing’s going on.”

“Right. And you guys just happened to leave that party within five minutes of each other for completely unrelated reasons.”You don’t say anything. “Look,” Jay says, his voice gentler. “I don’t care what you guys do. You’re both adults. I just don’t want to see you get hurt.”

“I’m not going to get hurt. It’s just casual.”

“Is it?”

Before you can answer, Jungwon appears in the doorway, Mina trailing behind him. When he sees you, something flickers across his face. “Hey,” he says.

“Hey.”

Mina touches his arm. “I’m gonna go find my friends, but text me about that study session?”

“Sure,” he says, and she leaves.

You feel Jay watching both of you. “I’m gonna go find Sunghoon,” he says pointedly. “You two… talk. Or whatever.”

When he’s gone, Jungwon moves closer. “You okay?”

“Fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You seem tense.”

“I’m not tense.”

“Okay.” He doesn’t look convinced. “You want to get out of here?”

“I just got here.”

“So?”

“So people will notice.”

“Let them notice.” His hand brushes yours, brief but deliberate. “Come on. Please?”

You shouldn’t. You should stay at the party, hang out with your friends, stop making everything about him. “Fine,” you say. “But you leave first.”

You end up at his place again. Heeseung is gone for the weekend, so you have the apartment to yourselves. The second the door closes, he’s kissing you, and it feels different somehow. More desperate. Like he’s trying to prove something. “What was that about?” you ask when you break for air.

“What was what about?”

“With Mina.”

“Nothing. She wants to study together.”

“She wants to do more than study.”

He pulls back slightly, looking at you. “Are you jealous?”

“No.”

“You are.” He sounds pleased.

“I’m not—we have rules, Jungwon. You can do whatever you want.”

“So can you.” His jaw tightens. “Didn’t stop me from wanting to punch Marcus when I saw him sitting next to you in the library yesterday.”

“You saw that?”

“Yeah.”

“We’re just study partners.”

“I know.” He kisses you again, softer this time. “This is stupid, right? We shouldn’t be jealous.”

“Right.”

“Because it’s just casual.”

“Exactly.” You’re both quiet for a moment.

“For the record,” he says finally, “I’m not interested in Mina. Or anyone else.”

“You’re not?”

“No.” He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. “This—what we have—it works. I don’t want to fuck it up by bringing other people into it.”

Relief washes over you. “Yeah. Same.”

“So… exclusive, then? Just while this is happening?”

“Just while this is happening,” you agree.

“Good.” He kisses you again, and this time when you end up in his bed, it feels different. Slower. More intentional.

He takes his time undressing you, kissing every inch of skin he exposes. When he finally settles between your legs, he looks up at you. “Tell me what you want,” he says.

“You.”

“Be specific.”

“I want—” You’re breathless already and he hasn’t even touched you yet. “I want your mouth.”

“Where?”

“You know where.”

“Say it.” His breath ghosts over your inner thigh.

“My pussy,” you say, face heating. “I want your mouth on my pussy.”

“Good girl.” The praise makes you clench around nothing, and then his tongue is on you and you forget how to think. He’s devastatingly thorough, alternating between broad strokes and focused attention on your clit, sliding his fingers inside you when you start to squirm. You’re panting, desperate, right on the edge when he stops.

“Jungwon—”

“Want you to come on my cock,” he says, reaching for a condom. He rolls it on and slides into you in one smooth thrust, and you both groan. The angle is perfect, hitting deep, and when he starts to move, you wrap your legs around his waist to pull him closer. “Fuck, you feel so good,” he breathes against your neck. “So wet for me.”

“Don’t stop—”

“Not stopping.” His hand slides between your bodies to rub your clit. “Want to feel you come.”

It doesn’t take long. The combination of his cock and his fingers pushes you over the edge, and you come with a cry, clenching around him. He follows right after, burying his face in your neck as he pulses inside you. You stay like that for a while, catching your breath, his weight comfortable on top of you.

“You’re staying tonight, right?” he asks eventually.

“Yeah,” you say, and you don’t even pretend to think about it. “I’m staying.”

He rolls off you to deal with the condom, and when he comes back, he pulls you against his chest. You let yourself relax into him, listening to his heartbeat slow. This is definitely more than just casual. But neither of you says it out loud.

Three months in, and you’ve gotten good at this. Really good. You and Jungwon have the routine down to an art form. You don’t leave parties together anymore—one of you leaves, the other waits at least half an hour. You vary whose place you go to. You keep your hands to yourselves during group hangouts, no lingering touches or loaded looks. In the group chat, you bicker and joke like you always have.

To everyone else, the initial excitement has worn off. Whatever was happening between you two seems to have fizzled out. Even Reina has stopped making comments. Which is perfect, because it means no one notices that you’re fucking almost every other day.

It’s a Wednesday afternoon in mid-October, and you’re sprawled across various surfaces in Jay and Sunghoon’s apartment. Maya and Jake are tangled together on the loveseat, Liv is rolling a joint at the coffee table, Reina is painting her nails on the floor. The guys are scattered around—Jay and Sunghoon playing FIFA, Heeseung scrolling his phone, Sunoo showing Niki something on his laptop. And Jungwon is sitting across from you in the armchair, looking completely relaxed, like he wasn’t buried inside you this morning before your 9 AM class.

“I’m so fucking hungry,” Reina announces. “Can we order food?”

“It’s three in the afternoon,” Sunghoon says, not looking away from the TV.

“Your point?”

Everyone starts debating what to order, and you catch Jungwon’s eye across the room. He raises an eyebrow slightly, and you know exactly what he’s thinking about. This morning, you pinned against his shower wall, water streaming over both of you, his hand over your mouth to keep you quiet even though Heeseung wasn’t home. You bite your lip and look away before you start smiling like an idiot.

“Earth to Y/N,” Niki says, waving a hand in front of your face. “You alive in there?”

“What? Yeah, sorry.”

“I was asking about that guy you were telling me about.” He grins. “The one from a few weeks ago?”

Your brain stalls. “What guy?”

“You know, when we went to get coffee last week. You were telling me about hooking up with someone and how he was like, insanely good?”

Oh shit. You do vaguely remember that conversation—you and Niki had gotten coffee between classes, and he’d been asking about your dating life, and you’d maybe been too honest about how good the sex had been lately. You’d kept it vague, hadn’t mentioned names, but still. The room has gotten quiet, everyone paying attention now. “Oh,” you say, very aware of Jungwon’s eyes on you. “That was… nothing. Just some guy.”

“Some guy who’s apparently the best fuck you’ve ever had,” Niki says, looking way too entertained. “Those were your exact words.”

“Niki—”

“What? I’m just saying, that’s high praise coming from you.”

Reina sits up straighter. “Wait, hold on. You’ve been holding out on us? Who is this mystery man?”

“It’s not a big deal—”

“Best fuck of your life sounds like a big deal,” Liv points out, though she’s trying not to smile. She’s the only one who knows the truth, and she’s clearly enjoying watching you squirm.

“Are you still seeing him?” Maya asks.

“It’s casual.”

“Is it that guy from your Econ class?” Reina guesses. “The tall one with the man bun?”

“No.”

“The bartender from that club we went to?”

“No.”

“Give us something,” Sunoo pleads dramatically. “We need details.”

You absolutely cannot look at Jungwon. “There are no details. It’s just… casual hookups. Nothing serious.”

“But the sex is good?” Reina presses.

“Yeah,” you admit, because denying it now would be weird. “The sex is really good.”

“How good are we talking?” Heeseung asks. “Like, good good, or like, mind-blowing life-changing good?”

Your face is burning. “Can we please talk about literally anything else?”

“Oh my god, it’s mind-blowing life-changing good,” Reina says gleefully. “Look at her face!”

“I hate all of you.”

“What makes it so good?” Maya asks, genuinely curious. “Like, what’s he doing that’s so different?”

“Maya!”

“What? I’m trying to learn here!”

You risk a glance at Jungwon. He’s very still, expression carefully neutral, but there’s something in his eyes. You can’t tell if he’s annoyed or amused or something else entirely. “He just—” You struggle for words that won’t give anything away. “He pays attention, I guess? Like, he actually cares about getting me off. And he’s… confident. Knows what he’s doing.”

“Size?” Reina asks bluntly.

“Oh my god, Reina!”

“What? It’s a relevant question!”

“I’m not answering that.”

“So it’s good,” she concludes. “Noted.”

“Can we please order food now?” you beg.

Jay takes pity on you. “Yeah, let’s vote. Pizza or Thai?”

The conversation mercifully moves on, and you finally let yourself breathe. But when you glance at Jungwon again, he’s looking at his phone, jaw tight. Shit.

The group ends up ordering pizza, and by the time it arrives, you’ve almost forgotten about the awkward conversation. Almost. You’re halfway through your second slice when your phone buzzes: jungwon: can you come help me with something in the car?

You frown at the message. You all walked here, no one drove. you: what?

jungwon: just come outside for a sec

You make an excuse about needing air and head downstairs. Jungwon is waiting by the building entrance, hands in his pockets. “What’s wrong?” you ask.

“Really?” He looks at you. “Best fuck of your life?”

Oh. “You’re mad about that?”

“I’m not mad.”

“You sound mad.”

“I’m not—” He runs a hand through his hair. “I just don’t love the idea of you telling Niki about us.”

“I didn’t tell him about us. I kept it vague. He doesn’t know it’s you.”

“But you were talking about me. About our sex life.”

“Is that not allowed?” You cross your arms. “We’re not together, Jungwon. I can talk to my friends.”

“I know that.” His jaw ticks. “I just—forget it.”

“No, what? Say what you’re thinking.”

He’s quiet for a long moment. “Did you mean it? What you said up there?”

“About what?”

“About it being the best you’ve had.”

Your stomach flips. “I… yeah. I meant it.”

His expression softens slightly. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” You step closer. “Why, did you doubt it?”

“No, I just…” He trails off, looking almost embarrassed. “I liked hearing it, I guess. Even if I wasn’t supposed to be the one hearing it.”

“You’re so weird.”

“You like it,” he says, echoing your texts from months ago.

“Maybe.” You glance back at the building. “We should go back up before someone notices.”

“Wait.” He catches your wrist. “Come over tonight?”

“Jungwon, we just saw each other this morning.”

“So?”

“So we’re supposed to be keeping this low-key.”

“I am keeping it low-key. No one suspects anything anymore.” He tugs you closer. “Please? I want to try something.”

“You always want to try something.”

“And you always like it.” He’s smirking now. “Come on. I promise I’ll make it worth your while.”

You shouldn’t. You’re supposed to be at the library studying for your midterm tomorrow. But the way he’s looking at you makes your resolve crumble. “Fine. But I can’t stay over. I really do need to study.”

“I’ll take what I can get.”

You show up at his apartment at eleven, after spending three hours actually studying with Maya. Heeseung is home this time, playing video games in the living room. “Hey,” he says when you walk in. “Jungwon’s in his room.”

“Cool, thanks.” You’ve been here enough times now that it’s not weird anymore. Heeseung barely looks up when you head down the hall and knock on Jungwon’s door.

“Come in.” He’s at his desk, laptop open, but he closes it when he sees you. “Hey.”

“Hey.” You drop your bag by the door. “What did you want to try?”

“Impatient.”

“I have a midterm at 8 AM. Get to the point.”

He stands and crosses to you, and there’s something different about his energy tonight. More intense. “I want you to tell me exactly what you want.”

“I always tell you what you want.”

“No,” he says. “You tell me when I ask. I want you to take control. Tell me exactly what to do.”

Heat pools in your stomach. “You want me to… boss you around?”

“Yeah.” His hands settle on your hips. “Think you can do that?”

“I—” You’re flustered now. You’re used to him being in charge, confident and directing everything. The idea of flipping that dynamic is…

“You don’t have to,” he says quickly. “If you’re not into it—”

“I’m into it,” you cut him off. “Just… give me a second.” He waits, patient, and you take a breath. You can do this. You’ve been sleeping together for three months. You know what he likes, what makes him fall apart.

“Okay,” you say, and your voice comes out steadier than you feel. “Take off your shirt.” He complies immediately, pulling it over his head and tossing it aside.

“Jeans too.” He unbuttons them, pushes them down with his boxers, and kicks them away. He’s already half-hard, and the sight makes your mouth water.

“Lie down on the bed.” He does, and you take a moment to just look at him. He’s gorgeous like this—all lean muscle and smooth skin, cock thickening against his stomach, watching you with dark eyes.

“Touch yourself,” you say. His hand wraps around his cock, stroking slowly, and you watch, mesmerized.

“What are you thinking about?” you ask.

“You.” His voice is rough. “Always you.”

“What about me?”

“The way you taste. The sounds you make when you come. How good you feel wrapped around my cock.”

You’re definitely wet now. You start stripping, taking your time, and his eyes track every movement. “You’re so fucking hot,” he breathes.

When you’re naked, you climb onto the bed and straddle his thighs, just out of reach. “Stop touching yourself.” He does, hand falling to his side, and you lean down to kiss him. It’s slow and deep, and when you pull back, his pupils are blown. “I want your mouth,” you say.

“Where?”

“You know where.”

“Say it.” His breath ghosts over your inner thigh.

“My pussy,” you say, face heating. “I want your mouth on my pussy.”

“Good girl.” The praise makes you clench around nothing, and then his tongue is on you and you forget how to think.

You’re straddling his face, thighs bracketing his head. The position makes you feel powerful and vulnerable at the same time. “Eat me out,” you order. “Don’t stop until I come.”

He doesn’t need to be told twice. His tongue finds your clit immediately, and you gasp, gripping his hair for balance. He’s good at this—you’ve known that since the very first time—but something about being in control makes it even better. “Just like that,” you pant, rolling your hips against his face. “Fuck, your tongue feels so good.”

He groans against you, hands gripping your ass, pulling you down harder. You ride his face shamelessly, chasing your pleasure, and when he slides two fingers inside you, crooking them just right while his tongue works your clit, you actually see stars. “Holy shit,” you gasp, one hand fisted in his hair, the other gripping the sheets.

He adds a second finger, stretching you, and the combination of his mouth and his fingers pumping into you is almost too much. You’re making sounds you’ve never made before, completely uninhibited, and he’s groaning against you like getting you off is getting him off. “Jungwon, I’m—fuck, I’m close—”

He doesn’t change what he’s doing. Doesn’t speed up or switch techniques like so many guys do right when you’re on the edge. He just keeps that same perfect rhythm, fingers curling inside you, tongue circling your clit, and you come harder than you ever have with another person. Your whole body goes taut, thighs clamping around his head as waves of pleasure crash over you. He works you through it, only lightening his touch when you start to squirm from sensitivity.

You’re still trembling when you climb off him, and his face is wet, lips swollen. He looks incredibly pleased with himself. “Good?” he asks.

“So good.” You kiss him, tasting yourself. “But I’m not done with you yet.”

“No?”

“No.” You wrap your hand around his cock, and he hisses. “I want to ride you. But you don’t get to touch me.”

“What?”

“Hands behind your head.” He complies, lacing his fingers behind his head, biceps flexing. You grab a condom from his nightstand and roll it on, and then you’re sinking down onto him, both of you groaning at the sensation.

“Fuck,” he breathes. “You feel amazing.”

“No touching,” you remind him when his hands twitch.

“This is torture.”

“This is fun.” You start to move, rolling your hips, finding the angle that makes you both moan. “Watch me.”

He does, eyes glued to where you’re joined, then traveling up to your bouncing breasts, your face. “You’re so fucking beautiful.”

“Tell me what you want,” you say.

“Want to touch you. Want to flip you over and fuck you into the mattress.”

“Not yet.” You lean back, bracing your hands on his thighs, changing the angle. “Oh fuck—right there—”

“Yeah?” His voice is strained. “That feel good?”

“So good—” You’re close again, which should be impossible but apparently Jungwon has ruined you for anyone else. “I’m gonna come again—”

“Let me see.” His hands are fisted in his hair, knuckles white from the effort of not touching you. “Want to see you fall apart on my cock.” The words push you over the edge. You come with a cry, clenching around him, and he groans.

“Can I touch you now?” he begs. “Please—”

“Yes—”

His hands are on you immediately, gripping your hips, and he thrusts up into you hard. You’re oversensitive and it’s almost too much, but then he’s sitting up, wrapping his arms around you, and kissing you desperately. “You’re incredible,” he pants against your mouth. “Fucking incredible—”

He comes with his face buried in your neck, and you hold him through it, both of you slick with sweat. When you both catch your breath, he flops back onto the bed, bringing you with him. “That was—” he starts.

“Yeah.”

“We should do that again.”

“Definitely.” You glance at the clock and groan. “Shit, I really need to go study.”

“Stay,” he says. “Just for a little bit.”

“Jungwon—”

“Please? We can study together. I have a midterm tomorrow too.”

You should say no. Should go back to your apartment and study alone like you planned. But his arms are around you and you’re comfortable and warm, and maybe staying for an hour won’t hurt. “Fine,” you say. “One hour.” You stay for three.

A week later, you’re at another party—this one at someone’s house off campus. It’s someone’s birthday, you’re not sure whose, but the music is good and the drinks are strong and you’re having fun. You’re in the kitchen with Liv and some people from your Communications class when you see Jungwon walk in with Heeseung and Jake. He spots you immediately, and you quickly look away. You’ve been good about not staring at each other at parties. Good about acting normal.

But then some girl approaches him—blonde, pretty, wearing a crop top that shows off her abs—and you watch as she touches his arm, leans in close to say something in his ear. Your stomach twists.

“You okay?” Liv asks quietly.

“Fine.”

“You’re glaring.”

“I’m not glaring.”

“You’re definitely glaring.” She follows your gaze. “It’s just some random girl. It doesn’t mean anything.”

“I know that.”

But when the girl laughs at something Jungwon says, her hand still on his arm, you feel something ugly rise in your chest. This is stupid. You have no claim on him. You’re not together. He can talk to whoever he wants. You turn away and pour yourself another drink.

“Want to go dance?” Liv suggests.

“Yeah. Let’s go.” You spend the next hour on the makeshift dance floor, deliberately not looking for Jungwon, deliberately not caring where he is or who he’s talking to.

It’s fine. Everything’s fine.

You’re getting another drink when you feel someone behind you. “Having fun?” Jungwon’s voice in your ear makes you shiver.

“Yeah. You?”

“It’s alright.” He’s close enough that you can feel his body heat. “Want to get out of here?”

“Busy tonight.”

“Busy with what?”

“Just… busy.”

“Are you mad at me?”

“Why would I be mad?”

“You tell me.”

You turn to face him. “That girl you were talking to. She was pretty.”

Understanding dawns in his eyes. “Are you jealous?”

“No.”

“Liar.” He steps closer. “For the record, she asked for directions. That’s it.”

“I don’t care.”

“You clearly do.” His hand brushes yours. “Come over. Let me prove I only want you.”

You should say no. Should make him work for it. But the look in his eyes makes your resolve crumble. “Fine,” you say. “But you’re leaving first this time.”

By the time you get to his apartment, you’re both frantic. You barely make it inside before you’re tearing at each other’s clothes, kissing desperately. “You drive me crazy,” he mutters against your lips, walking you backward toward his room. “Watching you dance with those guys—”

“I wasn’t dancing with anyone specifically—”

“Didn’t matter. Wanted to punch all of them anyway.” He gets you naked and on his bed, and then he’s between your legs, and this time there’s an edge to it. Like he’s claiming you, proving something. He eats you out until you’re crying, overstimulated and desperate, and then he flips you over.

“On your knees,” he orders, and you comply, ass in the air. He slides into you from behind and you both groan. The angle is deep, almost too much, and when he starts to move, you can barely breathe.

“You feel so good,” he pants, hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. “So fucking perfect.”

“Harder—”

He complies, fucking into you relentlessly, and you fist the sheets, moaning into the pillow. “No one else gets to have you like this,” he growls, and the possessiveness in his voice shouldn’t turn you on as much as it does. “Just me. Right?”

“Yes—fuck—yes—just you—”

One of his hands slides around to rub your clit and you come with a scream, clenching around him. He follows right after, collapsing on top of you.

When you can both move again, he pulls out carefully and you both clean up in silence. There’s something heavy in the air, something unsaid. “Stay,” he says when you start to get dressed.

“I can’t keep staying over, Jungwon. People will notice—”

“I don’t care anymore.” He catches your wrist. “Stay.”

You look at him—really look at him. His hair is a mess, lips swollen from kissing, and he’s looking at you like you’re something precious. This is getting too real. Too intense. You’re supposed to be keeping things casual, but nothing about the way you feel when you’re with him is casual anymore. “Okay,” you say quietly. “I’ll stay.”

He pulls you back into bed, and you curl into his side, listening to his heartbeat slow. “Y/N?” he says after a while.

“Yeah?”

“This thing with us…” He trails off.

Your heart pounds. “What about it?”

“Nothing. Never mind.”

But you’re both thinking the same thing. This stopped being casual a long time ago. Neither of you is ready to admit it yet.

November hits campus like a cold slap. The trees are bare, everyone’s walking around in puffer jackets and beanies, and the semester is hitting that point where everyone’s exhausted and stressed and living on coffee and spite.

You’re in Advanced Marketing on a Thursday morning, half-asleep and trying to absorb information about consumer behavior models, when Professor Chen makes an announcement. “Before we start, I want to introduce a new student joining us. This is Daniel Choi—he’s transferring from NYU. Daniel, why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself?”

You glance up and—oh. Daniel is tall, with broad shoulders, dark hair styled back, and an easy smile. He’s wearing a navy sweater that probably costs more than your textbooks, and when he speaks, his voice is warm and confident. “Hey everyone. I’m a junior, majoring in Marketing and Communications. Just moved here from New York, so still figuring out the campus. Looking forward to getting to know you all.”

“Wonderful,” Professor Chen says. “Why don’t you take that seat next to Y/N? Y/N, raise your hand?”

You do, reluctantly, and Daniel makes his way over, sliding into the seat beside you. “Hey,” he says, smile widening. “Thanks for letting me sit here.”

“It’s not really my seat to give, but sure.”

He laughs. “Fair point. I’m Daniel.”

“Y/N.”

“Nice to meet you, Y/N.” Then Professor Chen launches into the lecture, and you try to focus, but you’re aware of Daniel beside you—the way he takes notes on his laptop, occasionally glancing over at your notebook like he’s comparing, the expensive cologne that’s subtle but noticeable.

When class ends, he turns to you. “Hey, I know this is random, but do you think you could help me out? I’m completely lost on where anything is on this campus.”

“There are maps—”

“I know, but they’re confusing as hell.” He gives you a slightly sheepish look. “And Professor Chen mentioned you’re a great student. I could use someone to show me around, maybe fill me in on what I’ve missed in class so far?”

You should say no. You’re busy. You have your own classes and your friends and your… whatever Jungwon is. But Daniel seems nice, and it’s just showing someone around campus. “Sure,” you find yourself saying. “I have a break after this. I can give you a quick tour.”

“You’re a lifesaver.” His smile is genuinely grateful. “Can I at least buy you coffee?”

You spend the next hour showing Daniel around campus—the library, the student center, the various academic buildings, the good food spots versus the ones to avoid. He’s easy to talk to, asking questions about classes and professors, and he’s funny in a dry, clever way that makes you laugh.

“So NYU to here,” you say as you walk past the quad. “That’s a big change.”

“Yeah.” He shoves his hands in his pockets. “My dad got relocated for work, and the family moved. Figured I’d come with them rather than stay in New York alone. Plus, cheaper tuition as an in-state student.”

“That’s fair. How are you liking it so far?”

“Campus is nice. People seem cool.” He glances at you. “Present company especially.” It’s flirty but not obnoxiously so, and you feel your face warm slightly.

“Wait until you experience your first real winter here,” you say, deflecting. “Then we’ll see if you still think it’s nice.”

“I’m from New York. I can handle cold.”

“This is different. This is Midwest cold. The kind that hurts your face.”

He laughs. “I’ll take your word for it.”

You show him a few more buildings, and by the time you’re done, your break is almost over. “This was really helpful,” Daniel says. “Seriously, thank you.”

“No problem.”

“Can I get your number? In case I have questions about class or campus stuff?” It’s innocent enough. Just a new student wanting help navigating. You give him your number. “Thanks.” He saves it in his phone. “I’ll see you next class?”

“Yeah, see you.” You watch him walk away, and you’re surprised to find yourself smiling a little.

You don’t think much about Daniel over the next few days. You’re busy with midterms and work and your friends. And Jungwon. Especially Jungwon.

You’ve been spending even more time together lately—studying at his place, grabbing food between classes, and obviously still hooking up regularly. It’s gotten to the point where you have a toothbrush at his apartment and he has spare clothes at yours. It should worry you how domestic it’s becoming. It doesn’t.

You’re at his place on Saturday night, both of you on his bed with your laptops, supposedly working on separate assignments but really just procrastinating together. “I’m so sick of this essay,” you groan, flopping backward.

“How much do you have left?”

“Like, three pages.”

“That’s not bad.”

“It’s three pages I don’t want to write.” You roll over to look at him. “Entertain me.”

“I’m busy.”

“No you’re not. You’ve been on the same paragraph for twenty minutes.”

He closes his laptop with a sigh. “Fine. What do you want to do?”

“I don’t know. Something that isn’t homework.”

He shifts closer, hand sliding up your thigh. “I can think of something.”

“We literally had sex an hour ago.”

“So?”

You laugh and push his hand away. “You’re insatiable.”

“Only with you.” He’s smiling but there’s something in his eyes that makes your chest tight.

Your phone buzzes on the nightstand. You reach for it and see a text from an unknown number.

unknown: hey! it’s daniel from marketing class. hope this isn’t weird but i had a question about the assignment due next week?

You smile and save his contact. you: not weird at all! what’s your question?

“Who’s that?” Jungwon asks, and there’s an edge to his voice.

“New guy in my marketing class. He transferred from NYU.”

“And he’s texting you?”

“He had a question about the assignment.” You glance at Jungwon. “Why?”

“No reason.” But his jaw is tight, and you recognize that look. He’s jealous.

Your phone buzzes again. daniel: professor chen mentioned something about a group project? do you know if groups are assigned or if we pick our own?

you: we pick our own! usually groups of 3-4. i can add you to mine if you want? we still need one more person

daniel: that would be amazing. thank you! also totally unrelated but are you free tomorrow? wanted to check out that coffee place you mentioned and could use the company

You hesitate. It’s just coffee. Daniel is nice, and he’s new and doesn’t know anyone. It would be rude to say no. you: sure! i’m free around 2?

daniel: perfect. i’ll meet you there

You set your phone down and find Jungwon staring at you. “What?”

“You’re getting coffee with him?”

“He’s new. He doesn’t know anyone. I’m being nice.”

“Right. Nice.” He doesn’t sound convinced.

“Jungwon, it’s just coffee.”

“Does he know that?”

“Know what?”

“That it’s ‘just coffee.’ Or does he think it’s a date?”

You sit up. “It’s not a date. We’re literally just getting coffee. Why do you care?”

“I don’t.”

“You clearly do.”

“I just—” He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated. “Never mind. Do whatever you want.”

“I am doing whatever I want. That’s kind of the point of this arrangement, remember?”

The words come out harsher than you intended, and something flashes across his face—hurt, maybe, or anger, you can’t tell. “Right,” he says quietly. “The arrangement.”

The air between you feels heavy, wrong. You want to take it back, to explain that you don’t actually want to get coffee with Daniel, that you’d rather spend tomorrow with Jungwon like you spend most days. But you don’t say any of that. “I should go,” you say instead, closing your laptop. “It’s late.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I have an early class tomorrow anyway.” You gather your stuff quickly, and Jungwon doesn’t try to stop you. When you leave, he doesn’t ask you to stay like he usually does. You tell yourself it’s fine. Everything’s fine.

Coffee with Daniel is actually really nice. He’s waiting outside the café when you arrive, and he lights up when he sees you. “Hey! Thanks for coming.”

“Of course.”

Inside, the place is cozy and warm, smelling like espresso and cinnamon. You order your usual and Daniel gets some complicated drink with like five different modifiers. “High maintenance,” you tease as you find a table by the window.

“I know what I like,” he says, grinning. “Can’t fault me for that.”

You spend the next hour just talking. He tells you about growing up in New York, his family, his friends back home. He asks about your life, your major, your friends. He’s a good listener, asking follow-up questions, seeming genuinely interested. It’s easy. Comfortable. And he’s cute—you can’t deny that. The way he smiles, the way his eyes crinkle at the corners when he laughs. The way he leans forward when you’re talking, giving you his full attention.

“So,” he says eventually, stirring his drink. “Do you have a boyfriend? Or girlfriend, or… partner? I don’t want to assume.”

Your stomach drops. “I—no. Not exactly.”

“Not exactly?” He raises an eyebrow, curious, not pushy.

“It’s complicated.”

“Complicated how?”

You shouldn’t tell him. It’s none of his business. But something about the way he’s looking at you, open and interested, makes you want to talk about it. “There’s this guy,” you say slowly. “We’ve been… hooking up. For a few months now. It’s supposed to be casual but lately it feels like…”

“Like it’s not casual anymore?” Daniel finishes.

“Yeah.”

“Does he know you feel that way?”

“I don’t know. We don’t really talk about it.” You take a sip of your coffee. “It’s stupid. We had rules. No feelings, no complications. And I’m the one who’s complicating it.”

“Feelings aren’t stupid,” Daniel says gently. “And if he’s worth anything, he feels the same way.”

“What if he doesn’t?”

“Then he’s an idiot.” He smiles. “For what it’s worth, any guy who has you and doesn’t want more is definitely an idiot.”

It’s sweet. Maybe a little too sweet, a little too flirty, but you find yourself smiling back. “Thanks, Daniel.”

“Anytime.” He checks his phone. “Shit, I have to go. Meeting my parents for dinner. But this was really fun. We should do it again?”

“Yeah, that’d be nice.”

“Cool.” He stands, shrugging on his jacket. “See you in class Tuesday?”

“See you then.” You watch him leave, and you’re not sure how to feel. Daniel is nice. He’s attractive and smart and funny, and he’s clearly interested in you. But he’s not Jungwon. Your phone buzzes.

jungwon: you busy tonight?

You stare at the message for a long moment before typing back. you: studying with maya. why?

It’s a lie. You don’t have plans. But you need space to think, to figure out what you’re doing.

jungwon: nothing. just wanted to see you. have fun studying

The guilt sits heavy in your chest.

You avoid Jungwon for the next few days. It’s not hard—you claim you’re busy with midterms and assignments, which is partially true. But really, you just need time to sort through your feelings.

Because the truth is, you’re falling for him. Have been falling for him for months now. And the idea of telling him and having him not feel the same way, of losing what you have, terrifies you. So you throw yourself into other things. Classes. Assignments. Your friends. And Daniel.

He texts you throughout the week—memes, questions about class, random observations about campus life. It’s friendly and light and uncomplicated. You tell yourself that’s why you respond, why you agree to study together in the library, why you sit next to him in Marketing and laugh at his whispered jokes during lectures. But you know that’s not entirely true. You know you’re using Daniel as a distraction. And it’s not fair to him.

On Thursday, you’re leaving your Marketing class with Daniel when you run into the group. Literally—you turn a corner and almost collide with Maya and Jake.

“Oh! Hey!” Maya says, then notices Daniel. “Who’s this?”

“This is Daniel. He’s new. Daniel, this is Maya and Jake.”

“Nice to meet you,” Daniel says, friendly and charming.

“You too,” Maya says, but she’s giving you a look. “We’re all getting lunch. You want to come?”

“Oh, um—”

“You should definitely come,” Jake says. “Whole group’s gonna be there.” Your stomach sinks. Whole group means Jungwon.

“I don’t want to intrude,” Daniel starts.

“You’re not intruding,” Maya insists. “The more the merrier. Right, Y/N?”

“Right,” you say weakly.

Lunch is at the student center food court, and by the time you arrive with Daniel, everyone else is already there—Maya and Jake, Liv and Reina, Jay and Sunghoon, Heeseung and Sunoo and Niki. And Jungwon. He’s sitting at the end of the table, and when he sees you walk in with Daniel, something shutters in his expression.

“Everyone, this is Daniel,” you announce. “He just transferred here.”

Everyone introduces themselves, welcoming and friendly, and Daniel fits in easily. He’s charming and funny, and within minutes, he’s got Reina laughing at some story about his first week on campus. You sit across from Jungwon, and the tension is suffocating.

“So Daniel,” Sunghoon says. “Where’d you transfer from?”

“NYU.”

“Damn, that’s a downgrade,” Heeseung jokes, and everyone laughs.

“I don’t know,” Daniel says, and his hand brushes yours on the table. “I’m liking it here so far.” The touch is casual, probably meaningless. But Jungwon’s eyes lock onto it, and his jaw clenches.

“How do you and Y/N know each other?” Niki asks.

“We have Marketing together,” you say quickly. “I’ve been helping him get caught up.”

“Y/N’s been a lifesaver,” Daniel adds. “Don’t know what I’d do without her.” It’s innocent. Friendly. But the way he’s looking at you is… not. And Jungwon sees it.

“That’s nice,” Jungwon says, voice flat. “Y/N’s good at helping people.” There’s an undercurrent there that makes you flinch.

The conversation moves on, everyone eating and talking, but you’re hyperaware of Jungwon across from you. He’s barely touched his food, just pushing it around his plate, and every time Daniel says something that makes you smile, Jungwon’s expression gets darker.

“So Y/N,” Reina says. “You still seeing that mystery guy? The one who’s so good in bed?”

You want to die. “Reina—”

“What? I’m just asking!”

“What mystery guy?” Daniel asks, curious.

“There’s no mystery guy,” you say firmly. “Reina’s making stuff up.”

“I’m literally not. You told Niki about him.”

“That was months ago.”

“So you’re not seeing anyone?” Daniel asks, and there’s hope in his voice.

Before you can answer, Jungwon stands abruptly. “I gotta go. Got class.”

“But we just sat down,” Heeseung protests.

“I forgot I have to talk to my professor about something.” He grabs his bag and leaves without looking at you. The table goes quiet for a beat.

“What’s up with him?” Jake asks.

“No idea,” Sunoo says, but he’s looking at you thoughtfully.

“Maybe he’s not feeling well,” Maya suggests.

You know that’s not it. You know exactly what’s wrong. “I should—” You start to stand. “I should check on him.”

“Why?” Reina asks.

“Because we’re friends. And he seemed upset.”

“I’ll come with you,” Daniel offers.

“No,” you say, too quickly. “I mean—you should stay. Finish eating. I’ll be right back.”

You don’t wait for a response before hurrying after Jungwon. You catch him outside the building, heading toward the parking lot. “Jungwon, wait!” He stops but doesn’t turn around. “What was that?” you ask when you reach him.

“What was what?”

“You know what. Walking out like that.”

He finally turns to face you, and the look in his eyes makes your chest hurt. “I don’t know what you want me to say, Y/N.”

“I want you to tell me what’s wrong.”

“You really don’t know?” He laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You show up with that guy, he’s all over you, looking at you like—” He breaks off, running a hand through his hair. “And you’re just letting it happen.”

“He’s not all over me. We’re friends.”

“Does he know that? Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like he thinks you’re something more.”

“Even if he did, why do you care? We’re not together, remember? That’s the whole point.”

“Right,” he says bitterly. “The arrangement. How could I forget?”

“Jungwon—”

“Are you into him?”

The question catches you off guard. “What?”

“Daniel. Are you into him?”

“I—no. Not like that.”

“But you could be.” It’s not a question. “If things were different. If we weren’t…” He gestures between you, unable to finish the sentence.

“I don’t know,” you say honestly. “Maybe. He’s nice. And he’s—”

“Uncomplicated,” Jungwon finishes. “He’s not sneaking around. He could actually take you on dates, be seen with you, give you what you want.”

“What I want?”

“More.” He steps closer. “You want more than this, Y/N. I can see it. And I can’t—”

He stops, and your heart is pounding. “You can’t what?”

“I can’t give you that.” His voice is rough. “This—us—it’s supposed to be casual. No strings. That’s what we agreed.”

“And what if I don’t want casual anymore?” The words tumble out before you can stop them. “What if I want more?”

He stares at you, and for a moment you think he’s going to say it—that he wants more too, that this has been killing him the same way it’s been killing you. But then he looks away. “I can’t,” he says quietly. “I’m sorry.”

It feels like the ground has been pulled out from under you. “Right,” you manage. “Okay.”

“It’s fine.” You’re backing away, fighting tears. “You’re right. This was always supposed to be casual. My mistake for thinking it could be anything else.”

“That’s not—”

“I should get back. Everyone’s waiting.” You turn and walk away before he can say anything else, before you completely fall apart in front of him.

When you get back to the table, Daniel takes one look at your face and frowns. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you lie. “Just… tired. Long week.”

“Want me to walk you home?”

You should say no. Should put some distance between you and Daniel before this gets messy. But you’re hurt and angry and you don’t want to be alone. “Yeah,” you say. “That’d be nice.”

As you leave with Daniel, you don’t see Jungwon watching from across the quad, hands shoved in his pockets, looking like his world just fell apart.

You don’t talk to Jungwon for the rest of the week. He texts a few times— casual messages asking how you are, if you want to study, if you’re okay. You respond with short, noncommittal answers.

The group notices. How could they not? You and Jungwon have been attached at the hip for months, and suddenly you can barely be in the same room. “What happened between you two?” Liv asks when you’re alone in your apartment.

“Nothing.”

“Bullshit. You’ve been miserable all week.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not fine. You’re avoiding him. And he’s been moping around like someone kicked his puppy.” You don’t answer, just stare at your laptop screen without actually seeing it. “Did something happen with Daniel?” she presses gently.

“No. Daniel’s just a friend.”

“Does Jungwon know that?”

“It doesn’t matter what Jungwon thinks.”

Liv is quiet for a moment. “You should talk to him. Actually talk. Because this? This is worse than whatever you’re avoiding.”

You know she’s right. But you’re scared. Scared that if you talk to Jungwon, you’ll have to end things for real. That you’ll have to accept that he doesn’t want what you want, that these past few months have meant something completely different to him than they have to you.

So you do what you’ve been doing—you avoid him. And you spend more time with Daniel.

It’s Friday night, and there’s a party at some senior’s house. You show up with Liv and Reina, already a few drinks in from pregaming, and the place is packed. You lose your friends almost immediately in the crowd. You’re making your way to the kitchen when you spot Daniel. “Hey!” He brightens when he sees you. “I was hoping you’d be here.”

“Yeah, wouldn’t miss it.” You’re definitely drunker than you thought. “Having fun?”

“More fun now.” He hands you a drink. “Here. It’s strong, fair warning.” You take it and down half of it in one go. “Rough week?” he asks.

“Something like that.”

The music is loud, bass thumping through your chest, and Daniel leans in closer to be heard. “Want to go somewhere quieter? Maybe talk?”

You should say no. You know where this is going, and it’s not fair to Daniel or to yourself or to— “Sure,” you say.

He leads you upstairs, finding an empty bedroom, and closes the door behind you. It muffles the music, making it easier to hear. “Better?” he asks.

“Yeah.”

He sits on the bed and you sit next to him, suddenly very aware that you’re alone together in a bedroom. “Can I ask you something?” Daniel says.

“Sure.”

“That guy you mentioned. The complicated one. Is it… are you still involved with him?”

You take another sip of your drink. “I don’t know. Maybe. It’s complicated.”

“Does he know how you feel?”

“I told him. He made it pretty clear he doesn’t feel the same way.”

“Then he’s an idiot.” Daniel shifts closer. “Because you’re incredible, Y/N. Smart and funny and beautiful. Any guy would be lucky to be with you.”

“Daniel—”

“I like you,” he says. “I know we just met, and maybe the timing is shit, but I really like you. And if this other guy can’t see what he has, then…”

He trails off, and then he’s leaning in, and you realize he’s going to kiss you. You should stop him. You should explain that you’re not over Jungwon, that you’re not in a place to start something new.

But you’re drunk and hurt and you want to feel wanted by someone who isn’t afraid to show it. So you let him kiss you. It’s nice. He’s a good kisser— soft lips, careful hands, nothing like—

The door opens. “Y/N, Liv’s looking for—” Jungwon stops dead in the doorway.

You jerk back from Daniel, but it’s too late. Jungwon saw. And the look on his face— betrayal and hurt and anger all mixed together—makes your stomach drop. “Jungwon—”

“Sorry,” he says, voice tight. “Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

He’s gone before you can say anything else, door slamming behind him. “Shit,” you breathe.

“Who was that?” Daniel asks.

“I—” You stand up, suddenly feeling very sober. “I have to go. I’m sorry.”

“Y/N, wait—” But you’re already out the door, pushing through the crowded hallway, trying to find Jungwon. You catch him on the front porch, about to leave.

“Jungwon, wait!” He stops, shoulders tense, but doesn’t turn around. “It’s not— that wasn’t—”

“You don’t owe me an explanation,” he says, finally facing you. “You can kiss whoever you want.”

“It didn’t mean anything—”

“Didn’t it?” His eyes are hard. “Looked like it meant something.”

“I was just—I was upset and drunk and he was there—”

“And I wasn’t,” Jungwon finishes. “Because you’ve been avoiding me all week.”

“You told me you couldn’t give me more! What did you expect me to do?”

“I don’t know!” He’s yelling now, and a few people on the porch are staring. “I don’t know, Y/N. But I didn’t expect you to move on in a fucking week.”

“I’m not moving on! And even if I was, why do you care? You made it clear you don’t want—”

“I never said I didn’t want—” He breaks off, jaw clenched. “Fuck.”

“What? You never said you didn’t want what?”

“You!” The word explodes out of him. “I never said I didn’t want you. I said I couldn’t give you more, and that’s different.”

You stare at him. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the fact that I’m terrified, okay?” His voice cracks. “I’m terrified because this stopped being casual for me months ago, and I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know how to be what you need.”

Your heart is pounding so hard you think it might burst out of your chest. “Jungwon—”

“I see the way Daniel looks at you. Like you’re everything. And I want to be that guy— the one who can take you on dates and hold your hand in public and tell everyone you’re mine. But I’m scared I’ll fuck it up. That I’ll lose you completely.”

“So instead you’re losing me anyway,” you say quietly. He flinches like you hit him. “I’m falling for you,” you continue, and the words feel like jumping off a cliff. “I’ve been falling for you for months. And it’s been killing me because I thought you didn’t feel the same way.”

“I do,” he says desperately. “I do feel the same way. I just—”

“You just what?”

“I don’t want to ruin what we have.”

“Jungwon, we’ve already ruined it. Pretending we can keep things casual when we both feel more—that’s what’s ruining it.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, and you can see him struggling with something. “If we do this,” he says finally, “if we make this real— what if it doesn’t work? What if we end up hating each other?”

“What if we don’t?” you counter. “What if it’s amazing?”

“What about the group? If things go bad—”

“We’ll figure it out. But Jungwon, I’d rather try and fail than spend the rest of my life wondering what if.”

He looks at you like he’s trying to memorize your face, and then— “Fuck it,” he mutters, and then he’s kissing you.

It’s different from every other kiss you’ve shared. More desperate, more meaningful. Like he’s pouring everything he couldn’t say into it.

When you break apart, you’re both breathless. “So,” you manage. “Does this mean—”

“It means I want to be with you. For real. No more hiding, no more pretending.” He cups your face in his hands. “I want everyone to know you’re mine.”

“Even the group?”

“Especially the group.” He smiles, and it’s tentative but real. “They probably already know anyway.”

You laugh, and it feels like relief. “Probably.”

“What about Daniel?”

“I’ll talk to him. Explain. But Jungwon, there’s nothing there. It’s always been you.”

“Yeah?” His smile widens.

“Yeah.” He kisses you again, softer this time, and you hear whooping from inside the house. You break apart to find half your friend group watching from the window—Reina and Liv and Maya and the guys all grinning like idiots.

“FINALLY!” Reina screams, and everyone laughs. Jungwon pulls you closer, wrapping his arms around you, and for the first time in weeks, everything feels right.

“So,” he murmurs against your hair. “Want to get out of here? I think we have some things to talk about.”

“And by talk you mean—”

“Actually talk,” he says, pulling back to look at you. “We should probably figure out how to actually do this relationship thing.”

“We should,” you agree. “But maybe we can do the talking back at your place? I’m still kind of drunk and these heels are killing me.” He laughs and takes your hand— openly, for everyone to see— and leads you toward his car.

As you leave, you glance back at the house and catch Daniel watching from the doorway. He looks sad but understanding, and he raises his cup in a small salute. You mouth “sorry,” and he nods. You’ll explain everything to him later. Right now, you just want to be with Jungwon.

You wake up to sunlight streaming through Jungwon’s window and his arm draped across your waist. For a moment, you just lie there, listening to his steady breathing, trying to process that this is real now. You’re actually dating Jungwon. Your phone buzzes— multiple times. You reach for it and find the group chat exploding.

reina: SO ARE WE GONNA TALK ABOUT LAST NIGHT OR

maya: I KNEW IT

liv: you all owe me $20 btw

jay: jungwon if you hurt her i’m fighting you

you: good morning to you too

reina: GOOD MORNING??? THAT’S ALL YOU HAVE TO SAY???

you: yes we’re official

reina: EXTREMELY

you: and we’ve been hooking up since that party in august

heeseung: AUGUST?????

reina: I FUCKING KNEW IT

Jungwon stirs beside you, eyes fluttering open. When he sees you, he smiles— soft and sleepy and genuine. “Morning,” he says, voice rough.

“Morning.” You show him your phone. “We’re famous.”

He scrolls through, laughing. “They’re ridiculous.”

jungwon: i’m not going to hurt her

jay: good

reina: now that that’s settled TELL US EVERYTHING

The “mandatory celebration” ends up being at Jay and Sunghoon’s that evening. By the time you and Jungwon arrive— together, holding hands— everyone else is already there. “THERE THEY ARE!” Reina shouts. “The happy couple!”

Maya rushes over to hug you. “I’m so happy for you!”

Jake hands you both drinks. “So, real talk. How long have you actually had feelings for each other?”

“I’ve liked her since before we started hooking up,” Jungwon says. “Remember that party in July? When you wore that black dress?”

Your face is burning. “You never said anything.”

He shrugs. “I didn’t think you were interested. And then the bet happened and… well, you know the rest.”

“What about you?” Liv asks.

“Probably that first morning after,” you admit. “When we were texting about the arrangement and he was being all careful. That’s when I started thinking he might be different.”

Several drinks later, everyone’s sprawled around the living room. You’re tucked into Jungwon’s side on the couch, and it feels so natural. “Real talk,” Jay says, tone serious. “I’m happy for you guys. But—” He looks at Jungwon. “—you hurt her, and we have a problem.”

“I know. And I’m not going to hurt her. I’m—” He looks at you. “—I’m in love with her.”

The room goes silent. Your heart stops. “What?” you whisper.

“I’m in love with you. I have been for a while. I was just too scared to say it.”

“I love you too, you idiot.” You’re shaking your head. “I’ve been in love with you for months.” His smile is brilliant. He kisses you, and this time it’s softer, more tender.

“Okay, we’re leaving,” Reina announces. “Before this gets too cute.”

After everyone leaves, you and Jungwon stay on the couch. “I meant what I said,” he murmurs. “About loving you.”

“I meant it too.” You shift to straddle his lap. “I love you, Jungwon.”

He cuts you off with a kiss. “Want to go home?”

You end up at his place. The second you’re inside, he’s on you, kissing you with urgency. “Bedroom,” you gasp.

“Too far.” He lifts you, carries you to the couch. You land in a tangle of limbs, laughing, then his mouth is on your neck. “I love you,” he murmurs.

“Show me,” you challenge.

He does. He takes his time undressing you, kissing every inch of skin. When you’re both finally naked, he hovers over you. “This is different now. Better,” he says. “I get to keep you.”

“You always had me.”

“I know. But now I don’t have to pretend I don’t want forever.”

“Forever?”

“Too soon?”

“No.” You pull him down. “Not too soon.”

He makes love to you slowly, thoroughly. More intimate. More real. Every touch feels like a confession. He enters you with a groan, and you wrap your legs around him. The rhythm is unhurried, sensual. He angles his hips just right, and his hand slides between your bodies to rub your clit. “God, you feel so perfect,” he breathes. “So tight and wet for me.”

“Jungwon— fuck— don’t stop—” He doesn’t. He keeps that perfect pace until you’re trembling. When you come, clenching around him, he follows right after with a moan of your name.

When you’re both spent on his couch, you feel something settle in your chest. “We should move to the bed,” he says eventually.

“Heeseung’s going to be home soon.” You gather clothes and make it to his room. “Stay,” he says.

“Obviously.” You curl into his side. “I love you.”

“I love you too.”

The next morning, you wake to Jungwon’s alarm. Your head is pounding. “Turn it off,” you groan.

“We have brunch in an hour.”

Forty-five minutes later— after a shower where Jungwon pressed you against the tile and made you come on his fingers— you’re dressed and heading to the diner. You walk in holding hands. The sight of your friend group crammed into booths makes you smile.

“There they are!” Maya calls. You slide in next to Liv, Jungwon beside you, arm over your shoulders.

“So,” Sunoo says. “Now that you guys are official, does this mean we have to watch you be gross?”

“We’re not going to be gross,” you protest.

Jungwon immediately kisses your cheek. “Can’t promise that.”

“How long did you actually know?” you ask.

“I knew from the start,” Liv says. “You’re my roommate. You think I didn’t notice when you’d come home at 3 AM with hickeys?”

The conversation shifts to other topics, and it’s easy. Normal. Like nothing’s changed except now you don’t have to hide.

Later that day, you’re back at Jungwon’s, on the couch watching a movie. “Can I ask you something?” he says.

“Always.”

“Why did you kiss Daniel?”

“Honestly? I was drunk and hurt and he was there. It was stupid.”

“Did you… were you interested in him?”

“No.” You shift to look at him. “He’s nice, but I was so hung up on you.”

“Good.” He kisses you. “Because I was losing my mind.”

“Every time I was with him, I kept thinking about you.”

“You have me now.” His arms tighten. “For as long as you want me.”

“Forever, remember?”

“Forever,” he agrees.

“Want to order food and spend the rest of the day in bed?”

“Is that code for something?”

“Food, bed, probably some making out, definitely a nap.”

“Sounds perfect.”

Later that night, after Chinese food and another round of sex— with you riding him while he gripped your hips and watched you with dark eyes— you’re lying in his bed. “Thank you,” he says quietly.

“For what?”

“For being brave enough to tell me how you felt. I would have lost you if you hadn’t.”

“You wouldn’t have lost me. I was too far gone.”

“Speaking of which,” he says. “You could just keep some more stuff here. Make it official.”

“Jungwon, we’ve been officially dating for less than 24 hours.”

“So? We’ve been unofficially together for months.”

He has a point. “Fine. I’ll bring some stuff over tomorrow.” And he’s grinning from ear to ear

Three weeks later, you’re at another party— pre-Thanksgiving. This time, everything’s different. You and Jungwon arrive together, hands intertwined. When he pulls you onto the dance floor, you don’t worry about who’s watching. “Having fun?” he asks.

“So much fun.” You loop your arms around his neck. “This is better than hiding.”

“Way better.” He kisses you.

Later, in the kitchen, Daniel approaches. You haven’t really talked since that night. “Hey,” he says. “Can we talk?”

“Sure.” Jungwon gives your hand a squeeze and steps away.

“I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” Daniel starts. “For that night. I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

“No, I’m sorry. I should have been clearer. It wasn’t fair to you.”

“It’s okay. I get it now.” He glances at Jungwon. “That’s him, right?”

“Yeah. Not so complicated anymore.”

“Good. You seem happy.”

“I am. Really happy.” You hesitate. “Are we okay?”

“We’re okay. Friends?”

“Friends,” you agree.

He leaves, and Jungwon returns to your side. “That looked like it went well.”

“It did.” You lean into him. “Everything’s good.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Everything’s really good.”

You stay like that, watching your friends scattered around— your family. And Jungwon, solid and warm behind you. “I love you,” you say.

“I love you too.” He kisses your neck. “Want to get out of here?”

“And do what?”

“Go back to my place. Watch a movie. Make out. Order food. Fall asleep together. All the boring couple stuff.”

“That sounds perfect.” You say goodbye to your friends and head out.

“Your place or mine?” Jungwon asks.

“Yours. I already have a toothbrush there.”

He grins. “Look at us, being all domestic.”

“It’s disgusting.”

“You love it.”

“I really do.”

As he drives through the quiet streets, his hand finds yours, and you think about how different things were just months ago. When you were both pretending, both scared, both holding back. And now you’re here. Together. For real. “What are you thinking about?” Jungwon asks.

“Just… how happy I am. How glad I am that we figured this out.”

“Me too.” He brings your joined hands up to kiss your knuckles. “Best decision I ever made.”

“Proving you could make me come?”

He laughs. “No. Although that was a good decision too. I meant taking a chance on this. On us.”

“We both took a chance.”

“And it paid off.”

“Yeah,” you agree softly. “It really did.”

Back at his apartment, you fall into your routine— changing into his drawer of your clothes, brushing teeth side by side, collapsing onto his bed. “Movie?” he asks.

“Sure. Nothing too intense though.” He puts on a comedy, and you curl into his side. This is your favorite part. Not the sex— though that’s amazing— but this. The quiet moments. The casual intimacy.

“Hey Y/N?” Jungwon says softly.

“Hmm?”

“I’m really glad you’re mine.”

You lift your head. “I’m glad I’m yours too. And that you’re mine.”

“Always,” he promises, and kisses you.

And to top it all off, you were his best friend's older sister. A feisty full-blown Henderson, a bad-tempered smartass, someone capable of pushing his buttons and turning his world upside down. Sometimes he thought you were even more annoying than Dustin, and that was an understatement.

But he loved you, to the core. You were so fearless, the best sister and friend, always humble, kind-hearted, and selfless.

He told himself it was stupid. He was stupid.

You barely tolerated him.

The first few days of your unlikely and emerging friendship you hardly glanced at him, only greeting him out of politeness.

Then, the first few months had been quite rough, more for him than for you. Because there were days, moments when he would try his heart out to catch your attention, to make you laugh, to at least have you smile at him, just for him.

Because Steve Harrington had always been the kind of boy who was used to being liked. Effortlessly. Girls smiled at him in the hallways, teachers forgave him things they never should have, and life had a funny way of opening doors for him without him even knocking. All his life, everything had been laid out for him on a silver platter; he didn't even have to put in much effort in order to get what he wanted.

But you?

You were a locked door.

You didn't like Steve Harrington.

And yet, you always felt that icy, crushing sense of jealousy creep over you whenever you saw Steve draw closer to Nancy, choose her above others, and compete with Jonathan for her attention and appreciation.

“You know Nancy has a boyfriend, right?” you asked him once, your expression too grim to match the humor in your voice. He had spent most of the afternoon competing with Jonathan over who had killed more monsters from the Upside Down—something completely ridiculous. “And that's Jon?”

Steve huffs at the way you pronounce that nickname, closing the passenger door of your Jeep and settling into the seat. “I was just saying facts. I did kill more shit down there last year. Jonathan wasn't even there.”

“He was in California. What the hell did you want him to do from California, Steve?” you retort in an overly defensive tone, determined to defend the honor of your childhood best friend.

Because of course you would leap to Jonathan's defense. That aggravated Steve even more.

He raises his eyebrows, smirking with triumphant mockery, “Exactly.”

“Can you two stop arguing like an old married couple?” Dustin chimes in, popping up between the two front seats from the back and glaring at you both with a sour look on his face. “And maybe drive? I'm going to be late.”

Steve leans back in his seat, arms crossed, jaw tight.

Jonathan Byers.

It was always Jonathan Byers.

Steve had never said it out loud—because admitting it would make him sound small, petty, exactly the kind of guy he was trying not to be anymore—but the jealousy had been there from the very beginning. From the way Jonathan knew you before he ever did. From the way you laughed more freely around him, softer, unguarded, safe. From the way you touched Jonathan's arm when you talked, a casual familiarity Steve would have killed for.

He hated that Jonathan didn't even have to try.

That he got your trust without earning it.

“So,” Steve mutters, staring out the window, “you and Byers hang out a lot now.”

You had already dropped Dustin off at Mike's house, so the two of you were all alone now, which was a rare occurrence lately. 

You glance at him for a fraction of a second, catching the stiffness in his shoulders and jaw, and the way he averts eye contact entirely. He looks like a grumpy little boy, it's kind of funny and cute. “We've been friends since we were kids. We've always hung out.”

“Yeah. I know,” he says quickly, as if the words were venom on his tongue. “Just saying.”

There it is. He's such a passive-aggressive jerk when it comes to Jonathan.

“You're always just saying things about him,” you shoot back. "What's your problem, Harrington?”

That finally makes him look at you.

“Problem? My problem?” he laughs, sharp and humorless. He looks awkward now, a little self-conscious. “Nothing. Why would I have a problem?”

Probably because Jonathan is your best friend.

Because when you're scared, you reach for him first.

Because he knows things about you Steve doesn't—and maybe never will.

You sigh, exhausted, shaking your head disapprovingly. “You act like he's done some evil thing to you.”

Steve swallows. “He hasn't.”

That's the worst part.

Because Jonathan Byers had never been really cruel to him. Sure, he disliked him as much as Steve disliked him, and he kind of stole Nancy from him when they were still together, but he had never been intentionally rude. 

Jonathan was just... there. Steady. Familiar. Important. Close.

Everything Steve wanted to be.

He also knew that you weren't exactly his type.

Because the truth was, you never had been.

You were better.

You were someone who saw meaning in shadows, who believed stories could save people, who challenged him without trying to change him. You saw him as he really was. You see him.

Jonathan was your person. Your best friend.

But, no matter what, Steve had always been special enough.

It made no sense, and you hated that the feeling existed at all.

Because you didn't want Steve Harrington.

You didn't like his stupid hair, or the way he pretended not to care when things hurt him, or how he filled silence with silly jokes. You definitely didn't like how easily people forgave him, how quickly Nancy Wheeler smiled at him, how natural it seemed for her to fit at his side.

So why did your stomach twist every time you caught him looking at her?

You told yourself it was protectiveness. That you were just being a good sister. A good friend. Dustin adored Steve, and maybe—maybe—you were just afraid he'd get hurt again.

But that lie got harder to swallow the longer it went on.

Because Steve had a bad habit of showing up when things fell apart. When your mom was working late and you kept having nightmares, Steve was right there, answering your three-in-the-morning phone call without hesitation. When the world went to hell—literally—Steve never ran. He stayed. Bloody, shaking, terrified, but still standing between danger and the people he loved.

Between danger and you.

And you hated how safe he made you feel.

There were nights when you sat across from him on the floor of your room, knees almost touching, sharing a blanket and a silence that felt too heavy to be accidental, a long-forgotten movie was playing on your television screen. You might not have paid attention to it, nor did you appreciate its corny jokes, but his laughter was all it took to make your day and night. His laughter was softer around you, more careful.

Falling for Steve Harrington felt like stepping off a cliff without knowing if there was ground below.

It had started innocently enough, in one of those impromptu gatherings that somehow always ended up at Steve's big house because his parents were never home and because, for some reason, he never said no when someone needed a place.

You remember that night very clearly.

Robin had shown up first, already halfway through a stolen bottle of something that tasted like regret and cough syrup. And Nancy and Jon showed up together a few minutes later, swearing they wouldn't get all lovey-dovey with booze in their system.

And then there was you.

Sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, back against the couch, laughing harder than you meant to as Robin—dramatically as ever— was telling you about the times at Scoops Ahoy, and how Steve kept blowing his flirting attempts with pretty girls.

At some point, with the sun already setting on the horizon of an uncharacteristically quiet Hawkins, the alcohol softened the edges of the room.

So, someone suggested the pool like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Robin was the first one in, cannonballing without warning and shrieking at the cold water. Nancy followed shortly after, already in their swimsuits, laughter bright and careless, Jonathan close behind her. 

You stayed seated on the edge, feet dangling just above the water, denim already warm from the sunset, watching them with an amused smile.

“Come on, Henderson,” Robin calls, eyes glinting with trouble. “Live a little.”

“I didn't bring a swimsuit,” you protest, pointing down at yourself. “Unlike you degenerates.”

“And? That's never stopped anyone before,” she chirps too cheerfully, creeping dangerously close to you.

You don't even have time to register her next movement.

One second Robin is grinning at you, the next her hands are on you, and then—

You scream.

Cold water swallows you whole, clothes and all, the shock ripping the air from your lungs. When you resurface, sputtering and furious, the sound of laughter echoes around the backyard of Steve's big mansion.

“Buckley!” you whine out, hair plastered to your face, shirt clinging uncomfortably to your skin. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

“I regret nothing!” she shouts back, already retreating as Nancy splashed her in retaliation, laughing heartily.

Steve hadn't laughed.

He was already at the edge of the pool, crouched down, concern etched into his face as he reached out instinctively, his absurdly overpriced beer bottle abandoned on the ground, and his sunglasses — totally unnecessary since it was late afternoon — propped up in his hair. 

“Hey—hey, you okay?”

You nod, still catching your breath, suddenly very aware of how soaked you were. How cold. How exposed.

“Yeah,” you respond, sulking. “I'm gonna fucking kill her in her sleep.”

Steve snorts softly, relief washing over him. “Yeah, That's the bare minimum we expect from you.”

He hesitates just for half a second before standing up and helps you out of the pool, hands tightly holding yours, one of them sliding down to your waist, with an awkward, hesitant touch.

His chocolate-brown eyes are glowing every time they shift from your chest to your face and back again, taking in how see-through the damp fabric of your shirt is now. “Uh... you can borrow something of mine— I mean, if you want. So you don't freeze.”

You blink at him, hugging yourself and feeling a little self-conscious. “You sure?”

It's strange to say the least. You'd had a few tough weeks, you had grown a little distant from each other since that thing on your car. Out of some silly jealousy, that's why.

And still, Steve is treating you with the same decency and care as in your glory days as friends. Just like always.

He shrugs, pretending it was no big deal. “Yeah. I've got like... a million hoodies.”

That is an understatement.

You follow him back inside his house, dripping quietly through the empty halls, covering yourself with a towel that he had handed you, the noise from outside muffling behind you. Steve leads you upstairs, steps careful, like he is afraid to scare you off.

“My room's—uh—here,” he says, pushing the door open.

Even though you had been to his house several times, for whatever reason, you had never been in his room before. So this was a new experience for you. One that, even though you didn't want to admit it, you found particularly intriguing.

And it is... nothing like you expected.

Not messy. Not careless. But warm. Thoughtful.

Your eyes wander before you could stop them.

A stack of vinyl records sat neatly by his turntable—records you recognize immediately. Your favorites. The ones you'd mentioned once, offhandedly, during a late-night conversation you hadn't thought he remembered.

There are movies too. VHS tapes lined carefully along a shelf—old horror, indie films, that one foreign movie you loved and had insisted was misunderstood. A couple of well-worn books lay stacked on his nightstand, spines cracked, margins dog-eared.

You pick one up slowly.

“This is... mine,” you say softly. “I mean—this is my favorite.”

Steve is frozen in place, turning to face you from within his open closet doors, previously very involved in a search for a pair of shorts that are preferably smaller than the ones he usually wears and a hoodie, for you.

“Oh. Yeah. You said you liked it,” he replies, too casually, spectacularly downplaying the significance of the situation.

You turn to him, eyes landing on the broad expanse of his back as he went back into digging through his clothes. “Steve... you don't— you don't even read.”

He laughs nervously, still not looking at you. “I do, sugar. N-now.”

The nickname slips out casually, he says it so sweetly. It's the first time you've heard him call you that in days. And it brings a cute little smile to your face.

There are photos pinned crookedly to a corkboard near his desk. Not trophies. Not popularity. Not reminders of who he used to be. Just moments.

Dustin missing a teeth. Robin mid-laugh. One of you, sitting on the floor back at your house, unaware, smiling at something just out of frame. Probably Steve.

You stare at that picture longer than you mean to.

It's candid. Soft. You're younger there, unguarded in a way you rarely allow yourself to be. It makes something tight coil low in your chest.

“Why do you have that?” you ask quietly.

Steve doesn't answer right away, he flicks a glance at you and then his eyes move down to the photo you're holding in your hands.

And when he does, his voice is low, stripped of bravado. “Because you look happy.”

And cute. And pretty. Like, the most gorgeous sight he's ever seen.

He digs a little more through his closet and finally, hands you a pair of Nike shorts and a hoodie—one of his favorites, judging by how worn the cuffs are. 

The hoodie swallows you whole, warm and smelling like him. Soap. Shampoo. His perfume that is so masculine and yet, soft. So Steve.

You don't miss the way his eyes linger on you as he enters back into is room, once you let him know that you had already changed.

“Okay,” you start, crossing your arms, suddenly very aware of the way your heart is misbehaving. “So. You collect my favorite records. You read my books. You keep pictures of me like some sort of—”

“Please don't say serial killer,” he interrupts weakly and extremely embarrassed.

You snort, sitting down on the edge of his bed, slightly dizzy from the alcohol. “—like some sort of sentimental idiot.”

That gets a smile out of him. Real. Soft. A little sad. Like, drunk sad.

“Look,” he says, gesturing dramatically with his hands and walking towards you wearing an embarrassed little smile, “you don't have to make it weird—”

You're smart and quick enough to cut him off, of course. “You already did that, Harrington.”

“Fair.” He exhales, blushing so much both out of embarrassment and out of the quantity of beer consumed in the evening, “I just... I like knowing what matters to you. I'm trying to keep up,” his voice keep lowering gently as he continues, “I just— I just like you a lot—,” suddenly he is just a babbling mess of rushed words, “I like being with you, like, your company,” he shrugs, making an effort to appear casual, “so, you know, I-I care.”

I like you.

Not loved. Not needed. Just—there. Honest. Low. Patient.

You smile softly, shaking your head as you look up at him with eyes gleaming with longing and drunkenness. “You're drunk, Harrington.”

“Yeah,” he agrees easily, smiling too, “and so are you, sugar.”

“Yeah but, I get you, I like you too, Stevie.”

The way you pronounce his nickname rings like sweet music to Steve's ears. You almost never say it. And he absolutely hates that nickname, but coming from you, it's different. He loves it. He'd listen to you say it all day if he could.

You smile back at him. God, you smile at him so easily when you let yourself. Or like now, when you're not sober.

You're smiling a lot.

Steve takes a seat on his bed next to you very cautiously, making sure he is holding your gaze. He sits so close that your shoulders brush against each other. But you don't pull away. And neither does he.

“And—” he says suddenly holds back for a moment, unsure whether to continue speaking or not, but then decides to go ahead anyway, “Jonathan.”

“Jonathan...” you repeat, slurring out the name.

Steve swallows. “Is it—” he stops, shakes his head once. “Is there something I'm not seeing?”

You frown slightly, not quite understanding exactly what he's getting at. “Meaning...?”

He forces himself to look at you now, brown eyes searching your face, not accusatory—just honest, curious and vulnerable all over.

Sober, you're the smartest person Steve knows. However, as soon as a drop of alcohol hits your system, your brain seems to go into stand-by mode, as if it were on vacation. Or maybe you're just playing dumb.

“Are you in love with him?”

The question lands softly.

That's what makes it hurt.

You blink, caught off guard by how gentle he sounds, regardless of the heavy topic he is bringing up. And in spite of that, he doesn't look or sound as defensive as he always is when it comes to Jonathan Byers.

“I—” You hesitate, then sigh, leaning back on your hands, sighing heavily and frowning, blinking really slow. “Jonathan's my best friend. He always has been.”

“I know,” Steve says quickly, looking down at you. “I'm not— I'm not saying it like it's a bad thing.”

“Well, you sound like it,” you smile a little, a kind of silly, carefree smile that you hardly ever show.

Steve opens and closes his mouth, stammering words out, “So... you've never—?”

“No,” you answer, shaking your head and wincing in disgust, “Ew, dude. That's sick to even think about. He's like a brother to me.”

Relief flickers across his face before he can stop it.

You notice.

“Good, that's good,” he breathes out the air he had been holding in his lungs, casting his gaze away from you toward the floor, blushing.

You tilt your head, studying him with narrowed eyes. “You care an awful lot for someone who claims he doesn't have a problem with Byers.”

Steve huffs out a laugh, shaking his head, suddenly on the defensive again. His lips twist into a grimace before he speaks. “Well, you've been spending a lot of time with him lately. It does seem a little suspicious.” He shrugs his shoulders dismissively. “Nancy and I thought for a moment that you two were onto something.”

“There it is,” you whisper, rolling your eyes. “This is what you do. You get weird and defensive and then act like I'm the problem.”

“I'm not saying you are,” he snaps back, sharper than before. The alcohol makes his edges rougher, his honesty more reckless. “I just don't get why you're always going out with him lately, always choosing him.”

That makes you sit up straighter, now you're a tiny bit more on the defensive. “I don't choose him.”

“You do,” Steve insists, finally looking at you again, eyes dark and earnest. “Every time. When something's wrong. When you need someone. When you—” he cuts off his own words as he gestures vaguely, frustrated. “You don't even notice you do it.”

You swallow, anger softening into something more complicated. “You don't get to be jealous, Steve. You don't get to act like this when you're still—” you hesitate, the bitterness of jealousy stinging your tongue. “When you're still half in love with Nancy”

He stands abruptly, raising his hands in offense. He looks very offended. “I am not—"

“You so are!” you fire back, standing too. “Everyone can see it. You look at her like she hung the damn stars, and then you turn around and accuse me of being in love with my best friend?”

Your eyes are brimming with tears of anger, frustration, and disappointment, but your words speak a completely different story. They are full of resentment: “And then you get angry out of nowhere and drift away from me and accuse me of something I haven’t even done, and suddenly I feel like I’m the problem!” Steve keeps quiet, gazing at you with the same anguish reflected in your eyes. “Why are you keep doing this? Why are you pushing me away?”

“Because I love you!”

The room goes quiet, awfully quiet.

The ringing in your ears from the rage suddenly vanishes, replaced by that deafening, heavy silence. 

Steve is breathing hard, his chest heaving as if he's just run a marathon, his hands still raised in that defensive gesture that now looks more like he's trying to catch the words he just threw into the air.

“W-what?” you manage, the word barely catching on your vocal cords.

Steve looks like he wants the floor to swallow him whole, but he doesn't look away. Not this time. 

“You heard me,” he says, his voice losing its edge, turning raw and shaky. “I'm not in love with Nancy, okay? I haven't been for a long time. It's always been about trying to find... I don't know— maybe, a way to make you look at me the way you look at Jonathan. To be that important to you.”

He takes a step closer, pressing into this kind of invisible void that always kept you two apart, a protective barrier you had built around yourself, now trembling on the verge of collapse.

“It's you. It's always been you.” Steve continues, very much at odds with the dismissive expression on your face, lost for words. “Since that night at Tina's. You were so mean to me, and all I could think was, 'God, I hope she never stops talking to me.'”

He laughs, a low, self-deprecating sound that makes your heart ache in your chest.

“I read those stupid books because I wanted to understand why you liked them. I bought those records because I wanted my house to sound like a place you'd actually want to stay,” he brushes his fingers through his hair, voicing every thought that crosses his mind, his eyes filling with tearful emotion that overwhelms his heart, capitalizing on your uncharacteristic quietness. “I'm an idiot— I know. I'm a sentimental, clueless idiot because you— you are all I see. I see you when I try to imagine my future. With me. In a big house, with a dog and a cat and a couple of little kids who look just like you, with your beautiful smile and your big eyes and your brilliance. You are my future, my dream.”

You shake your head, blinking away a few tears. “I should go.”

You barely take two steps before his hand closes around your wrist.

“Don't— I'm sorry, honey,” he whispers barely, voice really low. “Please.”

You stop, turning around to look at him. “Steve—”

And he just leans in.

It's not rushed. Not desperate.

It's careful—like he's giving you time to pull away.

You don't.

Your lips find his, warm and hesitant at first, then deeper, fuller, as everything you've both been holding back spills into that single moment. His hand loosens around your wrist, sliding up to cup your cheek instead, thumb brushing softly through your skin.

His other hand swings up and closes the door behind you, leaning against it, pressing you between the wooden surface and his body.

You break away from him just enough to catch your breath before kissing him again, more passionately, more feverishly.

Steve's kiss is everything you hadn't allowed yourself to imagine: desperate, yet incredibly tender, as if he were trying to memorize the texture of your lips.

His hands, usually so confident, tremble slightly as they move from your face to your waist, bunching the fabric of his own oversized hoodie that you are wearing.

“So smart, yet such a brat sometimes,” he mumbles hot against your mouth, his voice a jagged wreck of its usual charm. “Always got something to snarl back. Always slipping away from me.”

“Just shut the fuck up, Harrington,” you breathe out, your hands winding into the thick hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. “You knew what you were getting into.”

Steve groans, a low vibration you feel in your own throat, and shifts his weight. He pressed his hips firmly against yours, pinning you to the door. The friction sends a jolt of electricity straight to your core, turning your knees into jelly.

He begins to trail kisses down the column of your neck, his warm tongue grazing your sensitive skin. You tilt your head back, a shaky gasp escaping you as his teeth caught on the spot where your shoulder met your neck. 

“You have no idea,” he whispers, his breath hot against your collarbone, “how many times I've sat in this room, listening to those records, just wishing you were here. Having you just like this...”

He pulls back just enough to look you in the eye, his gaze dark and heavy with a possessiveness that made your heart hammer against your ribs. He reaches down, his fingers hooking under the hem of the hoodie, slowly sliding the soft fabric upward.

“Is this okay?” he asks softly, in contrast to the wild, dark desire that burned in his eyes.

You don't answer with words. Instead, you reach for the hem of his own shirt, tugging it upward in a silent invitation.

Steve don't need to be told twice. He pulls his shirt over his head and toss it blindly into the shadows of his room. When he presses back against you, the contact is electric. 

He lifts you effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carries you the few short steps toward the bed, the party downstairs sounding like it belongs to a completely different world now.

The springs of the mattress squeaks under the weight of both of you as Steve lowers you down, his body a heavy, welcome heat following you closely. He doesn't break the connection for a second, his mouth finding yours again with a frantic hunger that tastes like expensive beer and desperate longing.

The soft fabric of his own hoodie is bunched around your ribs, and Steve's large hands are everywhere—mapping the skin he'd only ever dream of touching like this. 

When his palms slid up your sides, grazing the undersides of your breasts, you let out a sharp, needy sound that was lost in his mouth.

“Steve,” you gasp, your back arching off the bed as he finds a particularly sensitive spot behind your ear. 

Your hands are busy, too, wandering over the firm muscles of his broad back, feeling the way he tenses and shudders under your touch. 

“You're so fucking pretty,” he coos, breaking away to trail a line of biting kisses down to your jaw. “You drive me crazy”

He seats up slightly, straddling your hips, his chest heaving as he gazes in awe down at you. The moonlight from the window catch the sweat glistening on his skin and the sheer, unadulterated devotion in his eyes. Without a word, he reaches down and pulls the hoodie over your head finally, tossing it to the floor to join his shirt.

You feel a momentary flash of shyness, but it vanishes the second Steve's eyes darkens, his breath hitching. 

“God, you're beautiful,” he whispers, his voice thick with desire and adoration. “It's not even close to what I had imagined.”

“Did you imagine it?” you manage to ask, sheepishly battling your lashes at him, biting your lower lip.

Steve lets out a huff, running his hand along the curve of your waist and leaning back down toward you, his eyes sparking with nothing but pure adoration, teasing your lips for a kiss, “Every goddamn day.”

As he speaks, you reach up to unhook your bra, and Steve licks his lips as he takes in the sight of your pretty tits laid bare for him.

His hands comes down your body, cupping a breast with a reverence that made your blood boil. He leans down, his tongue swirling around one nipple before taking the tit into his mouth, his suction firm and demanding. 

You moan out, your fingers digging into his shoulders, your hips instinctively bucking against his.

Steve groans against your skin, his hand sliding down, past the waistband of his own shorts on you, his fingers seeking the heat he knew was waiting so patiently for him. When he finds it, already slick and aching for him, your eyes roll back in your head.

“You want this?” he asks, his voice a low growl of a challenge, his thumb rhythmically grazing your wet folds. “You want me? I need words, baby”

“I want you, Steve,” you whine, your voice breaking with emotion. “Please—”

That is the breaking point. The patience he'd spent months cultivating snaps. He moves with a new, feral urgency, shedding the rest of your clothes until there is nothing left to obstruct his way onto you.

And then, he eats your pussy like it is his very last meal, lapping and drinking in everything you have to offer, every bit of wetness from you.

His tongue feels so familiar against you, as if it had known you all its life, as if its sole purpose is to consume you. It traces its way between your folds, all the way up to your clit and back down again, sliding in just deep enough to knock the air out of your lungs.

Steve, Steve, Steve...

You moan out his name like a prayer.

“You taste so good,” he marvels in awe, “so sweet, sweetheart”

Steve pulls back for just a second, his face flush and his hair a wild, beautiful mess, but he doesn't go far. He looks up at you from between your thighs, his eyes dark with a mix of hunger and a raw, vulnerable worship that makes your heart ache even more than your body. 

He watches your face as his thumb continues the job to swirl against your clit, circling with a agonizingly perfect pressure that has you gripping the sheets until your knuckles turns white.

“I've spent every night for months wondering what you'd sound like,” he coaxes, his voice vibrating against your inner thigh. “Thinking about you cumming for me...”

He doesn't give you a chance to retort with some smartass comment. 

He dives back into your cunt, his tongue moving with a relentles, purposefully pace that push you right to the edge. 

You are crying out his name now, your head tossing back against the pillow as the first waves of a massive climax begin to roll through you. 

Steve doesn't slow down; he drinks you, his hands holding your thighs firmly so you can't escape the pleasure, grounding you as the world shatters into a thousand bright sparks.

“Cum for me, baby.” he coos, already too pussy drunk to even form a rational thought more than to please you, “Cum on my tongue, yeah, just like that”

“Holy shit, Stevie—” you hiccup, feeling tears blur your vision, a wave of pleasure unleashing from deep in your belly. “I'm cumming—hmph!”

Steve gulps down all you give him like it is some kind of holy water.

You open your eyes, blurred with tears and lust, and see him. His chin and mouth are dripping with your essence, his dark, piercing eyes in awe of how your pussy is clenching around his fingers.

He doesn't pull away. He hovers there, hands trembling as they gripped your thighs, watching the way your chest heaved and your eyes struggle to focus on him.

“You okay?” he whispers, his voice cracking. He reaches up, using the back of his hand to gently wipe a stray tear from your cheek, his touch surprisingly light for someone so clearly on the edge. “I didn't... I wasn't too rough? You're good?”

You can't even find an answer. Your body is still humming, the aftershocks of the orgasm making your muscles twitch. 

So you just nod, “I'm perfect, Steve. P-please keep going, I need more.”

He moves right up, crawling over your pretty body, ready for him, his skin feels hot and slick against yours.

He moves closer to you and kiss your mouth, making you savor your own taste through him, his hands appreciatively caressing your thighs, palming the fat of your ass.

“Tell me if it's too much, yeah?" Steve breathes out, his forehead dropping low to rest against yours. “I've wanted this for so long, I don't want to mess it up. I don't want to hurt you, sugar.”

“Just fuck me already, Harrington,” you hiss right back, looking up at him with eyes half-closed in ecstasy, squeezing his forearm eagerly.

Steve sucks in a breath, leaning in close to kiss you once more, “Such a little brat.”

Then, he stands up, swiftly stripping off his pants and boxers under your attentive gaze. He is a handsome boy, always has been. His physique is strong, his shoulders are broad, his biceps are muscular, his six-pack is slightly marked, and beads of sweat roll down his tanned skin. You are drooling at the mouth from the urge of wanting to sweep your tongue along it, scooping up the salty sweat.

And he's so big that it has you in a chokehold. You really can't resist letting your eyes drift down. His cock is so hard that it looks painful, with a plump head dripping with pre-cum, twitching for you.

He kicks his clothes aside without a glance and moves back over you, the mattress dipping under his weight as he settles in between your spread thighs.

He doesn't just dive in. Instead, he takes a second to look at you—really look at you—lying there, flushed and open, so ready and eager for him, your hair forming a wild halo against his pillows.

He knows he can cum right there just by seeing you like that.

Steve reaches blindly toward the nightstand, his fingers fumbling with the drawer until he pulls out a small, square foil packet.

His breathing is ragged, his eyes never leaving yours even as he starts to tear the edge with his teeth. He looks so fucking hot.

As he starts to pull the condom out, you reach up towards him, your palm flat against his heaving chest, feeling the frantic gallop of his heart.

“Steve,” you whisper, your voice thick with demanding.

“I know, baby, I know, just—one second,” he mumbles absentmindedly, his fingers shaking slightly as he tries to roll it on.

“No,” you tell him, firmer this time. You hook your fingers into his, pulling the half-open condom away. “Don't. I want to feel you. All of you. Please”

Steve freezes. He looks down at you, his pupils so blown they've nearly swallowed the chocolate-brown of his irises. “Honey... I don't— are you sure? I don't want to—”

“I'm sure,” you interrupt, your legs winding around his waist, pulling his hips flush against yours. You can feel exactly how much he wants this, how hard his cock is, rubbing against your inner thigh. “Go raw, Stevie. Please, baby.”

The condom is abandoned, fluttering to the carpeted floor, forgotten.

“Holy shit, you're going to be the death of me,” Steve breathes out tremulously, his voice dropping into a register so low it sends a fresh wave of heat through you.

He lets out a low, guttural sound—half-sob, half-growl—and finally guide himself to your entrance. He pushes his bulbous head in between your wet folds very slowly, a steady, relentless inching that makes your eyes roll back. 

Steve is so big and hot, filling every empty space you don't even know you have, even when his cock is just halfway inside your pussy. You felt your breath hitch as your body stretching to your fucking limit to accommodate around his size, the sensation so intense it was almost overwhelming.

“Oh, baby, there you go. You're doing so good, mhm. Breath for me, sugar, yeah?”

One inch, a trembling hot praise whispered against your ear, another inch, another soft praise...

And he goes like that until he is buried all the way to the hilt inside your fluttering pussy, his forehead resting against yours, both of you frozen in that perfect, overwhelming moment of connection. You are breathing the same air, your nails clawing up his back, his are gripping the bedsheets on either side of your shoulders.

Steve groans, burying his face in the crook of your neck, his body shuddering at the sheer sensation of finally being home.

“Jesus Christ, you're so tight,” he whimpers, beginning to move. “You feel perfect, you're perfect”

Each thrust is slow, deliberate, and deep—a physical manifestation of every word he'd been too scared to say. 

You lock your legs around his slim waist, pulling him even deeper, meeting every one of his thrusts with a desperate hunger of your own. The rhythmic "slap, slap, slap!" of skin against skin and the sound of your shared, ragged breathing fill the room, drowning out the distant music still sounding from the pool little party.

“Steve... please,” you whimper his name again and again, the knot growing tighter in the lower part of your belly, more intense than before.

“I got you, baby. I'm right here, hm?” he responds to your cries, leaning down to kiss each of your flushed cheeks, gently licking away a couple of stray tears that keep slipping from your pretty eyes. “I'm right here...”

He shows you. One of his hands lands on your lower belly, where the outline of his cock is clearly visible every time he fucks in and out of your messy pussy and then, Steve presses down just a little to get both of you to sigh, both feeling the pressure of his hand's weight.

And when Steve pulls out of you, he doesn't just shove back in again; he is agonizingly slow now, savoring the way your body stretched out and yielded to him, inch by excruciating inch.

Steve quickens the pace, his jaw tight, sweat dripping from his forehead onto your chest. He is relentless, pushing you higher and higher until you find that sensation of that familiar coil tightening in your gut once more. 

He leans down, capturing your mouth in a searing kiss just as you break, your body pulsing around him. He could feel you were close, he could feel it every time he slid back inside you, bullying your cervix like he’s determined to mold your pussy to the shape of his cock. Your warm, plush walls contracting all around him, taking in his entire length right down to his base.

He's buried balls deep now, his hips slamming against yours with a raw, primal rhythm. And then, Steve suddenly slow down just a fraction, his muscles trembling with a fucking Herculean effort of holding back and not bust a nut right there.

“Steve, I'm—”

He pulls back a few inches, his face flushed a deep, beautiful red, sweat dripping from his chin onto your chest as he rests weakly on your tits.

“I know, I know,” he knows, his lips grazing one of your nipples as he speaks, drooling all over your skin. “Right there with you, baby. I'm—I'm so close. I can't... I can't hold it much longer. Where do you want it?”

“Inside,” you manage to choke out, your fingers digging into his hips to pull him back down and back inside you. “Fill me up, Steve. Don't you dare pull out.”

A low, feral growl rips from his throat at your words, a sound you had never heard come from him.

Steve is a good boy and he obeys you, as always, so, he surges forward, burying himself to the absolute hilt, and gives three more devastatingly deep, fast thrusts that have you seeing stars on the ceiling of his room.

“I love you,” he cries into your neck, his voice muffled by your skin as he finally lets go, pumping hot spurts of his cum right into your welcoming womb. 

Soon, you have him reduced to nothing more than a wobbly, crying mess all over you, laying there on your chest all worn out.

You too are a fucking mess, cumming, earth-shatteringly, for the second time under the weight of his body, the suffocating sensation of his love and worship lavishing all over you and in you. 

You can swear you see the entire universe flashing right over the expanse of his shoulders, and you can feel the heat radiating from its flames burning through your fingertips. Stars twinkling on his skin, lighting up each of his freckles and moles spread across his body like a constellation.

For a long moment, neither of you move.

The world slowly crawls back around you—the distant music downstairs, the hum of the house settling, the soft night light slipping in through the window.

Steve is still inside you, breathing hard, his forehead pressing against your shoulder like he needs the contact to stay grounded. 

He presses a gentle kiss on your shoulder before leaning back just enough to look at you.

“I'm— I'm sorry,” he murmurs suddenly, panic threading his voice as he pulls back a little more. “Not sorry like I regret it, just— are you okay?”

“I'm fine,” you reply, flashing a sheepish, lazy smile.

After double-checking that you are indeed okay, with his teeth nibbling on his lower lip, he pulls out of you, carefully, delicately.

He then spends a good ten minutes cleaning you up, running a clean cloth between your legs, thighs, belly, with such care that it sometimes tickles you due to the overstimulation.

And after that, Steve collapses beside you on the bed, careful to tug a blanket over both of you, pulling you against his side. His arm wraps around you instinctively, protective, familiar—like he'd been doing this with you in another life.

You rest your head on his chest, listening to his heart slowly calm down beneath your ear.

“I meant it. What I said earlier,” he says after a little while, voice quiet now, stripped bare, gruff from all the moans and whimpers you got out of him. “I love you.”

You don't answer right away.

Not because you don't feel it—but because saying it out loud suddenly feels huge.

Steve's fingers still for half a second on your waist.

“You don't have to say it back,” he adds quickly. “I just needed you to know.”

You tilt your head up, meeting his eyes in the dim light and you lean in and kiss him—slow this time, soft, nothing desperate about it.

Steve's lips are warm, familiar already, like something you don't realize you'd been missing until it is finally there, all for you. When you pull back, his forehead rests against yours, noses brushing, both of you breathing each other in. 

“I love you too”

You carefully lie down on top of him now, on your stomach, pressing against his chest. One of his hands lingers on your lower back, affectionately caressing the curve of your ass, and the other is gently stroking strands of your hair behind your ear.

He exhales shakily, a sound that's half a laugh, half disbelief. “Okay,” he gasps. “Okay. Wow.”

You huff out a soft laugh against his chest. “Is that all you've got, Harrington?”

“Hey,” he protests weakly, palming your ass now, more playfully. “I just confessed my undying love and then had my entire soul rearranged. I need a minute.”

You sigh and nestle closer to him, your legs tangling with his under the blanket. “You're gonna be so annoying about this.”

“Oh, unbearably so,” he chirps. “I'm thinking lots of 'remember when you hated me' jokes.”

“You know,” you say casually, like you're commenting on the weather, your fingers toy lightly with the hairs on his chest, “it's actually really pathetic.”

Steve squints at you, but he is so happy he could fly. “Why do I feel like I'm about to be bullied?”

“You listened to all my favorite records,” you explain, pressing into his skin every time you name something else. “The sad ones. The pretentious ones. You watched my movies. You read my books.”

He opens his mouth. Closes it. “...okay?”

You tilt your head, holding back a teasing smile. “Like, that's loser behavior.”

Steve shrugs, completely unbothered. “I listened to your records. I read your books. I watched your sad little movies.” He pauses, then tilts his head, grin widening. He is triumphant. “But you still fucked me. So, technically? I won.”

You groan. “I take it back. I don't love you.”

he has a list of things be may or may not believe to be true based on the handful of times he’s stopped to watch you do your thing. what songs you like, how you like your drinks mixed, even how likely you are to leave based on the vibe. you always come alone, that he knows for certain, but what he can’t figure out is why. 

the first time he sees you is the friday after halloween. 

he’s about three shots deep, sweatshirt rucked up over his shoulders with a headache that could kill an elephant. the music feels way too loud to bear and whatever sukuna poured in his cup earlier makes his nose burn every time he takes a sip, but satoru endures it, because he thinks you threw him off his axis the moment you walked into the house. 

you’re gorgeous, sitting pretty on the couch like something from one of his fantasies. cup held loosely in your hand with your ankles crossed over each other. you don’t speak, don’t dance. you just sit and watch the room bubble, shoulders relaxed in that sweet little outfit that he’d give up anything to see on the floor of his bedroom.

he’s never seen you on campus. granted, he’s not usually the observant type, but for you? you have his undivided attention whether he likes it or not. he can’t help but watch you just sit. eyes wandering around the room like you’re not quite sure when or why you got here. 

you keep him on his toes for the better part of a month. showing up to his parties, sticking to the wall all night like you’re not quite sure what to do with yourself, turning his world upside down, and leaving right before he gets to say he’s had his fill of you for the night. 

he waits for the other shoe to drop. for your friends to drop by at the end of each night and whisk you out the door. maybe for your boyfriend to waltz out of the shadows and take you home if he’s really unlucky. but no one ever comes. week after week you sit there alone, and he watches you like he’s getting paid to do it. 

satoru wouldn’t say he starts toying with you after that. call it controlled research. an experiment conducted to try and get to know the inner workings of your little brain. he notices which songs you bop your head to, which ones get you to tap your foot on the carpet and mouth along to the lyrics. those get uploaded to a special playlist, queued and ready for when you walk through the door. he starts buying the mixers he knows you like, bubbly sodas and little bottles of fruit juice he stores in the mini fridge in his room, just in case the bottles downstairs run out. 

he gets reckless after the second week. starts showing off in the ways he knows best. push up contests with choso, doing chin ups in the doorway, conveniently forgetting to don a shirt after spilling beer down his neck, the whole nine yards. anything to get you to look.

and the worst part is? you do look. you lock eyes with him so frequently that he starts pregaming in his room before every party just to shake his nerves. fleeting, quick glances in his direction that make him feel hot all over and make him want to melt into the shaggy carpet in between shots. fast enough to look like an accident, but mysterious enough to make him question whether or not you’re doing it on purpose.

you’re an enigma. a paradox he can’t quite shake, and that’s exactly what he likes about you. why come to a frat party just to be a wallflower? why sit on the couch and watch the wax and wane of the crowd instead of joining the fun? the answer is something he hasn’t been able to figure out. but maybe, just maybe, you’d finally come out of your shell if he started a conversation with you.

satoru decides tonight is the night he’ll test that theory.

you’re in your usual spot tonight. smushed halfway between the arm of the dingy couch and a couple who looks like they’re trying to fuck through their clothes. you tap your fingers against the side of your cup to the beat of the speakers, not quite enjoying yourself but not hating the party enough to go home just yet.

someone comes up behind him then, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. 

“cute, right?” suguru asks, arms crossed over his chest. his best friend settles in next to him with a sleazy grin, gaze focussed suspiciously close to the couch.

satoru’s smile wavers a little as he re-registers what he just heard.

“which one?” he asks casually, scanning the room like he wasn’t just eye fucking you for the better part of half an hour. something heavy hangs in the air.

sugaru smiles wider, eyes narrowing in your direction. satoru frowns. 

“the one on the couch. left hand side.” he clarifies. something in satoru’s stomach sours, and it isn’t just the liquor he’s been nursing all night. 

“i don’t know, she looks kinda quiet.” he reasons, hoping that’ll somehow deter the other man from encroaching on his plans to woo you. suguru runs his tongue over his top lip in thought, giving you an up and down with a look that can only be described as hungry. 

“yeah, but you know what they say about the quiet ones.” his best friend laughs. suguru’s implication isn’t lost on him at all, in fact, it only makes him madder. you on the other hand look none the wiser, swirling whatever’s in the bottom of your cup with a thoughtful demeanor. god, what he wouldn’t do to whisk you off that couch and get you out of here. 

satoru doesn’t speak for a moment, trying to gather his scattered thoughts. between the way you look right now, and whatever suguru’s deal is, he’s not even sure he can form a coherent sentence right now. 

suguru must notice the look on his face, because he softens.

“oh shit, i didn’t…” he trails off, looking a little guilty now that satoru’s feelings are understood. he smiles, almost like he’s trying to hold in a laugh, and bumps satoru’s shoulder with his own.

“you’re on that?” the interest in suguru’s voice isn’t directed at you now. it’s playful, almost innocent in nature, like the two of them are back in middle school, sitting cross legged while they talk about which girls from class they’ve held hands with.

“not yet.” he huffs. some of the tightness in his chest has started to dissipate. he looks over at you longingly, stance wide. what would it take to make you smile? to see those pretty eyes light up just for him?

suguru bumps his shoulder again, harder this time. the look in his eyes tells satoru that what he’s about to suggest could either make or break the entire night.

“need a wingman? i could help you out.” he offers, inky black hair tipping into his eyes as he turns his gaze toward you again. 

satoru almost feels tempted to accept, but shakes his head, pressing the heels of his palms into  his eyes to try and soothe the pounding in his temples.

“i’m good.” he laughs softly. “i’ll talk to her later.”

suguru laughs, clapping the other man on the back with a smug smile before nodding in the direction of the couch. “c’mon, either talk to her or don’t.”

satoru’s feet haul him forward begrudgingly, dragging with every step. he suddenly feels a lot more aware of his hear in his chest, the way it vibrates against each of his ribs. 

you don’t notice him at first, too absorbed in the sea of bodies across the room for you to spot the two six-foot-something men standing in front of you. when you finally look up, it’s directly at him. something sweet in satoru's chest pangs.

“hi.” you mumble sweetly, giving them both a polite smile. there’s a familiarity in the way you say it, almost like the way you’d speak to an old friend.

cute.

you introduce yourself with an outstretched hand, looking up at him through your lashes, and it’s like the headache satoru’s been nursing all night just disappears. your hands are soft, fingers wrapped sweetly around his like you know what you want. suguru introduces himself with a curt wave, and the pleasantries drone on for another few minutes. 

“y’know, it’s cozier up on the deck if you’re interested.” suguru finally offers, nodding toward a stairwell nestled at the back of the house. you purse your lips in thought, taking a quick sip of your drink before nodding. you stand and turn to satoru, addressing him directly this time with a playful tilt in your voice.

“alright, lead the way.”

the rooftop ends up being a lot quieter than downstairs. satoru leads the three of you up the stairwell, past the second floor and through a door that looks like its seen better days. 

a couple partygoers sit in small groups, flanked by the smell of booze and weed. satoru finds the three of you a pile of blankets to sit on, cursing internally when you choose to sit a little closer to suguru. 

you look gorgeous like this, features illuminated by the street lights below and the glow of the string lights they’d tacked up here last spring. a couple of people he recognizes sit perched behind you around a table, shouting obscenities over a game of beer pong. some more sit idle in a circle of old lawn chairs, passing a bottle around with a flurry of laughter.

the three of you talk, and satoru thinks your voice might be his new favorite sound. you tell him about your major, your hometown, how much you like the music he plays. he tells you everything you want to know in return, blood pressure rising every time he thinks you might have scooted an inch closer to him when he wasn’t looking.

suguru talks to you too, albeit with lazy eyes and a smile that reads trouble. satoru tries not to read too much into it. tells himself that that’s just how his friend is, and that it doesn’t matter in the grand scheme of things as long as he’s sitting this close to you. you woo them both with your antics, cracking jokes that have their ribs splitting at the seams and their chests heaving for breath.

you’re a lot different than satoru thought you’d be. pretty, obviously, and outgoing when you want to be. suguru drifts off for a moment to grab the three of you a round of shots, and before long, you’re sitting with your head on satoru’s shoulders as the alcohol settles in, raving on and on about a class he’d recently found out the two of you had shared a few semesters ago. 

“is that not insane?” you giggle, waving your hands theatrically as you continue your ministrations. “if you’re going to track attendance at least have the balls to do it yourself. like why send the TA to do it for you?” 

satoru laughs, deep and airy in his chest as his head floats above the three of you. you’re so warm, bleeding heat into the side of his body like a little furnace, and if he’s being honest, the smell of your shampoo is all he can focus on right now. you’re just as captivating as he thought you’d be. quiet, but with a quick mouth and the stamina to keep up with him and his best friend’s jests like no other. 

the night drags on, and so does the party below.  eventually, suguru turns to address you, head cocked to the side with his eyes narrowed playfully. 

“so why show up to our parties alone every week? you bad at making friends?”

satoru feels your spine straighten against him, almost like you weren’t expecting a question of that caliber. you smile into his shoulder, caught red handed.

“i don’t know.” you answer softly. that shy side of you looks like its coming out again, like a turtle wanting to curl back into its shell. satoru waits for you to continue nosing at the crown of your head.

“i think maybe i was just waiting for the right people to come up to me?” you answer truthfully. suguru shoots him a look that screams “i told you so”, and all satoru can do is laugh, feeling grateful that his friend did right by him tonight. he brings his hand up to squeeze your waist and you nuzzle further into his side, stretching your legs out in front of you with a happy sigh.

except, suguru reaches forward then, guiding your legs into his own lap like it’s the most normal thing in the world, and satoru pauses, because what flares in his chest isn’t anger like he expected. it’s something sweet. 

he should be upset, right? ticked off like he was a couple hours ago when his self proclaimed “wingman” waltzed right up to you like it was nothing, all low eyes and sweet promises. his friend is still giving you that hungry look, brazenly rubbing the pad of his thumb over your bare ankle while your upper half melts into satoru’s side. he knows he should find it in himself to be jealous right now, but he just can’t because in all honesty… satoru finds this kind of hot. more than he ever thought possible.

you look irresistible like this, melting at the attention both of them are giving you. there’s not an ounce of apology in the way lets his fingers trail up your leg to massage the softness of your calf, and for a very brief moment, satoru pictures the three of you doing this more. lounging up on the roof with the cool autumn air blanketing you. you looking up at them both with those sweet eyes. holding your hips still while suguru slides in from—

“i think she likes that, gojo.” suguru purrs, testing the waters with a raised brow.  satoru snaps out of his trance immediately, flinching as the the dirty thought he’d been toying with slips free of his mind. he glances down briefly and realizes that the hand that’d been rubbing your side sits  a lot higher now, kneading the skin right under the swell of your breast.

you turn to him with your tongue pressed up against the inside of your cheek, silently begging him for more. suguru looks on with a look that screams “go on.”

fuck it, he’ll bite.

“yeah? you like that princess?” satoru asks quietly, feeling high on a mix of endorphins and pure need. suguru seems fired up to, judging by his groan of approval.

“maybe i do..” you admit softly, wrapping your fingers around satoru’s bicep. you turn your gaze back to suguru and relish in the sultry look he gives you. 

this. whatever this was could kill satoru. he’s never been this turned on in his life, feeding off of the attention you spread equally between the two of them. he didn’t even think this was an option before tonight, but judging by the look you and suguru give him, anything feels possible.

a swell of commotion suddenly rings out from the group behind you, breaking the seal spell around the three of you like a record scratch. he can’t quite see what’s going on, but judging by the clatter of glass against the ground and the chorus of “ooohs” and jeers that follow suit, he’s pretty sure he’s witnessing a good ol’ game of spin the bottle. his hand doesn’t leave your side, rubbing slow circles as the fire in his chest burns bright.

suguru must come to a similar conclusion and decide he’s all in, because he’s waggling his eyebrows at the both of you before standing to his full height, walking toward the circle with zero hesitation. 

“is he serious?” you turn to look up at satoru, eyes glossed over in mischief. 

“oh, he loves this stuff.” satoru chuckles, nosing at the side of your neck softly. you ponder his worder for a moment before turning back to him playfully.

“i’ll join if you join.” you nod toward suguru as if to ask satoru for permission, and something inside him flares at the idea. who is he to say no to you?

he takes you by the hand, helping you up and off the pile of blankets before joining the circle. suguru pats the ground next to him as soon as you come into view, scooting over to let the both of you settle down with satoru in the middle.. 

you look… nervous? excited? he’s not really sure. the three of you sit idle as a girl gears up for a turn. the bottle completes a few shaky turns before it stops, landing on another girl to the left. 

satoru’s own mixed feelings about the game start to surface once his rose tinted glasses fade and he realize there’s a very large chance you could end up kissing someone that’s not him or suguru. not that he’d be into seeing you kiss suguru. actually, no. the thought of watching you kiss suguru doesn’t actually sound that terrible. this whole night will probably end up being a lot to unpack.

more people spin, and more kisses ensue. another pair of girls share a short peck followed by laughter, some guy spins and ends up kissing a girl that is clearly not his girlfriend, judging from her shrill protests, and few more people pass. eventually, the bottle makes it’s way to suguru, and he laughs, deep in his chest the way he does when he’s about to get into trouble.

satoru watches as his best friend holds the bottle out toward you, its foggy neck dangling right at you like an invitation. you accept it, setting every nerve in his body on fire in the process, and place it down on the ground in front of you. 

he watches the glass vessel spin, tracing an arc around itself as gravity takes over, pulling it to an eventual halt. and in the spirit of weird luck, it finally stops. right in between him and suguru.

the crowd erupts instantly. 

“spin again!”

“that one doesn’t count!”

“i think it’s closer to the white haired one?” hearing that makes satoru’s mouth water.

he looks to you to try and get a gauge on what your thinking, feeling pleasantly surprised to see the equally conflicted look on your face. he turns to suguru then with a laugh, eyebrows raised as if to ask “what now?”

suguru snickers, shrugging his shoulders. the three of you marinate in the sheer hilarity of the situation before a voice across the circle cuts through the chatter.

“kiss them both!”

a few people nod in agreeance, mumbling amongst themselves like a choir of judges. satoru can’t help but heat up at the thought.

“sure, yeah, why not?” he offers, looking to you for your input. you lay your cheek on his shoulder and smile, beckoning a very enthusiastic suguru closer with two fingers.

you adjust back onto your haunches, looking a little smaller with both men now flanking you. you lean toward satoru first, much to his approval, sealing your lips over his in a fiery act of passion that makes his blood run hot.

you taste delicious. like grenadine and something carbonated. the smell of your shampoo overwhelms every one of his senses, and before long, he’s got two hands on your waist, squeezing the softness there like it’s the last time he’ll ever touch you. 

you whine into the kiss, and that for sure got him hard judging by the throb in between his legs. satoru parts his lips just enough to flit his tongue over your bottom lip, tasting the sweet skin there before the two of you finally part.

the circle erupts with cheers, praises and dirty jokes bouncing around the roof like a pinball machine. between the tent threatening to pitch in his jeans, and the mess of white hair sticking to his forehead, satoru feels like he’s going to explode. you don’t look any better, face flushed with a mix of need and embarrassment, and your bottom lip pinched between your teeth. you give him smile and a small peck on the cheek before turning to suguru, nodding when he asks for permission to kiss you.

suguru’s kiss is a lot different. it’s pure lust, marked by a mess of tongue and two hands dangerously close to your ass. you arch as soon as he makes contact, and satoru groans under his breath because it just about feels like the hottest thing he’s ever seen. you part a lot faster than you did with him, shoving suguru with a grumble about “too much tongue” and the crowd seems to love it, cheering the both of them on just as they did you and satoru.

“now kiss em’ at the same time!” a girl yells, eliciting a laugh from the rest of the circle. satoru reclines with a huff, glancing over to try and get a read on you. you and suguru however, are sharing that look again, and the implications make his brain short circuit.

you take both of their arms, pulling them a little closer to you, and the commotion that elicits from the rest of the rooftop is loud enough to make suguru flinch. satoru’s brain immediately jump to some of the filthiest thoughts he’s had all night, hand enclosing around your waist to steady himself. 

suguru follows suit with a hand on your hip glancing over at satoru with a filthy look in his eye. 

“you ever do something like this?” he teases.

“fuck no.” satoru laughs. he groans when he feels your fingers thread into his hair, bringing the other up to do the same to his friend.

“first time for everything.” you reason, pulling the both of them closer until your lips meet theirs clumsily.

satoru shouldn’t take this seriously, should maybe pull away and not give into the ache at the apex of his jeans, but why would he when this is arguably the hottest thing that’s ever happened to him? he smiles against your mouth, feeling suguru’s lips seal right next to his. you part your mouth just the slightest bit to let your tongue flit out, and that must drive suguru crazy because the noise he makes is absolutely filthy.

it’s so good. everything feels so fucking good right now, and satoru doesn’t even care if there’s people watching. suguru places a warm hand on his shoulder to stabilize the both of them and soon enough, the noise on the roof has gotten so loud that his ears ring. your mouths move in synchrony in a messy, brazen show of affection. satoru is enjoying it so much that after a moment or two, he doesn’t know who’s mouth is who’s  or whose tongue is flitting against his bottom lip. all he knows is that he’s rock hard in his jeans, and this very well may be the best night of his life.

you’re the first to part from the kiss, much to his and suguru’s dismay. the air encompassing the three of you feels like it’s boiling. you’re a flushing mess, suguru’s pupils are blown so wide you can barely see the sclera, and satoru feels ten times more tipsy than he was before this whole game started.

he’s the first to break the silence between the three of you, ignoring the jests and pleads for more from the small crowd around the three of you. 

“we should head downstairs.” you and suguru nod in curt synchrony, and the three of you stand to leave, snickering at the wave of disappointment that seems to set off. suguru waves a grand goodbye to the people of the rooftop before slinking down the stairwell after you and satoru.

“holy shit, what just happened?” he whispers, eyebrows raised so high they’re practically touching his hairline. satoru only grins, wiping a hand over his face like he can’t believe half of what’s gone down tonight. the pair bump fists before catching up with you.

the air is cooler down here despite the increase in noise. you lead the both of them down a few steps before pausing in front of the step-off to the second floor, a knowing smile gracing your face. 

“are these the bedrooms?” you ask softly. there’s that shy side of you again. 

“mmhm, this is all of em.” satoru grins, coming up behind you to slink an arm around your waist. suguru trail a bit to the side, hands clasped behind his back as he watches on.

“where’s yours?” you ask, swinging your arms back and forth like you didn’t just ask to take this whole ordeal to the bedroom. 

“what do you say? you wanna show her?” his best friend asks, something filthy lacing all four of those words. what suguru’s implying isn’t lost on the three of you in the slightest. 

“last door on the right. wanna see, princess?” satoru asks, looking down at you with a sly grin. you nod at the suggestion, giving them both a look so needy that both men groan under their breath. 

you’re the first of the trio to move, slinking in through a door with careful grace. the two men follow suit, and soon enough, suguru has you crowded against the door while he mouths at your neck. 

you’re insatiable, squeezing your thighs together under the dim light while his best friend paws at your hips. the two of you move together in a way that makes satoru’s head spin, sending what little blood remains in his brain straight between his legs.

“c’mere.” you mumble, reaching a hand out to him. you manage to get a grip on his shirt, pulling him in until he’s close enough to slot your mouth together. suguru groans in approval, stepping away to strip his upper half down.

you go so well with the both of them it hurts. pulling both men deeper and deeper into the warm waters of your body with your little siren call. satoru swears he can smell suguru’s cologne sticking to your clothes and the thought alone makes the white haired man want to never let go of you.

it’s the fact that you want both of him, he realizes. that you trust both men enough to let them touch and tease you like this. the fact that you’re willing to give them equal cuts of your attention without compromise, letting the three of you steep in your shared pleasure.

you wrap your arms around satoru’s neck, letting him carry you to the mattress. the white haired man drops you against the sheets with careful precision, slotting his body between your open legs to grind your clothed centers together.

“fuck, that’s hot.” suguru sighs, letting his shirt hit the floor. he takes a moment to just watch the two of you. how satoru rolls his hips down against yours, how our fingers entangle themselves in his snowy locks, pulling tight every time his hard cock ruts against your clit.

“oh god.” he grits, lacking the brain capacity to do anything but feel good in the moment. this was really happening. this. a full blow threesome. right in his room while the droves of partygoers downstairs are none the wiser. satoru’s never done something like this before, and despite his best friend’s confident demeanor, he’s willing to bet suguru hasn’t either, but that doesn’t stop him for a second.

you break away from the kiss only for a moment and guide both men’s hands to the hem of your shirt, letting them pull it up and off of your body together. slowly, inch by inch of skin is revealed like they’re unwrapping gift.

“you ever fuck two best friends, baby?” suguru whispers, palming at the curve of your breast through your bra. you shake your head no with a laugh, sighing as he reaches behind to unclip the garment and ease it off of you.

“well, like you said, first time for everything.” satoru jokes, and the laugh that elicits from you is music to his ears. the darker haired of the two men chuckles at the little quip too.

suguru leans down for a brief moment to take the bud of your nipple between his lips, sucking softly. the stimulation draws the sweetest noise out of you, spurring the two men on. satoru moves the both of you further to the side, and soon enough, there’s just enough room on the mattress to house the three of you comfortably.

“get her bottoms off.” suguru mumbles, trailing his tongue over each of your breasts. you arch into the man’s touch, letting your fingers brush away some of the hair that’s fallen in front of his eyes. 

satoru slinks down the length of the mattress to undress you, running the pad of his thumb against your clit through your drenched panties.

“who’s this for? hm?” he questions playfully. 

“you.” there’s not an ounce of hesitance in your tone when you say it, and satoru would be lying if he said that didn’t make him ten times harder.

“aww, just him?” suguru asks, licking a soft stripe over your nipple.

“both–ah–both of you.” you whimper, shying away once satoru pushes your panties to the side and finally runs his bare finger through your soaked folds. 

he whistles, low and drawn out. 

“fuck, come feel this.” he grits out, bringing his soaked digits up as a testament to how wet you are. suguru parts from your breasts slowly, and surprises the both of you when he dips his head down, sucking satoru’s fingers clean of your slick.

“knew she’d taste sweet.” he breaths. satoru brings his fingers to try for himself almost intrinsically, tasting what’s left of you with a groan. 

if your eyes weren’t blown wide before, they definitely are now. something about the sight of them together must turn you on the same way seeing you with either of them turns the other on. 

suguru makes a beeline for the space between your legs and gets straight to work, licking a fat stripe up the length of your pussy without hesitation. the stimulation send jitters through your core right up to your chest, drawing a water groan from your lips. 

satoru’s a goner as soon as he hears you, diving forward to claim your lips for his own. everything’s too much and not enough at the same time. your touch, your taste, the way you moan while suguru settles between your legs to let his tongue go to work. he could die happy like this, tangled in the sheets with the hottest, funniest girl he’s ever met and his best friend while the party rages on below the three of you. you snake your hand down to undo the button of his jeans, rucking the zipper down impatiently until you’re able to palm him through the thin fabric of his briefs. 

“fuck, that’s good.” he praises. the relief your hand gives him is nearly instantaneous. satoru can’t rid himself of his bottom layers fast enough, kicking the fabric off and onto the floor. 

you gasp when his cock slaps against his stomach, taken aback by the sheer size of him. satoru’s eyes hold your own as you look up at him cautiously, breathing heavy through your nose at the thought of taking him.

“you can take it, angel.” he reassures. he brings his thumb up to stroke the apple of your cheek gently. you take to his reassurance beautifully and nod, nuzzling into his hand with a dreamy hum.

he feeds you his cock once he’s able to discern a good angle for it, hand braced against the wall while you swallow his length down. 

it’s messy at first. you’re a little uncoordinated on account of the size of satoru’s cock, and the unrelenting feeling of suguru’s tongue on your clit. satoru does his best to let you adjust to the pace, reeling his hips back softly before pushing his dick back into the warm cavern of your mouth.

he doesn’t have half a mind to feel embarrassed right now, and suguru must be riding that same wavelength because he’s fully honed in on making you feel good with his mouth, slipping two digits into your wet core while his lips close around your little bud. 

the three of you continue like that for a bit, the sounds of your shared pleasure punctuating the silence. satoru loses himself in the push and pull of your tongue. you slink off of him with a pop to flatten the muscle against the underside of him and lick up to his tip, and that sends him a little too close to the edge for comfort. he reels his hips back a little and fastens his hand around the base of himself, not wanting to finish just yet.

“shit, you’re too good at that.” he breaths, chest heaving with exertion. suguru chuckles under his breath at you both before speaking up.

“come here, help me out.” he commands, snaking his hands under the back of each of your knees to push your legs closer to your chest.

satoru circles the mattress to join his friend at the foot of the bed, seemingly confused. he gets a better picture of what suguru means when the dark haired man scoots over, letting one of your legs drop against the sheets.

“whatd’ya say. you wanna make her feel good?” he purrs, scooting to the side to give satoru a better view at the way his tongue laves over your clit.

satoru would love nothing more. 

the space between your legs is a sopping wet disaster, messy with your slick and suguru’s spit. the wet spot underneath you ass is too big to not have soaked into the mattress by now, nevermind the sheets. your clit is so swollen that satoru’s dick jumps in his hand at the sight of it. all perked up and shiny, peeking out of its hood after being played with for so long. 

“fuck it, yeah. let’s do it.” satoru laughs, holding his hand out low for his friend to slap it triumphantly in a boyish show of solidarity.

you scoff at their antics, hiding behind the crook of your arm. both men waste no time bringing their lips to your center.

satoru claims your clit first, kissing softly over the tiny nub just to hear you whimper. his best friend licks his fingers clean before bringing them back down to your hole, pressing up against that initial barrier of resistance before the two of them are rewarded with a soft squelch as the digits enter you.

the two men work in perfect tandem, toying with the most sensitive parts of your body like it’s practically second nature. in away, satoru supposes it very well could become second nature if you’d let them. if you’d only say “fuck it” and let yourself be their altar. 

you arch up off of the mattress as they continue, mumbling obscenities under your breath as your orgasm reels closer and closer. eventually, suguru fastens his hand to the back of satoru’s head and guides the both of them up toward your clit, tongues laving up against your special spot like there’s not tomorrow.

the move in unison, practically making out on top of your pussy while you moan and beg like your life depends on it. you end up peeking at the two of them for a brief moment, and that proves to be detrimental, because the sight before you sends you right over the edge into a ground shattering orgasm.

the two men coax you down from the clouds with tentative kisses pressed anywhere they can reach. the inside of your thighs, your ankle, the softness of your lower tummy. you’re able to sit up after the last of your high has melted, and satoru thinks the look on your face is to die for. 

“yeah? feeling good?” he asks, nipping at the inside of your thigh for good measure. you squeal at the contact, getting a laugh out of the both of them. 

“can you…” you start, voice trailing off as a flash trails over your chest and cheeks.

“what, baby?” suguru urges, interlocking his fingers with your own. he rises to kiss a path from your thighs to your neck, nosing at the sensitive skin there. 

“can we keep going?” you mumble, clearly a bit embarrassed. 

“already?” suguru hums. 

you nod, laying back against the sheets to part our legs for the both of them. satoru swears loud enough to startle you, already spitting in his hand to stroke himself from base to tip. 

“your move, gojo.” suguru commands, circling the mattress to snake his hands under your shoulders. satoru watches on as his best friend readjusts you, turning your body until your head hangs off the mattress and your lower half faces the wall. your hands come up around the backs of his thighs to brace yourself. 

his best friend wastes no time feeding you the head of his cock, watching it breach past the lining of your mouth until a smooth bulge appears in your throat. he looks down at you through hooded eyes, hair pooling at his shoulders as you sputter and gag around his hulking length.

“you gonna fuck her or what?” suguru asks, running his warm palm over your throat to soothe the stretch there. he doesn’t even look away when he says it, too enthralled with the way you hollow your cheeks around the girth of him.. 

satoru moves almost on instinct, clambering onto the bed to sort himself into the gap between your body and the wall. you moan softly and part your legs in invitation.

“holy shit.” he whispers, taking a moment to run his thumb through the mess leaking from your pussy. purple lovebites line the inside of your thighs like confetti, they must’ve gotten too carried away in the throes of eating you out. 

you whine then, something halfway between his name and the word “please.” satoru decides right then and there that he’ll give you anything you want as long as you keep making noises like that.

“what, this? you want this?” he asks, slapping the tip of himself against your sensitive clit. you jolt at the stimulation and do your best to nod, groaning as suguru thrusts in and out of your drooling mouth.

“cmon’ she’s dying for it.” the other man grits, burying himself to the hilt of your throat with a shaky moan. you whimper softly in agreeance. 

satoru wastes no time lining up with your sticky core, pushing past that ring of resistance and sliding home in one fell motion.

“big stretch, princess. hold on.” he grits, clawing at the last of his sanity as your cunt spasms around him beautifully. you whine around suguru’s length again, higher this time, chest heaving in and out from the feeling of being used at both ends. 

satoru waits for you to adjust, hunched over your sweaty form with a forearm on either side of you to support his shaky body. he knows your ready the moment you draw your hips up and down on his length, trying to chase the feeling of your orgasm. 

“patience.” suguru mumbles, patting your cheek sweetly. you moan in return, stilling your body the best you can. 

you’re so beautiful like this, and both men make sure you know it. you try your hardest to adjust to the stretch between your legs, doing your best to obey them both even though your limbs feel like jelly and you’re not sure which way is up or down. 

satoru finally thrusts into you, and the three of you moan in absolute, indescribable bliss. 

you’re unbelievably tight. so tight he thinks he might cum soon if he’s not careful. every thrust of his sends a chain reaction down the line and back, pressing up against that hard-to-find spot inside of you and pressing you further across the bed and onto suguru’s cock at the same time.

he’s so focused on fucking you that he doesn’t even notice the hand in front of his face until suguru snaps his fingers, holding out two digits for the other man to suck on. 

satoru knows exactly what to do, wetting his best friend’s fingers with his tongue while the two of you maintain a heated look. once suguru’s satisfied, he brings them down to your clit to rub tiny circles into the bud.

that drives you wild, sending you over the edge so fast that both of them choke. 

“holy shit.” suguru hisses, watching your cunt milks satoru for all he’s worth. all the white haired man can do is brace an arm on the wall behind him, head thrown back as he’s taken along through every wave and crest of your orgasm.

“oh my god–fuck!–oh god.” he groans. 

suguru is the next to hit the edge, spewing expletives before withdrawing from your throat with a wet pop. you try to catch your breath as he motions for satoru to flip you onto your stomach, whining as the other man pulls out of you briefly.

“hold her hair. fuck, there we go.” suguru groans in approval as satoru gathers your locks out of your face. he fists his cock with a noise so desperate it almost sounds like a sob. 

“open up–fuck–oh my god.” he moans. creamy white ropes of cum splash against your cheeks and lips, decorating your features like a painting. 

satoru can only watch in awe, cock dripping pre against your upper thigh where his still-hard dick rests. he has to physically stop himself from groaning when you lean in on all fours to clean suguru up, suckling at his swollen tip to swallow the last of his load down.

“good girl, holy shit.” suguru huffs, legs a little wobbly from the force of his orgasm. he takes your messy face in his hands then, spooning the rest of his cum into your mouth with careful precision. 

“gonna give her a load too, satoru?” he asks, eyes locked in on the way you suckle the pad of his cum-soaked thumb.

satoru releases a heavy breath with a nod,, still watching suguru clean you up.

your upper half settles down into the sheets almost on queue, painted face turning to

and all satoru can do is whimper because every single millisecond of tonight is going in his spank bank for the rest of conceivable time. 

you turn to him then, ass up and a sly little grin on your face.

“cmon.” you whine, wiggling your ass as if to punctuate your begging. “please?”

“fuck. inside?” satoru huffs, more surprised of your seemingly endless stamina than the request itself. he takes himself in his hand and lets the tip sink in between your folds. his eyes never leave yours, waiting for a sign of approval.

you nod with a moan, shifting your hips back to take the rest of his dick all the way. 

“holy shit.” suguru grumbles fondly, already half hard again just from watching the two of you.

if satoru wasn’t fucking you right before, he definitely is now, thrusting down against that spongey spot inside of you with a feral look in his eyes. his hands cling harder to the meat of your hip with every passing second. your turn your head back and look directly into his eyes, and the act is so intimate satoru feels his dick jump inside of you. 

you’re loud enough to rival the noise of the party downstairs, whining and writhing and sobbing as he takes you apart and puts you back together again all at the same time. your hand lies firmly between your legs, right above where your two centers meet to stroke the swell of your lcit. suguru watches on in awe, fucking his own fist with his teet digging into his bottom lip.

satoru’s orgasm hits him from every angle all at once. he stills first, feeling a wave of pleasure seize at every muscle in his body. then, all that pleasure comes to a rolling release right between your legs. 

he cums so long it feels like an eternity, emptying his balls into your soaking wet heat while his eyes struggle to stay open. you reach your own high almost directly after his, cumming on his dick for the second time that night with a scream of both their names into the sheets. 

it takes a while for the two of you to come back down to earth. you stay wrapped up in each other. satoru slumped over you, your laid under him with his dick still inside of you. suguru must’ve climbed onto the mattress a bit ago to play with your hair, mumbling praises to you softly while his you and his best friend recover.

“i can’t feel my hands.” satoru mumbles exhaustedly. that draws a laugh out of all three of you.

“yeah? that good?” suguru teases, still toying with you from his spot a little ways up the mattress. 

satoru finally musters up the strength to pull out of you after a few deep breaths, groaning at the wave of cum that seeps out of your pussy and onto the mattress.

suguru is the first to part from the trio with a kiss to your hairline. he dips into the bathroom before returning with a handful of bath towels, tossing them at the pair of you.

“you’re lucky i don’t fill that pretty mouth again.” he groans. “gotta bounce if i’m gonna make it to class tomorrow.” he tousles your hair one last time before beginning the search for his boxers amongst the pile of discarded clothes on the floor. 

“you okay? need water?” satoru asks, nodding when you decline his offer.

“stay a little longer, suguru.” you whisper, reaching a shaky hand out to try and grab at him playfully. satoru rubs circles into your back gently, reaching for one of the towels to start wiping off the parts of you that he can reach.

satoru hums in agreeance, still reeling from his orgasm. suguru sighs fondly, glancing back at the door before dropping his things on the floor again and climbing into bed behind you.

“can’t have just one, hm? always need the both of us.” he sighs. it’s a tight fit with the all of you pressed against each other like this. limbs against limbs, chests beating against chests. the air around you starts to heat with your combined body heat, lulling the three of you into a sex-drunk haze.

“what’s wrong with wanting both?” you giggle. and satoru laughs too, because it truly is that simple. 

“yeah, let her have both of us.” satoru mumbles into your neck. 

suguru hums thoughtfully, tracing circles into your naked thigh with his thumb. something sweet blankets the three of you then, like a promise looming in the horizon. would it really be that crazy to do this again? the three of you, working together with the shared goal of making each other feel good?

“fuck it, you’ll have us then.” he agrees, settling the arrangement in stone with careful finality. 

“same time next week then?” you joke, squealing as the both of them pepper you in kisses.

───────────────

You grew up in the nicest suburbs of Boston, got whatever it was you wanted, traveled on first-class flights before you were old enough to spell, had a father who treated you like gold in human form.

But, that last one? Yeah, that was the problem.

Being adored feels a lot like being controlled when you’re the only daughter of a man the entire country worships. Because in hindsight, you were. Not purposely, of course. You were daddy’s little princess from day one, which meant he needed to protect you at all costs.

From the moment you entered your elite preppy high school at age fourteen, that was when his watchful eye sharpened into one that never stopped watching. As a hall of fame athlete, a New England Patriots legend, he’s seen too much of this world to know that he needs to keep his precious girl safe from it all.

And when he retired? It got so much worse. He was always there. Which basically meant you couldn’t do anything without him knowing or without his permission.

Your best friend, Blair, who lived two houses down, lived the life you wished you could. Another rich, preppy privileged girl, yes, but one with parents who didn’t give a single fuck what she did. And she’s been partying since, well…forever.

She lost her virginity in the bathroom of a Red Sox game, threw a rager so big when her parents left for Saint Barts she got suspended for two weeks, snuck out of the house so often she practically wore a path through your backyard.

She begged you to join her. To come out and have fun, be a normal teenager, but you never could. Sometimes you wondered if your father even realized he’d built a cage around you—a gilded, loving, suffocating one. And you were tired of not being able to live life to the fullest.

Which is why when the time finally came to decide on college, you knew you had to choose the furthest plausible option. You also knew that wherever you went, would have to be with Blair.

So the two of you sat down and planned it. She listed all sorts of schools, Miami, Alabama, Ohio State, Wisconsin, all known for their party scene, but they weren’t far enough in your eyes.

Then, the idea hit you. California. All the way across the country, nice ass weather with no brutal winters, huge nightlife. It ticks every single box.

“How about USC?” You suggested.

Blair’s eyes widened like she’d won the lottery, “That’s it! That’s the fucking school. We’re applying—today.”

You indeed did apply that same day, keeping all of it, every whispered dream of palm trees and frat parties, a secret from your father. He didn’t need to find out that you were plotting your escape. Only if you got accepted, would you tell him.

After applying, came the long, excruciating wait. Every notification made your heart jump, every morning felt loaded with possibility and impending doom, but then on a random Tuesday afternoon after school, Blair got an email. You were sprawled across her bed when her phone dinged and when she checked it she froze, slowly looking at you, “No fucking way.”

Your heart stopped, “What?”

She glanced back at her screen as if it might disappear, “Bitch…I got in!”

You barely had time to process it before she launched herself at you, both of you collapsing onto the bed in a fit of hysterical laughter, “Check yours,” She demanded, already grabbing your laptop.

Your hands shook as you logged into the portal and when the screen flashed in red and gold, Congratulations! We are pleased to offer you admission to the University of Southern California…

Your vision blurred, you were going to finally leave Boston and remove the shackles. Blair grabbed your shoulder, “You’re free, babe.”

The word hit differently—free. But not yet, because you still had to tell him.

You waited until dinner, when the house was calm and your father set down his fork and asked warmly, “How was your day, princess?”

You pushed the printed copy of your acceptance letter across the table, watching as he unfolded it slowly. His sharp eyes scanned the words once, twice, then a third time, as if they might rearrange themselves into something less horrifying.

“…Southern California?” He said at last, voice tight, “That’s three thousand miles away.”

“I know.”

“And…you want to go there?”

“I do. Really bad.”

There was a heartbeat, a breath, a visible internal meltdown occurring within him, until he asked, “Is Blair going?”

“Yes. She got in too.”

He exhaled through his nose like that single fact alone saved his life, though it probably shouldn’t have. She’s the last person on Earth he should want going with you, but thankfully, he’s blissfully unaware of who she really is, “Well. I guess that’s different.”

Your mother kicked him under the table, “Just say you’re proud of her, honey.”

He looked at you again, long, conflicted, and terrified, yet still soft, “I am proud of you,” He murmured, “You know that. I just…you’re my little girl. And California is far.”

“I’ll be okay.”

He didn’t believe that, not at all, but he nodded anyway, “Then I guess…USC it is.”

Just like that, you were free. You could almost taste it. And now, months later, you’re here—Move-in day.

The California sun hits hotter and brighter, like even the light feels less restrained than anything you ever knew in Boston. Your father sits restlessly in the rented SUV that’s packed full with your belongings, your mother is in the passenger seat, Blair is following behind with her mom.

It should’ve been a sweet, sentimental moment. College send-offs usually are, but this one wasn’t. Because in order to get to your dorms, you had to pass Greek Row, and your father sees everything he fears most.

A group of shirtless guys on a lawn, covered in sweat playing die on an old, warped table. Two frat brothers throwing a football back and forth across the street like they own it, a cluster of girls in micro shorts walking toward one of the houses, someone’s shotgunning a beer while blasting John Summit so loud it shakes the sidewalk. Your father’s hands tighten on the steering wheel so hard the leather creaks.

“Oh,” Your mother murmurs gently, “Look at that…school spirit.”

He does not share the same sentiment. He stares, shell-shocked, shoulders squared like he’s preparing for war. One of the frat boys looks straight at the car, lifts his chin at you through the window, and smirks. Your dad nearly swerves into the closest telephone pole, “Oh hell no,” He curses under his breath, “Absolutely not. Over my dead body—”

“Dad,” You warn softly, cheeks burning.

He tears his eyes away from the horror, but keeps muttering, “This is a bad idea. This is a terrible idea. They let freshmen live near this? They let you live near this? Those boys are—They’re—”

“College students?” Your mom offers.

“Degenerates.”

You hide your smile behind your hand. Because the truth is, everything he saw that scared him? Is everything you wanted.

The noise, the craziness, the alcohol, the energy, the…boys. A world you were never allowed to touch is now directly outside your window.

Your father grips the wheel harder like he’s debating whether or not to spin the car around and drive your happy ass back to Boston himself, but he doesn’t. He continues onward; straight to the dorms, your new life, and the one thing he could never fully control—your freedom.

But freedom, apparently, also comes with an audience. The moment your father pulls into the freshmen unloading zone, heads turn. A few students stop mid-conversation, some whisper, some don’t even bother whispering. Phones lift in that sneaky, sideways way people use when they swear you won’t notice.

“Is that—?”

“That’s him, right? That’s him?”

“Dude, her dad is literally the goat.”

“Wait, does that mean she’s—?”

You feel the heat crawl up your neck, but your father doesn’t react. He’s practiced at this, years of fan interactions, interviews, cameras shoved in his face at even the most inconvenient moments. Nothing really shakes him—well, except the frat boys. Those do.

He steps out of the car and grabs your suitcase with one hand, posture straightening like he’s going on National TV. A couple of guys across the quad nudge each other when they recognize him, jaws dropping as if a God descended onto USC’s campus.

“Sir!” One of them calls out, already pulling out his phone, “Big fan! Like…huge fan!”

“Thank you,” Your father says with a polite nod, slipping seamlessly into his media smile and then, because the universe enjoys humor at your expense, another voice bursts from a group near the dorm steps.

“Holy shit, that’s his daughter?”

You want to sink into the pavement, but your mom slips her arm through yours, “Don’t mind them, sweetheart. They’re just excited.”

Blair, climbing out of her mom’s BMW behind you, practically cackles, “Oh my God,” She whispers gleefully, “You’re famous already. Do you understand the power you’re about to wield?”

You glare at her, but she’s too busy vibrating with excitement. Meanwhile, your father spots the second wave of frat brothers who’ve stopped tossing a football to stare openly at the scene unfolding, and stiffens.

His tone drops into one that is low and protective, “Stay away from boys who look like that.”

“I will,” Oh, you most certainly won’t.

Once you’re all inside the dorm lobby, even more chaos ensues.

Athletes, business majors, engineering kids with lanyards all mingling, moving, dragging various pieces of furniture; and then there’s the group of girls next to the elevators, eyes flicking between you and your father with thinly-veiled recognition.

One whispers, not nearly quiet enough, “You think Gojo’s seen her yet?”

The other girl beside her giggles, “Please. Someone’s probably already told him.”

You freeze, Blair’s head snaps toward you like a bloodhound catching a scent, “No way! You’re being talked about by him?”

“Who is him?”

Blair lowers her voice, “Okay, so—remember how I stalked USC on TikTok for, like, two months straight?”

“…Yeah?”

“Well,” She says, pushing her Prada sunglasses up her nose, “There’s this international student from Japan, Satoru Gojo. Apparently the frat guy on campus. Junior, filthy rich, shameless, hot as fuck, total slut, owns a white Porsche, finance bro who probably fails all his classses, and ends up on every ‘hottest men at USC’ list.”

You stare at her, “And you know all of that from TikTok?”

“Yep,” She says proudly, “I do my research.”

You open your mouth, then close it, “Okay, but what does any of that have to do with—”

Blair gestures vaguely at your face, “Sexy freshman girl with famous NFL seven time Super Bowl Champion quarterback dad? You’re deadass his exact type of…project.”

You almost choke, “Project?”

She nods sympathetically, “Project as in…he’d want to be the guy to ruin you for every other man on campus.”

Your father hears the word ruin and nearly breaks his own neck whipping around. Blair immediately straightens, innocent smile plastered onto her face.

“Don’t worry,” She says softly out of the corner of her mouth, “You probably won’t even meet him,” Then quieter, when she knows your father isn’t eavesdropping, adds, “You’re totally going to meet him.”

Your dorm room on the fourth floor is already propped open when you reach it. Small, bright with two twin beds and bare walls. It’s nothing like the Boston mansion you grew up in, yet somehow it’s more exciting than any bedroom you’ve ever had.

Blair lets out a delighted gasp, “We live here? Oh my God, we actually live here!”

She races inside to claim her side of the room, throwing herself onto the bed next to the window. Your father stands in the doorway, scanning like he’s doing a threat assessment, “It’s…smaller than I expected.”

“It’s a dorm, honey. Not the Ritz,” Your mother reminds him.

He hums, but does not relax in the slightest. And just like that, the four of you are unpacking boxes, hanging clothes, folding towels, arranging the mini-fridge that your father inspects with the seriousness of a homicide detective. He tests the door three times, plugs it into a power strip, unplugs it, inspects the outlet, then plugs it back in.

“Dad,” You sigh, “It’s a fridge, not a life-support machine.”

“You say that now,” He warns and you just chuckle.

It’s chaos, but the warm kind. The kind you’ll remember and cherish forever, yet also feels like the end of something and the beginning of quite literally everything else. At one point, Blair steps behind you to hang a string of fairy lights and whispers, “Okay, but seriously—imagine Gojo in this room.”

You elbow her so hard she drops a clip, your father spins around, “What was that?”

“Nothing!” You and Blair answer in unison.

Your mother laughs softly. Your father absolutely does not.

Eventually, after your bedding is on, your father stands there at the foot of your bed with his hands on his hips. A silence settles, one that says that this is real, this is happening, and this is goodbye. For now.

He checks his watch, again. He’s been doing it all morning. He has a flight to Oregon to catch—the new job he picked up right after you announced you were moving across the country. He needed the distraction, otherwise he’d be stuck in Boston all day, thinking about what you’re doing out here…and what you probably shouldn’t be doing.

He’s a commentator for College GameDay. Covering the biggest football games of the year, traveling to each host school every week, however, he should’ve left ten minutes ago. But he just can’t.

“Princess,” He says quietly, “You sure you want this?”

You nod, heart pounding with the thrill of independence, but your face softens into the kind of innocent expression that always makes him melt, and you’ve absolutely learned how to weaponize it.

“I do,” You say softly, then perfectly timed and aimed, you hit him with the, “But…do you really have to leave so soon?”

His entire chest caves in, “Oh, sweeheart…” His voice thickens immediately, “I don’t want to. I wish I could stay with you the whole day.”

Inside, you’re buzzing, thinking, please leave already. Oh my God, leave and let me live.

But outside? You look up at him with big, sad, puppy dog eyes, “I’ll miss you.”

He pulls you into a crushing hug, “I’ll miss you more,” He murmurs, “So much more. I hate the timing of this stupid College GameDay thing—I should be here helping you settle in, not rushing to the airport.”

You cling just enough to sell it, but not make him change his mind and stay, “It’s okay, daddy,” You say, ultra sweet, “You have to work.”

He sniffles, “I’ll FaceTime you from Oregon,” He promises, “Every night.”

You nod against his chest, all gentle affection while your internal monologue screams, yes, yes, yes. Commentate on football and go.

Your mom steps in next, hugging you warmly, “Call whenever you need anything. And maybe…don’t tell your father everything you’re doing.”

Your father shoots her a look of the utmost betrayal, she ignores it. Blair hugs them both dramatically, “You guys are like my second parents. I’ll miss you too.”

Then he steps away, still unwilling, still staring at you like you’re five years old heading into kindergarten instead of nearly nineteen. He wipes his palms on his jeans and breathes out shakily, “Okay. Okay, I can do this. You’ll be fine. You’ll be safe. Blair, keep her away from—”

“Boys?” She fills in the blank.

“Exactly.”

You almost laugh as he heads for the door, pauses, and looks back one last time, “You sure you’ll be okay without me?”

You nod sweetly, oh so, so sweetly, “I’ll manage.”

Resigned, he gives you one last look and disappears down the hallway with your mother. The moment they’re gone, Blair turns to you, deadpan, “Oh, you are one evil bitch.”

But you’re not pretending anymore. A slow, wicked grin spreads across your face, one you’ve been holding back for years, “Blair,” You breathe, “I am finally free.”

And somewhere down Greek Row, in a house with bass shaking the floorboards, a brother with white hair and blazing blue eyes checks his phone, seeing the group chat’s new messages.

sig chi or die

ryan: yo gojo you see the qb’s daughter?

ryan: she just moved in and she’s BADDDD

And he smiles, one full malicious intent. He hasn’t seen you yet, but he already plans to.

Blair gives you exactly ten seconds of peace after your parents leave before she turns to you, eyes manic with purpose, “Alright. Put on something slutty. We’re celebrating.”

“We literally just unpacked.”

“Exactly!” She says, already digging through her suitcase, “Sigma Chi is open for business and so are we.”

You laugh, half nerves, half adrenaline as she tosses the tiniest black skirt you’ve ever seen your way and a cropped baby tee. You catch it, then go still, because across the chest in red rhinestones it says, Let Them Eat Cunt.

“Blair.”

She beams like it’s the funniest joke on Earth, “I got it custom-made. For today. For your whore arc!”

“My dad would literally die if he saw this.”

“I know,” She says proudly, “Now put it on.”

You hesitate for only one second, then slide both the shirt and skirt on. The moment you do, Blair makes a strangled noise, “Oh my God, bitch. The guys are going to lose their fucking minds.”

You look at yourself in the mirror; skirt so short it could be considered a napkin, rhinestoned filth across your boobs, lips perfectly glossed and instead of nerves, a spark catches in your bloodstream. This is what you’ve been waiting for.

“Yes,” You murmur, adjusting the hem, “They will.”

Blair freezes, “Oh? Oh?”

“Blair,” You say, meeting her eyes in the mirror, “I didn’t move across the country to behave.”

She shrieks into her palms, “You are out for blood tonight.”

“Dick, actually,” You correct calmly, “I’m out for dick.”

Her soul leaves her body, “Oh my God—yes! Say it again!”

“I want to get drunk,” You explain, “I want a hot guy. And I want to erase the last eighteen years of being babysat.”

Blair is feigning tears, “This is everything I’ve ever prayed for. I feel like a mother watching her child blossom into a slutty flower.”

“Let’s bloom, then,” You grab your phone, keys, and head for the door without a semblance of doubt.

Blair scrambles after you, “Wait, slow down—!”

“I have places to be,” You coo, already striding down the hallway.

“We haven’t even pregamed!”

“Sig Chi has alcohol,” She laughs manically at that and follows you outside into the California heat.

The walk over is brutally short, every step feels like peeling off another layer of innocence, the music from Greek Row growing louder, deeper, and dirtier. Blair bumps your shoulder, grinning slyly, “You know…he’s probably there. This is his frat.”

You already know who she’s referring to…Gojo. Again with this guy?

You roll your eyes fondly, “Blair, you haven’t even seen him.”

“Oh, but on TikTok I have,” She says, “And trust me—foreign rich boys? They’re always the ones who fuck like they’ve got something to prove.”

That piques your interest. Maybe, just maybe you’d have to find that one out for yourself.

You round the corner and Sig Chi rises ahead of you. Three stories in all its glory, music blaring, people spilling across the lawn, lights pulsing behind the windows.

Blair squeezes your hand, wicked grin glued to her face, “Okay. Deep breath, babe. Act natural.”

“I am natural.”

“Not with you wearing that shirt.”

You scoff as you step inside and the frat swallows you whole. It’s loud and cramped, bodies swaying under LED lights, the smell of beer and flavored vape clouds hanging in the air. A table of jungle juice sits in the corner, multiple couples are making out aggressively against walls, and then, you see him.

You don’t even realize it’s him at first, you just register—absurdly tall, insanely built, ocean eyes, broad shoulders, cut-off muscle tee showing biceps carved by God himself, LA Dodgers snapback backwards on his white hair, laughing lazily with two girls hanging off him like decorations.

So, this is the infamous Satoru Gojo. No wonder why he runs USC. He’s hot as fuck and knows it. He’s leaning against the kitchen island like it’s his throne, until one of the brothers near him nudges his shoulder, “Yo, QB’s daughter just walked in.”

Gojo doesn’t react immediately, he never does. Instead, he finishes whatever joke he was saying, grinning, dimples deep, girls giggling into his ribs.

Then, slowly, he looks up. The moment his eyes find you? Everything stops. The flirting, the talking, the lazy smile—gone.

His mouth parts just a little, eyes raking down your body, the skirt, your legs, and then eventually stopping right on your shirt. For a split second, he genuinely looks stunned, but then?

Oh, he smirks. A slow, sinful curl of his lips like all of his dreams have finally come true.

Blair whispers behind you, “Holy shit, Gojo’s staring.”

You don’t answer, because he isn’t just staring. He’s studying, recognizing, and realizing. He knows who you are, everyone does. You’re the football dynasty princess, Boston royalty, a girl whose father could call the dean of USC directly and have a frat shut down in ten minutes flat.

And yet, here you are. In that shirt, in his house, looking like trouble he suddenly, desperately wants.

A girl he wants to ruin before anyone else has the chance to.

He straightens up from the counter and sheds the girls clinging to him without a second glance. They look confused and annoyed, but he doesn’t give a shit. He was never one to care about girls’ feelings anyway.

His eyes stay locked on you. Blair inhales sharply, “Oh my God—he clocked you. He fully clocked you, bitch.”

You swallow as he continues to stare, smirk, and look at your shirt like he wants to frame it above his bed. Then, he murmurs something to the guys beside him, still not breaking eye contact, and you feel it—the shift, the moment the king of Sig Chi decides he’s going to make you his next conquest.

Blair elbows you, “I swear to God if you don’t at least talk to him—”

“Blair—”

“No, shut the fuck up. I’m your wingwoman. I’m morally obligated to get you laid.”

You exhale, pulse electric, heat flickering under your skin as Gojo starts to move. Not toward you yet, but closer. Circling, watching, like a wolf that noticed the rabbit wasn’t scared of him.

You catch his eyes again, sharp blue under the brim of his backwards hat, and this time, he tilts his head. Acknowledgment, interest, amusement, and mouths something. Blair grips your arm, “What did he say?”

You gulp because you know exactly what he said. Two simple words, as clear as day, “Nice shirt.”

Her grip on your arm grows so taut your circulation stops, “Okay, holy shit. We need to get drinks right now or I’m going to pass out.”

You let her drag you toward the jungle juice table, but you feel his eyes following you. Every step you take, every sway of your skirt, his gaze is glued to it like he’s trying to memorize your movements.

Blair shoves a cup into your hand and whispers, “He’s coming over. I repeat, he is coming over!”

“Don’t look,” You whisper back.

“I’m not,” She lies, staring directly at him.

You take a sip of the juice; sweet, disgusting, perfect, and then, Gojo appears. He leans one shoulder against the wall beside the drinks table, arms crossing slowly, biceps flexing under his cut-off tee, snapback still backwards, silver-white hair falling into his eyes. He’s taller up close, annoyingly so, towering even with the casual slouch.

He looks at your face first, then your shirt again, and smirks, “Bold choice,” He drawls, voice low and painfully self-assured, “You always introduce yourself with your chest, or is tonight special?”

Blair chokes on her drink, you swallow, “It’s a shirt, not a dissertation.”

He grins, cocky and fucking lethal, “Could’ve fooled me,” He murmurs, eyes dipping to your bare stomach, your hips, your legs, “That thing’s doing a lot of talking.”

Your heart flips, but you refuse to fold so soon, “Then stop staring at it.”

He laughs, quiet, dangerously pleased, and drags his eyes upward until they lock directly with yours, “Oh, princess,” He says softly, like he already knows the nickname from his mouth will ruin you, “I’m not staring at the shirt.”

Your breath hitches as Gojo’s tongue slides across the inside of his cheek before he tilts his head, diverting conversation, “You’re new.”

“Freshman.”

“No shit,” His smile widens, “I meant new as in…no one here’s touched you yet.”

Blair coughs so violently she has to turn away, your cheeks heat, “Why would you assume that?”

He shrugs, bending slightly to dip his cup in the jungle juice bowl, filling it lazily, eyes never leaving you, “Because I’ve never seen guys on my lawn look so fucking scared.”

“Scared?”

His smirk grows, possessive and knowing, “They were staring at you like you’re a grenade with the pin half-pulled. Pretty skirt, filthy shirt, famous daddy?” He takes a slow sip of his drink, “Yeah. They’re terrified.”

You open your mouth, but he steps closer, close enough that you can smell his cologne—clean, expensive, a bit woodsy. His voice drops to something only you can hear, “But I’m not.”

Your pulse stutters and he notices, of course he does. He’s got girls’ body language down to a fucking tee. He leans in, lips grazing the shell of your ear, “You walk into my house wearing that,” He whispers, “And you really think I’m letting anyone else talk to you first?”

Your soul leaves your body. He pulls back just a bit, eyes locking onto yours again, darkened now and unblinking; his smirk softens as he nods to the crowd, “Guys are already looking,” He says, almost dismissive, “Thinking about walking over.”

He lifts your chin with one knuckle, light as a tease, heavy as a claim, “But they’re not going to.”

Your lips part, “Why not?”

Gojo smiles, wicked, "Because you’re talking to me.”

Something hot shivers down your spine. Blair, silently screams in triumph. Gojo watches your reaction like he wants to eat it almost as much as he wants to eat you.

Then he lowers his voice even further, “And if any other guy touches you tonight?” He taps the rim of his cup against your, a subtle clink, “They’re dead.”

Your heart slams against your ribs, he smirks again, “You don’t even get what that shirt’s doing to people,” He says, leaning back just slightly to give you a moment to breathe, but not space to escape, “But it’s okay. I’ll show you.”

Your mouth goes dry. He straightens up, flicks his eyes over your legs one more time, and adds softly, “Stay where I can see you.”

Then he walks off, not far, but far enough to make you watch and to tell every brother and guy in the house that you’re his.

Not yet. Not fully. But don’t even fucking try.

Blair is still gripping your arm like a talon when Gojo strolls off, leaving you breathless, dazed, and partially frenzied.

“Holy shit,” Blair hisses, “Okay. Okay. We need more alc immediately. You need to ride the confidence wave.”

“I’m…pretty sure confidence isn’t my problem right now.”

“No,” She agrees, dragging you toward the bar counter, “Your problem is wanting to climb that man like a tree, but that’s what vodka is for. Loosen up, be the slut you were born to be.”

You snort so hard you almost trip. The kitchen island is cluttered with liquor bottles, chasers, cups, and three guys already pouring shots.

Blair slaps her palms on the counter, announcing way too proudly, “This is my best friend! She is having her slut awakening tonight, if you care!”

“Blair—!”

They shout like they’ve just been told USC won the national championship. One of them, a blond with aviators on indoors, grins at you, “You taking shots or you just gonna stand there and look hot?”

Blair gasps, offended on your behalf. You roll your eyes and reach for the Tito’s bottle. Blond aviators whistles, “Oh, she’s going straight for the hard stuff.”

Blair squeals, “Oh, sweetheart, you have no idea.”

You raise the bottle, “Wait—” Blair warns.

Too late, you’re already taking a deep, burning, reckless swig. The kitchen collectively screams and you cough once, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand, “Fuck.”

Blair smacks the counter, beaming, “Yes! That’s my best friend!”

Someone shoves a red cup into your hand, another chanting, “Chug! Chug! Chug!”

So you do, because why the hell not? This moment has been eighteen years in the making and the drink is warm, disgusting, and makes your head pleasantly light.

Blair hops onto the counter, already dancing, “I am so proud of you!”

Guys around you start cheering harder, forming a half-circle as if you’re performing, and you laugh—dizzy and loud.

For the first time in your life, you’re not a quarterback’s daughter with curfews and rules and expectations. You’re just a girl in a filthy shirt getting worshipped by a kitchen full of frat brothers.

One leans in, too close, grinning, “So, uh—you rushing? Because we were thinking—”

Another cuts him off, slinging an arm around his shoulders, “—thinking we should make you Sig Chi’s sweetheart.”

Blair snaps her gaze to you, giggles erupting, “Oh my God, (Y/N), they’re already trying to crown you.”

The first guy leans closer, bold with liquid courage, “You’d run this place.”

“Yeah?” You tease, voice looser than normal, “What would I get out of it?”

He smirks, “Priority at every party. Your own room. Free booze. And—”

Before you can even smile, a low voice cuts through the kitchen like a knife, “Who the fuck told you idiots you could talk to her?”

Gojo stands in the doorway, cup in hand, expression blank and walks in with the crowd parting for him like the Red Sea, “You boys drunk or just dumb as fuck?”

“Gojo, we were—”

“Don’t speak,” He snaps, stepping closer, “You think you can ‘crown’ girls now? Offer them rooms? Priority access?" He laughs once, “You can’t even organize a mixer without me holding your hands.”

One brother stiffens, “Gojo, come on—”

Gojo turns his head slowly, “You interrupting me?” The guy goes pale, Gojo’s voice drops, “As active brothers you’re supposed to know the rules,” He nods over toward you, “And rule number one—you don’t approach girls I’m watching.”

A ripple flows through the kitchen, “G-Gojo—”

“Probation,” He replies simply, “All three of you,” Their faces drop, “No parties. No tailgates. No socials. You’re on cleanup duty for two weeks with the Pledges.”

The room detonates with whispers, “And if you ever look at her again? I’ll pull your letters myself,” They stare at him horrified, “Now, get the fuck out of my kitchen.”

The brothers scatter like roaches and Gojo turns to you, “Having fun?” He asks, voice warm again, teasing the way only danger could.

“M-Maybe.”

He steps closer; his knee brushes your thigh, the scent of his cologne wraps around your spine, and the buzz of the vodka evaporates from how stupid hot this is, “I thought I told you to stay where I could see you.”

Your heart jumps, heat rushing straight into your stomach, “I didn’t go anywhere.”

His eyes flick down your body, slow and deliberate, “Oh, you went everywhere,” He says, “Guys over here. Guys over there. Taking shots on my counter like you’re trying to get a reaction.”

Blair is wheezing into her cup somewhere behind you. You lift your chin, “What—did it bother you?”

His jaw ticks, just once, but you feel it like a pulse under your skin. He steps closer, body angling into yours, hand coming down beside your hip on the counter. He’s caging you in without even touching.

“It bothered me,” He says quietly, “How much fun you were having without me,” Your stomach churns, his voice drops further, “Didn’t like seeing other guys look at you like that.”

“You told them off,” You remind him.

“I shouldn’t have had to.”

Your mouth opens, he watches you react—your pulse, your breathing, and soaks it up like it feeds him, “You’re drunk,” He says, eyes glinting, “But you’re not stupid.”

“Meaning…?”

He leans in, lips brushing your jaw, “Meaning you know exactly what you’re doing.”

Your thighs press together on instinct and he catches it, something daring flickers across his expression; hunger, annoyance, restraint, then he nods toward the staircase, “Come with me.”

“Where?”

He smirks in the way he always does before hooking up with girls, “Upstairs.”

Your breath falters, “Why?”

He takes your wrist gently, shockingly gentle for someone with such big hands, and pulls you away from the counter. His thumb slides across your pulse point, “You want me to say it?”

You shouldn’t. You really, really shouldn’t. But you nod.

His eyes drag down to your shirt again, bold letters across your chest, daring the world. He lifts his gaze back to yours, “Because, princess…” He murmurs, voice an unholy whisper, “…I wanna do what your shirt says.”

Your knees nearly give and Gojo’s hand tightens on your wrist, “Come upstairs,” He says again, firmer this time, “Before I do something stupid right here.”

You don’t think or even breathe, you just let him lead you through the kitchen, past the music, up the stairs; his hand warm and unyielding around yours, every step feeling like the point of no return, and everyone watches.

Because the king of Sig Chi just bagged the coveted QB’s daughter.

Gojo hears all their whispered words, but they don’t affect him. He just smirks over his shoulder, hand still wrapped around your wrist, doing what he’s done almost a hundred times before, and keeps walking.

Up the stairs, down the hall, past guys who stop talking just to watch you go. You can feel the attention, the shock, the rumors already spreading like wildfire and the second the door to his room shuts, he’s on you.

His mouth crashes onto yours before your back even hits the door, one hand sliding into your hair, the other gripping your waist and dragging you closer until there’s no space between you. Your hands fist in the hem of his shirt; he groans into your mouth, the sound dark, low, sinful.

And then Gojo doesn’t walk you to the bed, no. He throws you onto it. One push to your hips and you fall back onto his mattress, bouncing once; he stands at the edge for a second, just looking at you, chest rising, jaw tight, like he’s trying not to pounce too fast.

Then he laughs under his breath. A quiet, disbelieving sound. He’s had all types of girls on this bed—sorority girls, party girls, girls who begged for his attention, but none of them ever looked like this.

His shirt rides up as he pulls his hat off to run a hand through his hair, eyes raking over every inch of you. The skirt pushed high, the lewd baby tee, your glossy lips parted from panting.

You’re not like the others…you’re worse. You’re a good girl, not his usual type, not ran through; temptation he was never supposed to touch, the quarterback’s daughter with the perfect reputation, and the perfect face, and the perfect body he’s dying to destroy.

His laughter fades, replaced by something darker and hungrier as he steps closer, eyes dragging over you like he’s choosing which part of you to ruin first.

“Yeah,” He murmurs, tone dropping, “I knew you’d look good on my bed.”

Then his hands, big and unforgiving, close around your thighs. He drags you down the mattress in one smooth, brutal pull, your skirt sliding up high on your hips, your breath punching out of your lungs.

Your ass hits the edge of the bed, legs falling open for him on instinct. Gojo inhales sharply like the sight of you hurts him, “Fuck,” He breathes, half a laugh, half a groan, “You’re gonna kill me.”

He doesn’t climb onto the bed, doesn’t join you, he just stands there, looming, tall and broad, with his thumbs pressed into the soft inner curve of your thighs; pushing them wider until the stretch borders on obscene.

You can feel your pulse now, between your legs, desperate and unable to ignore. He looks down at you like he’s about to pray to whatever god put you in front of him or ruin you for sport. You can’t distinguish the two.

His fingers hook into the sides of your panties, “Lift.”

You obey in an instant; he slides them down your legs slowly, savoring the reveal, until they hit the floor with a soft thud.

The second he sees you, bare and already wet for him, his jaw flexes, “Jesus Christ,” He mutters, running a hand through white strands to control himself, “You’re soaked.”

Heat floods your face at the sight, at the words, and he smirks because he can tell, “Shy now?” He teases, “You wore that shirt and came to my frat but this—” His thumb barely grazes the inside of your thigh, nearly touching where you want him, “—this is what makes you flush?”

You try to speak, but he doesn’t let you. Instead, he bends deliberately slow, bringing his mouth closer until his breath hits your skin. Your thighs tense, it only makes him grip them harder, “Relax,” He coos, eyes lifting to yours from between your legs, “I’m gonna take care of you.”

You don’t get a chance to register anything, he leans in and licks one long, slow stripe up your pussy—so slow you swear he’s doing it just to see how flustered you’ll get from the first touch alone.

Your head falls back against the sheets and he laughs, a soft, smug sound that vibrates right into your core, “Taste so good,” He mutters, already going back in for more, “Knew you would.”

And then he loses himself. His hands slide under your thighs, lifting your hips off the edge of the bed, dragging you closer until your knees are hooked over his shoulders and his mouth is pressed fully against your sopping cunt.

He eats you like a man starved, deprived, one that’s been waiting for this ever so patiently, and one whose life mission is to ruin you for every man who could ever come after him. His tongue flicks and circles and presses, “Satoru—”

He groans, the sound reverberating so deep your body shudders, “Say it again,” He says between licks, “Fuck, say my name again.”

You do, over and over, because you simply can’t not.

He tightens his grip on you, holding you still as he sucks your clit with a filthy reverence, and your back arches so hard your vision spots. Your legs try to close on instinct, but he doesn’t allow it. Gojo pushes your thighs wider with his shoulders, pinning you open without even trying.

“Yeah…” He murmurs into your skin, breath so hot it makes you twitch, “Keep ‘em open for me.”

He dips his head again, sucking your clit into his mouth with a force that knocks a cry out of you and you try to wiggle away from the intensity, but he stops you.

He growls, a low warning, fingertips digging into your thighs, “Oh no, you’re not running from this,” His voice drops, rough, entertained, and mean, “Daddy’s princess doesn’t get to run.”

Your body jolts like he slapped you and he feels it; pausing for a second, his lips still brush your folds as he lifts those piercing blues to watch your reaction. A smirk cuts across his face.

“Oh my fucking God,” He breathes, “You liked that shit.”

You try to lie, “I—no.”

But you did like it. Some depraved, twisted part of you liked it.

He laughs, delighted, “Yeah? You denying it?” He gives your cunt another slow lick, “Cause your pretty pussy’s kinda telling me everything I need to know.”

Your face burns with shame, unable to stop the shrill sound that falls out of you. He groans, guttural and hungry, “Holy shit—daddy’s good little girl getting off on being talked to like a slut?”

He moves closer to whisper directly on your skin, your lashes flutter from the warmth, “Guess daddy’s girl isn’t so good anymore.”

You can’t stop yourself from reacting to that, your hands yank his hair hard and he moans straight into your cunt at the pull, “Ohh fuck yeah,” He hisses, “Give me that again, princess.”

You tug him once more, pushing him deeper into your core; your voice comes out small and shaky, “Don’t…wanna be good…” Gojo tenses, your next words fracture on a whisper that will haunt him forever, “…just wanna be good for you.”

That line sends him into a frenzy, his mouth crashes back onto you sloppily—tongue working like he wants to drag that confession out of you again, sucking your clit with a messy, perfect pressure that shatters your thoughts.

He holds you open as he devours you; there’s no rhythm to it at all, just a man fully out of his fucking mind.

“Satoru—Toru—” Your voice cracks as your orgasm slams through you with a force you didn’t think possible.

And he groans like your pleasure pleases him, licking you through the entire climax, refusing to let go of you until you collapse onto the mattress, trembling.

When you do, he pulls back slowly; face glazed, breathing erratic, eyes wild, “Fuck,” He whispers, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “Need to be inside you.”

He doesn’t waste a minute, lifting you by the hips again both effortlessly and possessively, he drags you up the bed until your head hits his pillows.

“Goddamn, look at you,” He sneers, hovering, “Already fucked dumb and I haven’t even put my cock in you yet.”

You whimper helplessly as he’s already lining himself up; thick, flushed, heavy in his fist, and pushes in, sinking inch by inch into a pussy so tight his eyes flutter shut.

“Ahh—fuck, princess,” His voice wavers, “You’re gripping me—fucking gripping my shit already—”

He tries to breathe properly, but fails miserably, “God, you’re so fuckin’ tight. Feels insane.”

He pulls out, pushes back in deeper this time, and your cry is instant. It’s music to his ears, “Yeah…that’s it. Take it. All of it.”

His pace builds, slow at first, then faster, angling to hit the spot that makes your nails drag down his back. When you clamp around him, his breath stutters, “Oh my God—don’t do that shit,” His hips jerk without his permission, “Fuck, I’m trying to pull out—I’m trying.”

But he’s not. He’s lying.

You feel it in the way he grips your thighs harder, his hips snapping deeper, the shudder that runs down his spine like he’s fighting himself.

“Toru—”

He cuts you off with a broken groan, “I’m trying to pull out, I swear. But your pussy—shit, won’t let me.”

Your walls clench around him again and he grunts, forehead pressing to your cheek, “Princess—stop squeezing, fuck.”

He tries to pull back this time. He really does, but he can’t. You’re too warm, too tight, and way too fucking wet from how good he ate you out.

“Oh—no, no, no,” He chokes out, “Fuck—I can’t, I can’t.”

His thrusts turn frantic and the filth spills right out of him, “Shit, I-I’m gonna cum—inside,” His hips slam into yours, desperate, “Can’t pull out. Fuck, I can’t—pussy won’t let me.”

Your nails claw into him now, so hard it’s certain to leave marks, and that’s what ends him, “Fuck,” He drags the word out, burying himself all the way to the hilt, and cums right inside you.

Spilling into you in long, uncontrollable pulses, hot and thick. He groans into your neck, “God—fuck, fuck, princess—cummin’ in you—so deep, shit.”

Each spurt drags another sound out of him, almost pained with a hint of reverence; his hips keep spasming and he stuffs himself deeper, like he can’t help it.

When you finally finish milking him dry, he lifts his head, looks down between your bodies, and sees it.

Where he’s still inside you, how full you are, a ring of white already gathering around the base of his cock and something shifts in him, “…Holy fuck.”

You blink, dazed, “What?”

He doesn’t hear you at all, eyes glued to the sight of you stretched around him, dick nestled in you like it belongs there. His tone drops into something low and stunned, “I—I really came in you.”

You nod weakly, out of breath, “Mhm.”

He swallows hard, but doesn’t pull out. Instead, he presses in even deeper, like he needs to feel it one more time. You gasp and he throws his head back, “Oh my God…” He mutters, almost to himself, “…it’s so warm.”

He runs his hand down your stomach, stopping right above where he’s still buried. Then he pushes gently, just enough to feel his load shift deeper, and you whimper.

“Shit…” His voice is nothing but pure, filthy awe, “I’ve never…fuck, I’ve never done that before. I don’t even fuck raw.”

You expect panic, but what hits him is the opposite. A wave of feral, possessive pleasure that lights up every neuron in his brain. He exhales shakily, eyes flicking up to yours with an emotion that looks close to worship.

“Princess…” He’s smiling, a crooked one, “That felt fucking incredible.”

Your stomach flips, because he’s right. It really fucking did.

He lifts your thigh higher on his hip like he wants to see everything and have this visual burned into his mind forever, “Fuck…” He whispers, chest rising faster, “You took all of it.”

His fingers gently spread you open around him, his cum spills out just a little, and he moans, “Ohh, fuck—look at that…” A soft laugh falls from his lips. You’ve never seen a man look so corrupted by his own desire.

But then, reality slaps him across the face, “Oh shit. Shit, shit, wait—no, no, no—” He drags a trembling hand through his mussed hair, expression fracturing between pleasure and dread, “—I cannot believe I just fucking did that.”

“Satoru—”

He cuts you off, still staring at the wetness leaking around him, “I mean…That was fuckin’ crazy—like way too good. Scary good. I get it now.”

Your pulse trips, “But also—” He finally pulls out and when more of his cum spills onto the sheets he moans again, “Fuck, okay—we need to go. Now. Like now-now.”

You raise a brow, “You’re freaking out?”

His eyes snap up to you, “Do I look like I’m freaking out?” He gestures at your pussy, “I just creampied the girl whose dad could literally shut down our chapter. Of fucking course I’m freaking out.”

But then he pauses, glancing down at you, your thighs, the mess between them, and something hot flickers back onto his face, “Not gonna lie though…it looked really fucking good.”

Heat floods your cheeks and he smirks, clapping his hands once decisively, “Okay. Get up. We need a Plan B before I start thinking with my dick again.”

You’re still trembling, the last of his load spilling out onto the sheets, and he stares at it—at you, for a second too long, chest rising like he’s physically restraining himself from going back inside.

But then he steps away, fast, a black hoodie already in his grip when he barks out, “Up. Now.”

You’re in a haze, legs barely working, but his urgency snaps you out of it. You sit up, shaking, pulling your skirt and panties back into place.

Gojo’s already dressed, hoodie thrown over his head, white tendrils sticking out, jaw clenched so hard you can see the muscle twitch, “Satoru…”

His sharp eyes cut to you, wide from leftover adrenaline, “Not now,” He says quietly, “We can’t talk right now.”

Because he’ll lose it and he’s hardening again, even with his cum leaking out of you, “Let’s go.”

You barely get your shoes on before he’s grabbing your hand and leading you out the room, down the stairs, and through the pulsing music, ignoring every brother who tries to high-five him and every girl who wants to touch him.

He’s too wound up and aware of the possibility sitting warm between your legs.

Outside, the cool west coast air hits, but it does nothing to help him. His grip stays taut on your hand, guiding you quickly down the sidewalk, away from Sig Chi and anyone who might see him like this.

He doesn’t speak to you, not once, but you can hear his uneven breathing and every few steps he mumbles something nearly inaudible.

“Fucking dumbass…”

“Should’ve pulled…”

“Evil ass pussy…”

However, thank God for college towns and their love for twenty-four hour pharmacies; a CVS sign glows bright up ahead and Gojo moves quicker, beelining it with you in tow.

Once inside, he pauses at the automatic doors, lifting his hood higher to shield his face, then walks straight to the family planning aisle. He doesn’t hesitate, there’s no need to browse or think, he just grabs the Plan B box so fast the air moves with it and heads for self-checkout.

No cashiers, no chance for eye contact, no witnesses. He’d rather be shot dead than caught lacking like this. If anyone found out that Satoru Gojo had a weak ass pull-out game, he’d lose all sense of power on campus.

He scans the box with tottering hands, grabs a bottle of water from the mini cooler next to the register, pays in cash, and throws the receipt away as soon as it prints. Only then, does he finally look at you, “Come on.”

The two of you make it maybe ten steps outside before he’s gnawing the Plan B box open with his teeth. He places the tiny pill in your hand and shoves the water at you, “Take it.”

He watches every centimeter of movement; the pill hitting your tongue, the rim of the bottle on your lips, and the bob of your throat when it’s all swallowed.

When it’s done, his shoulders fall, showing you how fucking scared he actually was, “Okay…” He murmurs, nodding, “Okay. Crisis averted.”

But then you shift your weight and his gaze drops to your legs, the memory of how you squeezed around him hits, “…Fuck.”

“What?”

His voice is quieter now, “You look way too good right now for someone I almost got pregnant.”

You laugh softly, but he doesn’t. There’s not even a flicker of amusement behind those bright eyes. He steps closer though, hand lifting to your face, thumb brushing the corner of your mouth, “Come here.”

Gojo tilts your chin up, scanning all of your features with that same predatory focus he had right before he got on his knees for you. Then, he speaks like he’s laying down scripture. A speech he’s given to hundreds of girls before, you’re sure.

“Alright, princess. We need to set some ground rules.”

“Rules?”

His thumb grazes your lip, “Number one,” He says, tone steady, “This is just sex. Nothing more.”

You gulp as he continues, “Number two. I will never be your boyfriend.”

That one stings for reasons unknown. You nod anyway, “Number three. You don’t ask who I’m seeing.”

So he still plans on seeing other girls. Okay.

“Number four…” He steps closer, so close you think he might kiss you, “…when I want you, I get you.”

The way he says it makes your stomach flip violently, “And number five,” He adds, “You don’t let any other guy touch you like I did tonight.”

He can fuck other girls, but you can’t fuck other guys? The fuck?

“Why not?”

His eyes burn into yours, “Because you told me you wanted to be good for me…and I’m holding you to it.”

Then just like that, he steps back, shoving his hands into his pockets, hood still up, fully composed frat boy again, “Got it? Okay, cool,” He rushes, “I’ll text you.”

“That’s it?”

“Yup,” He pops the p, starts walking backward, eyes dragging over your entire body one last time, “Night, princess.”

And turns away, leaving you standing under the glow of the CVS sign like some whore he used, legs shaking, heart pounding, and the worst part about it all? You still want him and still want more.

Freedom like this is too much fun.

But you tell yourself you won’t text him back. This was a one-time thing, you needed to get it out of your system as a repressed daddy’s girl. That you’re not the type who gets addicted to a frat boy she met at a party, no matter how hot he looks or how good he fucks.

Yeah…that lie lasts about less than twenty-four hours. Because the next night, at 12:47 A.M., your phone buzzes.

satoru: open your dorm window

You blink at the message, confused, until headlights sweep across the courtyard, bright, white-blue, and unmistakable—his Porsche.

Blair is already asleep beside you, your heart’s sprinting. You slide the window open to peek out and there he is, leaned against the hood, hoodie up, hands in his pockets, looking at your window like he knew you’d listen.

He lifts his chin, “Come down.”

He doesn’t say please or explain further and you go, of course you go.

The next time you see him, it’s in your dorm room. And it starts with kissing—always kissing.

He’s got you pinned against the inside of your locked door, hands under your ass, lifting you like you weigh nothing, grinding you against the thick outline in his sweats with a low, starved sound in his throat.

“Missed this,” He mutters, lips on your neck, “Missed you.”

You don’t have time to decipher the meaning before your phone rings. Your dad’s contact photo lights up the screen.

You freeze, but Gojo doesn’t. He looks at it, then at you, and smirks evilly, “Answer it.”

“Toru—” But he’s already dropping to his knees.

Your phone quivers in your hand as you swipe to accept the call, “Hi, princess,” Your dad’s voice comes through, “How was your first few nights in the dorms?”

Gojo pushes your skirt up, your pulse skyrockets as you force a steady tone, “G-Good. Umm. Really good.”

He drags your panties down with agonizing slowness, eyes locked onto yours the entire time, enjoying every ounce of panic flickering across your sweet face.

“That’s good to hear,” Your father continues, “You settling in okay? Eating enough? Staying safe?”

Gojo’s mouth touches you and you nearly drop the phone. His tongue slides through your folds, deliberate and slow, savoring you like he’s got all the time in the world.

You bite your lip so hard you taste blood, “Mhm,” You manage, “I’m—Dad, I’m—I’m very safe.”

Gojo laughs softly against your pussy, “Good girl,” he murmurs, too quietly for anyone but you to hear and sucks your clit into your mouth.

Your voice breaks into the speaker, “What was that?” Your dad asks suddenly.

“N-Nothing!” You choke out, breathless, “Just—Just moving…something.”

Gojo looks up at you, eyes blazing, pupils dilated, and pride dripping from his smirk as he ruins your composure with the lightest touch of his tongue. You end up cumming so hard you have to mute yourself.

When you hang up, Gojo wipes his mouth with his thumb and stands, kissing you deeply, giving you a taste. Then he whispers on your lips, “Next time you say you’re safe…you’re gonna tell him that I’m the one keeping you that way.”

You don’t know whether that’s true or the biggest lie you’ve ever heard.

And the next time after that happens three nights later. You’re wearing tiny shorts and a tank top when he texts.

satoru: out front

satoru: now

You slide into the passenger seat of his 911 and the smell of him, clean and sharp, wraps around you immediately.

He doesn’t even say hi. His hand is in your hair before you finish closing the door; he’s pulling you over the console, kissing you with the same urgency as the first night.

Then he leans back in his driver’s seat, spreads his legs, and nods down at his lap, “Need your mouth,” He breathes, strained like he hasn’t gotten off in months instead of last night with some other girl, “Now, princess.”

And you give him it, because you’re somehow already gone for him and want to see what you can do. He grips your hair while you throat him deeper and deeper, until he’s cursing under his breath in Japanese and dragging a shaky hand over his mouth.

God, you fucking love it when he does that.

“Fuck—baby, baby, wait—” He pulls you off his throbbing cock, kisses you hard, and pushes your panties to the side, “Get on top.”

You straddle him and he drags you onto his dick in one long, devastating push. The car rocks as his hands grab everywhere—your hips, ass, waist, guiding you, using you, groaning into your neck.

“Mmm, that’s it—ride me,” He whispers, “Show me how bad you want it.”

You ride him until the windows fog and the V6 engine ticks with residual heat. He cums on your stomach with his face buried into your chest; a low, wrecked moan muffled against your skin.

That same weekend, there’s a night where he pulls you into a dark hallway at Sig Chi during a party. He pushes you against the wall without warning and slides into you from behind, hand clamped over your mouth.

The bass of house music is pounding, the hallway is thankfully empty, your skirt is bunched around your waist, and he fucks you slow and deep—like he’s trying to memorize the exact way your cunt clenches around him.

“You’re so fuckin’ addictive,” He breathes into your ear, “Gonna end up wearing you out every night.”

You don’t doubt it.

A week later, you’re in your communal dorm bathroom when you see it—blood. Thank the fucking Lord. The Plan B had worked.

You text him two words.

period came

Four minutes later he responds.

satoru: i’m here

You barely have time to lie down before he’s on top of you, mouth everywhere, voice rough with relief, “Good girl…” He murmurs against your stomach, “Fucking good girl.”

Then he pushes two fingers into you and you arch your back, whining. He smiles into your neck like it’s the best thing he’s heard, “Celebration sex,” He decides, “C’mere.”

Period? He does not care whatsoever. He fucks you like you’re his reward, and you let him.

But one morning, you catch him staring. Not at your tits or ass or mouth—at you and your face, something beneath your skin he’s trying and failing to deny.

He looks away fast, jaw tight, hoodie pulled up like he’s hiding from a fact inside himself and you pretend not to see it.

Because you know if you acknowledge it and name the thing growing between you, what you and him have will stop being fun and become dangerous.

Though the truth lingers in the air the next time he texts you at 1:03 A.M.

satoru: want you

And your fingers answer before your brain does.

come get me

He comes quickly.

Ten minutes after your text, his Porsche glides to a stop outside your dorm like it was summoned, and sends a text.

satoru: here

You’re already moving. As soon as you open the door, he grabs your jaw and kisses you before you can even sit down, pulling you into his lap like he’s starved. It’s harsher tonight.

“Always taste so fuckin’ good,” He mutters against your mouth, “Just for me, right?”

You don’t answer because you know he doesn’t need you to, it’s obvious. However, the next time he’s throwing you onto his bed, when you land on the sheets—something shifts.

There’s a scent in the air. Faint and sweet, a floral perfume you don’t wear. You don’t do floral, only gourmand fragrances. It hits you before you even spot the evidence.

There’s a hair tie on the nightstand that’s not yours, tube of lip gloss half-tucked under his pillow like it was hidden there in a hurry, a sweatshirt on the floor that definitely isn’t his.

And the worst part? He doesn’t even notice you noticing, because he’s too busy touching you.

His hands are already on your thighs, spreading them, his mouth dragging down your neck, voice thick with desire that doesn’t sound recycled or casual, “You been thinking about me all day?” He murmurs, “Thinking about how good I fuck you?”

You force yourself to swallow it down. The perfume, the hair tie, the gloss, the clothing, the ache blooming beneath your ribs.

But because you don’t answer, he grabs your jaw gently, making your eyes look into his, “Don’t get quiet on me now,” He smirks, “You’re not allowed.”

He kisses you again, filthily, and the sadness knots inside you in a way you refuse to acknowledge. Not now, not when he’s touching you and you want him this badly.

So you pretend.

You let him wreck you again, let him fuck you into the mattress with the haste of a man who can’t get enough. Although something tiny fractures within you when he flips you onto your stomach and you see the lip gloss again.

You shut your eyes, a yelp breaking from you as you try to imagine that it was never there.

Then four days later, you’re the one who texts first. You hate yourself for it, but you can’t help it.

you busy?

Delivered with no response.

Ten minutes pass, then twenty, then an hour.

You throw your phone aside, furious for caring in the first place. You knew what you were getting into from the moment you let a guy like Satoru Gojo fuck you.

Blair, who’s sitting in her bed beside you, glances at your expression and raises a brow, “Him again?”

You lie, “No.”

Two more hours pass and nothing. Your stomach twists with something awful and sharp because you know exactly what he’s doing. More so, who, he’s doing.

At 1:36 A.M., your phone lights up.

satoru: nah

satoru: come thru

You look at the texts, pissed off by his lack of consideration, but even more pissed by your lack of control. Because you go to him like he says.

You hear the music from the street when you arrive at Sig Chi. The house is loud and buzzing, full of energy he clearly enjoyed without you present.

He meets you at his bedroom door and the second you see him, all the oxygen leaves your lungs.

His hair is tousled under his blue snapback; his shirt is twisted, collar stretched like it was yanked. There’s a pink flush across his face, his lips look too red, like he’s been kissing for hours.

His breathing is slightly off as if his heart rate still hasn’t calmed down yet, but the room? Oh that’s the killer blow.

The sheets are tangled and half on the floor, there’s mascara smudged on his pillows, and God the trashcan ruins you. You can see multiple golden foils from where you are—condom wrappers.

And Gojo just stands there, letting you take it all in like he doesn’t even care. He watches you, blue eyes cool, leaning against the doorframe like you’re the one who kept him waiting, “You coming in?”

Your throat burns. Say no. Say no. Say fucking no.

But you step inside and the door clicks shut behind you, sealing you with the smell of a perfume that isn’t yours.

“Come here,” Gojo says.

And because you’re weak and something about him has rewired your brain, you walk closer instead of slapping him.

He hooks a finger under your chin, tilts your face up, and kisses you like he wasn’t just inside another girl before this. It’s greedy and possessive in a way he has no right to be; you let him take and take, until something within you snaps.

You push him back a step, breathing labored, “Satoru.”

He lifts a brow, already annoyed at being interrupted, “What?”

“I want…” Fuck, you hate yourself for how small it sounds, “…I want to be the only one.”

There’s dead silence in the room, but then—then he has the fucking audacity to laugh, “Oh, princess,” He coos, amusement curving his mouth as he pulls your waist against his, “That’s not how this works.”

Your stomach is in knots, the smirk is still there, “You can’t be the only one,” He says unapologetically, “But—”

His hand slides down your ass, gripping hard enough to make you gasp, “You can be my number one.”

Number one. Like you’re just barely good enough to earn the top spot on a team’s roster.

“…Your number one,” You echo.

“Yeah,” His lips brush your throat, “The one I fuck the most. The one I come back to. The one I call when I actually want it.”

You feel sick, “And what about me? Do I get anyone?”

He pulls back to look at you with eyes as sharp as knives, “No.”

The word lands like a slap, “No?”

“No,” He confirms, “You don’t let any other guy touch you. That was the deal.”

“That wasn’t a deal,” You seethe, “That was something you said after you—after you almost got me pregnant.”

He shrugs, “So? Still stands.”

Heat floods your entire face—anger, humiliation, desire, all tangled, “You’re allowed to fuck other girls,” You vocalize, “But I’m not allowed to—”

He cuts you off with a kiss so deep you forget how to breathe and when he breaks it, his voice is dangerously soft, “I don’t share.”

You swallow, pissed at yourself for the way your body always reacts to him, “And what if I don’t want to be your number one?”

Gojo smiles, “Then you wouldn’t be in my room right now.”

Your pulse trips because he’s right and you hate it. You shove him weakly, but he catches your wrists, pinning them above your head as he walks you backward toward the bed, “Don’t start pretending you don’t want this. Not after the way you moan for me.”

“Satoru—”

“You asked for the only one treatment?” He asks against your mouth, “Fine. I’ll fuck you like you’re the only girl in the world.”

He pushes you onto the mattress, “And then…I’ll remind you that you’re not.”

His tone is cruel, you’ve never heard him sound like this, and despite that fact, your body still betrays you. He drags your shorts down, mouth already on your inner thigh, kissing higher and higher, biting hard enough to leave a mark.

“Satoru—stop,” You whisper, but you don’t mean it and he knows you don’t.

His tongue licks up your folds and your back arches like you’ve been shocked. The reaction makes him laugh, “See? This pussy knows who it belongs to.”

You want to hit him, kiss him, run, and stay all at once. Your voice is barely a sound when you say, “I hate you.”

The words make him grin, “No, you don’t.”

He flips you onto your stomach before you can respond, pulling your hips up, positioning himself behind you—no condom, like always, “I’m your number one, too,” He murmurs, tip prodding your entrance, “You just don’t want to admit it.”

“Satoru—” He pushes into you in one long, ruthless stroke.

Your gasp shatters in the quiet room, “Fuck,” He groans, hands gripping your hips so tight you think they’ll bruise, “Every time—every time, you’re tighter.”

Then he fucks you like he’s proving a point, “Say it again,” He growls, “Say you want to be the only one.”

“I—I want—” You choke out, tears blurring your vision, “I want to be the only one—please—”

He moans, he actually fucking moans at that, as if your pain gives him pleasure, like he’s some sick sadist.

“Oh, princess,” He says, kissing your shoulder, “You break so pretty.”

And then he leans down just enough to whisper the nail in your coffin, “But you never will be.”

You cum around him anyway. Because you foolishly still want him, and maybe you’re some sick masochist too.

And when he finishes, pulling out of you with a quiet hiss, you think maybe he’ll soften—maybe he’ll say something real. But all he does is toss you a towel to clean yourself and grab his hat to shove it back on his head, muttering, “Close the door behind you.”

And like the dumbest bitch alive, you do.

You walk home at 3:12 A.M. with aching thighs and your heart bloodied. When you slip into your dorm, Blair is still awake with her laptop open. She looks up once, clocking everything in a single glance, “You good?”

“I’m fine,” You lie, kicking your shoes off.

She just stares and you stare back, knowing that she doesn’t believe you in the slightest, but doesn’t press.

You shower and scrub your body as if it can erase Gojo from your skin but you still feel him everywhere. Then you crawl into bed, praying you wake up a new person, but of course. You don’t.

The next morning, right as you wake, you open Instagram on autopilot, and Blair, sitting cross-legged in her bed eating dry cereal from the box looks over at you as your face goes blank.

Because on your feed is his story.

@.gojosatoru

Posted 32 minutes ago.

He’s at In-N-Out, with a blonde girl in his passenger seat, and her hand on his thigh. No caption.

Blair freezes mid-chew, “…Is that—?”

“Uh-huh.”

She leans closer, “Oh, fuck no.”

Your fingers go numb as you remember last night. He told you you were his number one, held you down, and fucked you like you belonged to him.

Now he’s posting publicly with other bitches? So as number one you can get the sex but you’re not worthy of anything else? Sure.

Blair sets her cereal aside, “Babe…are you okay?”

You fucking hate that she has to ask that. You swallow hard, “Yeah. Totally.”

She scoots closer, voice lower, “(Y/N)…he’s an asshole.”

You know, you’ve always known. But last night, in his bed, with his hands on you and his cock so deep—you forgot.

Blair studies you, then says gently, “You’re not this girl.”

Something inside you snaps back into place.

She’s right. You’re not. You’re not the girl who gets hidden, you’re not the girl he gets to fuck at 2 A.M. and replace by breakfast, and you sure as hell are not someone’s afterthought.

You inhale slowly, exhale sharply, and stand. Blair blinks, “What are you doing?”

You look her dead in the eye, “Remembering who the fuck I am.”

“And who is that?”

You don’t answer her with words. Instead, you walk over to your dresser and pull out the skimpiest bikini you own. Blair lets out a low whistle, “Damn. You’re gonna make someone crash their car.”

Putting it on, tightening the strings so it sits just right, you look at your reflection in the mirror.

The girl staring back at you isn’t the one crying over a frat boy. She’s someone else entirely; someone Satoru Gojo should have never underestimated.

You grab your phone, open your camera, and take the mirror selfie. Blair leans over your shoulder, “Caption?”

“Don’t need one,” You say with a smile, all you do is post the location of where you’ll be—Santa Monica Beach.

Oh, but you do decide to throw in a blue heart emoji, just to twist the knife. Then you hit post.

The likes come in immediately and your DMs explode. Blair’s jaw literally drops, “Oh my God, babe—TKE is already swiping up. Like, three different guys, holy shit.”

Yeah, that’s right. This is who you are.

Blair laughs with pure joy, “And guess who else viewed it?”

You don’t even ask, already knowing. Because a second later, your phone buzzes excessively.

@.gojosatoru: wtf is this pic

@.gojosatoru: delete ts

@.gojosatoru: answer your fucking phone

@.gojosatoru: (y/n)

Blair snorts, “Oh, he is so pressed.”

You slide your phone into your tote bag choosing to ignore it. He can scream into the void for all you care.

“Coming?” You ask Blair casually.

She grins, grabbing her sunglasses and keys, “Fuck, yeah I am. I ain’t missing this shit.”

You sling your towel over your shoulder and for the first time since you came to USC, you feel like yourself again, “Let’s go.”

“Where?”

You smile, “To remind him why he should’ve never posted that blonde bitch in the first place.”

You and Blair barely make it into the hallway before your phone vibrates again, but it’s not Gojo this time. It’s the TKE boys again.

tyler: u heading to santa monica?

zach: come slide we’re pregaming in the lot

kyle: we got room in the jeep if you need a ride

Blair leans over your shoulder, “Oh, we’re definitely taking the ride.”

You shouldn’t, but then you think of Gojo and how you’re done letting him dictate your life as if he’s the only one with power.

So you type back.

still at the lot?

The response is instant.

zach: still here. u look insane btw

kyle: pls come im begging

Blair cackles, “They’re literally foaming at the mouth, Jesus.”

You head downstairs and step outside into the morning California sun, the second the TKE boys see you, the whole group goes silent.

“Damn,” Tyler says, walking forward with a grin way too confident for someone who failed Econ twice, “You look…wow.”

You lift your sunglasses with one finger, giving him a lazy once-over, “Thanks. You driving?”

“Yeah,” Zach blurts before Tyler can speak, “You two riding over with us?”

You exchange a glance with Blair, “Sure.”

The boys practically beam; Tyler opens the passenger door for you and Blair slides into the middle seat, Zach sits beside her trying to play it cool.

The TKE boys are laughing, hyping each other up as music blasts through the speakers, and they glance at you like they can’t believe you’re actually coming with them.

You feel Blair tap your shoulder from behind, “You good?”

“Never better.”

But your phone keeps vibrating in your bag and you know exactly who it is.

satoru (16 missed calls)

satoru (24 messages)

You peep the last three.

satoru: where tf are you

satoru: stop ignoring me omg

satoru: seriously pick up

Blair sees the name and giggles, “He’s unraveling.”

Tyler leans over the center console, spotting the contact too, “Oh shit—Gojo’s blowing you up?”

“Yeah. Doesn’t matter.”

Zach scoffs, “Isn’t he like…obsessed with you?”

You smile sweetly, “Nah. He’s not.”

They seemed pleased with that answer and in less than twenty minutes, the Jeep rolls into the Santa Monica lot. Warm wind tangles through your hair as the ocean comes into view.

Everyone hops out quick, grabbing something to bring, but you? You step out slowly, letting the sun hit your bare shoulders and letting the boys stare unabashedly because they can’t help themselves. And God, does it feel good.

You eventually spread your towel on the sand, lay back, and get right to tanning. Everything is warm and golden, the boys crack open beers, Blair sets up the speaker playing Bad Bunny on full volume.

Tyler hands you a High Noon and you take a sip, laughing at something stupid Kyle says. And for one moment, you feel free again. But your goddamn phone won’t stop buzzing in your bag.

Blair nudges you, “You gonna check that?”

“Nope.”

She grins, “Good.”

“(Y/N)!” Tyler calls, tossing a football, “You play?”

You catch it one-handed despite being off guard, “Do you forget who my dad is?”

They laugh and so do you, but your phone still keeps popping off like a warning for what’s about to come next. Because not even ten minutes later, you hear it.

That sound, the unmistakable growl of a high-performance engine being pushed too hard. A Porsche 911 tears into the parking lot—his Porsche. Your heart plummets as Blair whispers, “No fucking way.”

The boys turn, heads all over swivel, and then he appears. Satoru Gojo steps out of the Porsche like he didn’t run five red lights on the drive here. His white tee is wrinkled to shit, blue shorts slung low on his hips, sunglasses pushed into his mussed white strands, jaw clenched so hard you see the muscle jump.

In his hand is his phone, the one he used to blow up yours, and he doesn’t walk over to you, no, he stalks. Across the sand, straight toward you with a purposeful, terrifying calm, the kind that makes groups of guys instinctively step back.

But you’re not scared in the slightest. You lift your sunglasses and meet his eyes; cold blue, laser-focused. He stops in front of your towel, shadow sprawled over your body, chest heaving like he’s on the verge of losing it.

“(Y/N),” He hardly ever uses your name, “Get up.”

You make him wait three whole seconds before you do; you stand, unbothered, brushing sand off your thighs, refusing to break eye contact. He takes a step closer, nostrils flaring, “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

“Pretty sure I’m sitting on a beach.”

The TKE boys shift behind you, Gojo’s eyes flick to them—Tyler holding a drink, Kyle shirtless and smiling, Zach close enough that his knee had brushed yours.

He laughs once, “With these loser cucks?”

Kyle bristles instantly, “Bro—watch your fucking mouth.”

But Gojo doesn’t spare him a glance, he keeps his eyes on you, “Deadass?” He murmurs, “This the shit you’re on now?”

You shrug, “Looks that way.”

“You ignored sixteen calls. Sixteen.”

“Yeah,” You reply, lifting your drink again, “Cause I didn’t wanna answer.”

Kyle folds his arms, “Yo, she’s busy. Maybe back up.”

Gojo turns his head just enough to look at him, “I wasn’t fucking talking to you,” Then his eyes snap back to yours, “So you’re really out here with TKE?”

“Why not?” You ask.

He scoffs, sucking his teeth, “They know that you were on my dick last night?”

Your cheeks grow hot with rage, but he wants that reaction, so you decide to give him nothing, “Thanks for the reminder. I almost forgot.”

“You forgot?” He repeats, voice tight, “After the way you were screaming my name?”

Kyle steps forward, fists clenching, “Alright, back the fuck off—”

You lift a hand, stopping him without looking away from Gojo, “No. Let him talk.”

“You’re really gonna stand here and pretend last night didn’t happen?”

“You mean the part where you said I’ll never be the only one?” You ask, titling your head, “Or the part where you posted the blonde on your story less than twelve hours later?”

His jaw ticks, “That’s what this is about?” He snaps, “A fucking story?”

“No. It’s about you thinking I’m stupid.”

“You’re jealous.”

You genuinely laugh, “No, Satoru. You’re delusional.”

His hands twitch at his sides, like he’s debating grabbing you or strangling someone. He glances at the boys again and something cold creeps into his countenance, “Answer me something.”

You raise a brow as he gestures at the guys behind you, “You fucking one of them now?”

Tyler coughs, Kyle looks away, Zach smirks like he hopes so, “Why? You care?”

Gojo steps closer, the warmth of his chest brushing the top of yours, “That’s cute. Acting like I don't."

“Go home, Satoru.”

“No.”

“It wasn’t a question.”

His gaze drags over your bikini again, “Get in the car.”

It’s sad—that some part of you almost gives in like always. Because you know that if you left now, the argument would end. It’d end with him giving you the craziest dick of your life and you back at square one; you refuse to do that again.

So, you stand taller, “No.”

A muscle in his cheek pops, “…No?”

“You heard me.”

And because Gojo can’t win with logic and can’t bear the thought of being denied for once in his life, he reaches for cruelty, “Fine…You’re cut.”

Cut. From his roster. But your voice is steady when you say, “Good.”

“Good?”

“Yeah,” You say, “Good. You did me a favor.”

Gojo’s expression flattens, “Cool. I’ll replace you in an hour.”

You take one step forward and smile, “I’ll replace you in fifteen minutes. Won’t be hard.”

The collective gasp from the boys is audible. Gojo doesn't even blink, but the vein in his neck jumps and for the first time since you’ve known him, he looks hurt. Real hurt.

He steps back, then once more, “Enjoy your day,” Adding coldly, “Princess.”

He turns and walks away, sand kicking up beneath his feet, and you don’t look after him. Not even when the Porsche engine snarls and he peels out of the lot so fast seagulls scatter.

Blair exhales, “Holy shit…I’m glad I came.”

Tyler whistles low, “Yo…you’re gonna break that dude.”

“Good,” You say, laying back down on your towel, “It’s his turn.”

But the beach doesn’t go back to normal after that. You tan, you swim once, you drink enough to feel warm, the boys continue to orbit you like planets caught in your gravitational pull, yet it's not the same.

Blair leans in at one point, whispering, “You know you don’t have to actually hook up with any of them, right?”

Right. That was the whole reason why you did this in the first place. To get revenge.

You hum, “I know.”

Though when the sun begins to set, casting amber over the waves, Kyle asks if you want to come back to the TKE house and you hear yourself say, “Sure.”

Not because you’re dying to fuck him, but because of everything Satoru Gojo did. The house is louder and dirtier than Sig Chi—bass rattles the wall, bodies are everywhere. Kyle leads you upstairs, respectful, a little nervous, but beyond eager.

Your stomach twists with anticipation, you’re finally getting your lick back. Kyle closes the bedroom door behind you, “Want a drink?”

“No.”

You step closer and his breath catches, “You sure?”

“Positive.”

He leans in and kisses you…It’s fine, you guess. Soft, warm, nothing like the way Gojo does. You’re unsure if that’s a good or bad thing. Kyle’s hands are on your waist and his mouth moves down your neck. He’s sweet, careful, and you should like this more—you don’t.

But you need it. You need something to hold onto that isn’t him. Kyle whispers, “You’re so fucking pretty,” And you let him guide you toward the bed.

Your phone buzzes in your bag, you ignore it. Then it buzzes again, long and insistent. Kyle notices, “You can get that if you want—”

“No,” You breathe, “Keep going.”

He nods and kisses you again, and you try, God you try to lose yourself in it. But the second his hand slips under your top, your phone lights up in the dark room. Bright enough in your bag that you both see it.

satoru: answer

satoru: stop playing

satoru: (y/n)

You go still, Kyle pulls back, “Hey…you okay?”

“Yeah,” You lie, “Just—just keep going.”

He leans in, but your eyes stay fixed on the glowing screen. Another message comes through and it’s not angry this time. It’s worse.

satoru: please

Your breath stutters as Kyle kisses your shoulder, your phone vibrates again.

satoru: princess please

Your entire body locks, because this isn’t how he talks. This isn’t a man who begs and it definitely doesn’t sound like one who moved on in an hour. Kyle’s hands slide down your waist, his lips brush your collarbone, and then you reazlie—you can’t do this.

You sit up abruptly, “Wait.”

Kyle freezes, “Oh. Uh, did I do something wrong?”

“No,” You say quickly, “No, you’re great. I just—I can’t.”

He bows his head, disappointed, “It’s cool. Really.”

You grab your phone and open the messages, staring at the last one until your chest aches.

satoru: please just pick up

Blair texts you at the same time.

blair: WHAT DID YOU DO? HE LOOKS LIKE HE’S HAVING A BREAKDOWN

You inhale sharply as the truth slams through you. You’re not over him, not even remotely. Your fingers tremble as you text Blair back.

where is he

blair: SIG CHI bro he showed up like a psycho

blair: he asked EVERYONE if they’ve seen you

Your pulse spikes so hard it hurts. Kyle is still on the end of the bed, giving you space and pretending he doesn’t see your face falling apart, “You sure you’re okay?”

You nod even though you aren’t, and stand too quickly, grabbing your bag, “I—I have to go.”

“Because of him?”

“…Yeah.”

He nods slowly, expecting it, like every guy on campus knows that whatever the hell is happening between you and Satoru Gojo is bigger than anything they could touch, “Douchebag doesn’t even deserve you.”

Yeah, he’s probably right about that but you bolt out of the room anyway, run down the stairs, and through the crowd spilling beer everywhere. Someone calls your name, but you don’t care. Your phone is in your hand, Gojo’s name filling the screen over and over like he’s clawing to get to you.

Pushing out into the street, cool evening air slams into your chest and you call him without thinking. It rings only once, “(Y/N).”

“Satoru—”

“You’re at TKE?” He blurts out. There’s noise behind him—music, voices, and footsteps as if he’s pacing through Sig Chi.

“Yes…”

“Did you go back with Kyle?” Your mouth opens, but you’re unable to speak, so he does it for you, “You did.”

“Satoru—”

“Just tell me,” He cuts you off, voice shaking with fury he’s trying to swallow, “Did he touch you?”

Your pulse slams against your ribs, Gojo keeps going, “He kissed you, right? You let him? You went into his room? You let him fucking—” He stops suddenly, breath hitching like finishing the rest of his sentence would choke him.

“Nothing happened.”

“…You’re lying.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, frustrated tears burning, “I left, Satoru. I left him. I’m literally calling you—”

“Why the fuck were you even there?”

“Because of you!”

A voice in the background of Gojo’s line says, “Bro, chill—” And you hear him snarl, “Shut the fuck up,” Followed by a door slamming so loudly you flinch. Now he’s alone and the truth crawls out of him, “I thought you were gone…I thought you actually went and—and fucked him.”

“I didn’t.”

“You almost did.”

Almost…and you would’ve too if he hadn’t kept texting, “You don’t understand,” He says hoarsely, “I’ve been looking for you for hours. I tore through the whole fucking house. I asked everyone. I—”

“Satoru…”

“Where are you now?”

“Heading toward Sig Chi.”

You hear movement and the sound of his breath catching, his shoes hitting the floor, something crashing behind him as he pushes through the thumping house.

“Stay on the phone,” He orders, “You’re not walking alone.”

“I’m fine.”

“Stay on the fucking phone.”

You listen then. Breath syncing with his footsteps as he barrels through the hallway and out the back door, onto the street. He’s running now, you can tell, “Satoru—slow down—”

“No,” He pants, keys jangling, car door slamming, Porsche engine purring to life, “You think I’m letting you walk alone after someone else had their hands on you?”

Your grip tightens on the phone, “So what? You’re coming to get me?”

“I’m already halfway there,” He breathes, rounding a corner so sharp the tires skid, “Don’t hang up.”

“Wasn’t planning on it.”

A long exhale leaves him, desperation blended with rage, “Tell me again. Tell me nothing happened.”

“…Nothing happened.”

He lets out a broken laugh of disbelief, “Good…Because I’m two minutes away, and if he had fucked you—”

You feel it in your bones, the relief so violent it comes out as anger, “Satoru,” You whisper softly, “Just…get here.”

“I’m coming, princess,” And then he hangs up.

The Porsche’s roar echoes down the street long before his headlights appear and once they do, he swings by the curb so fast you stumble back a step. He rolls the window down only to say, “Get in the car.”

You open the door, slide into the passenger seat and the second you’re in, he peels off so hard your shoulder hits the door, “Fuck—relax.”

“Can’t,” His knuckles are white on the wheel, every muscle in his forearm flexes with barely contained aggravation, and he doesn’t look at you once during the drive. He whips into the Sig Chi driveway, parks crooked as shit, and kills the engine.

Finally, he turns his head, eyes blazing, “Inside.”

You don’t argue; you follow him through the front door with your pulse in your throat, up the creaking stairs, through the hall, until he shoves his bedroom door open and pulls you inside, slamming it with so much force the walls shake.

“What the fuck was all of that?”

“Oh, don’t do that,” Your tone is full of bitterness, “Don’t think I forgot about the blonde you posted today. Don’t act like you didn’t show me exactly where I stand.”

“That was different.”

“Was it?” You step closer, chest heaving, “Was it different when I walked into your room last night and saw a trashcan full of condoms? When your sheets were a fucking mess? When your lips were swollen and you looked like you’d just—” You don’t finish that thought. He flinches at your words, but you don’t stop there, “When you fucked me and laughed in my face, telling me I’d never be the only one?”

His throat works, “Say something,” You snap, “Go on. Justify it. Tell me I’m crazy.”

“I didn’t fuck her,” He runs a trembling hand through his hair, “I didn’t fuck anyone,” He says louder, “Not the blonde. Not last night. Not today. Nobody.”

You stare at him, “Satoru. Your room—your trash.”

“I couldn’t even get it up…happy?” He spits out the truth like it hurts, “I kept—” He gestures violently, “—trying. With someone else. But it didn’t matter. My dick wouldn’t stay fucking hard.”

Your mouth falls agape, he keeps going, voice cracking down the middle, “I kept putting the condom on and I’d go soft. Again and again and again,” He laughs once, “That’s why there were wrappers. Not because I fucked anyone, but ‘cause I literally couldn’t.”

He steps closer, “You wanna know why?” You don’t say anything, but he gives you the answer anyway, “You.”

“I can’t stop thinking about you,” He says, voice dropping dangerously soft, “Can’t stop seeing your face, can’t stop remembering how you sound when you cum, can’t stop thinking about how it feels to be inside you.”

Your thighs press together involuntarily, “And do you know how fucking pathetic that makes me feel?” His voice breaks again, “That I can’t fuck anyone else because the only pussy I get hard for is yours?”

Now you’re trembling, “But sure, go ahead. Tell me again you were just being petty. Tell me again that you thought going home with that TKE fuck was gonna hurt me.”

“I didn’t—”

“Yes, you did,” He rasps, “You wanted to make me jealous,” He takes a step closer, “You wanted me to come find you,” Then another, “You wanted me to lose my fucking mind over you.”

Your back hits the wall, he cages you in with his arms, “And congratulations…It fucking worked.”

“Satoru…”

His forehead presses to yours, breaths mingling, anger turning molten, “You’re not replacing me, and I’m sure as hell not letting anyone else touch you…because you’re mine.”

Something hot flickers in your chest, “And you’re mine.”

He freezes, blue eyes turning a shade darker, “Say that again.”

You lift your chin, “You’re mine.”

As soon as the words leave your tongue he surges forward, mouth crashing onto yours with a force that feels like the room exploded. His hands are already on your hips, lifting you, dragging you toward the bed.

Your back hits the mattress, bouncing once before he’s on you, over you, everywhere; kissing you. His teeth catch your bottom lip, his tongue forcing its way in, and his fingers tear your shorts down so fast the friction burns.

“Spread,” He growls against your mouth. Without hesitation, you spread your legs wide open. He drags you down the bed by your thighs like you’re something he gets to rearrange however he wants, and when he drops to his knees—it’s over.

His mouth is on your cunt instantly, tongue flattening against your clit, sucking and licking. You arch intensely, a choked cry crooning from your throat, “Fuck—Satoru,” Your thighs clamp around his head, but he forces them wider. You try to lift your hips and he pins them down.

“Stay still,” He mutters, “Or I’ll take my time,” It’s a threat, a wonderful filthy one. He eats you until your vision blurs and you’re pulling at his white tendrils; when you cum, you break with your head thrown back, mouth fully open, moaning his name in a way that would destroy him if he weren’t already in shambles.

“You’re so fucking perfect like this,” He pants, climbing over you, dragging his mouth up your stomach, ribs, throat, “Ruined and wet and waiting for me—fuck.”

He lines his cock up without looking, he doesn’t have to at this point. He knows your body by heart, and when he pushes in it’s one languid stroke that make your nails claw into his back and his breath punch out of him, “Shit—baby, so tight—”

He locks one hand behind your knee, shoving it higher, deeper, opening you more than you’ve ever been before, “You feel that?” He grits, hips snapping hard enough the headboard slams the wall, “Feel how easy this pussy takes me after I eat you out?”

The moan that escapes you sounds like a sob, “Feel how deep I am?” He thrusts again, brutal and perfect, “Feel me right fucking there?” One of his big hands presses right on your lower belly, a helpless whimper falls from your lips; his eyes go dark, “That’s where I wanna cum.”

Your stomach drops, “Satoru—”

“I want it so bad I can’t fucking think,” Each thrust is more forceful, sloppier, desperate, “You have no idea,” He pants, “No fucking idea what it did to me the first time—seeing my cum dripping out of you. Fuck, I been thinking about it every night since.”

Your cunt clenches around him, his eyes roll back, “Yeah…” He groans, “You liked that, didn’t you?”

His hand slides to your jaw, holding your face still so you can’t look away, “You want me to fill you again? Want me to make you mine for real?”

God, you shouldn’t want it. Not one bit.

Not with him and not when the risks outweigh the rewards. But at the same time, you fucking do.

Your brain fogs, melts, almost liquifies, “I want—” You gasp, nails sinking into his back, “I want you to fill me—”

He growls, “Fuck, princess—don’t say it unless you mean it—”

You’re too far gone to stop yourself, “Make me yours,” You whisper, trembling, “I want all of it, please.”

Hearing you beg for a load would make even the strongest man fold, and for a guy like Gojo, it takes very little to get him to. He snaps, thrusts turn punishing, ragged, the rhythm of a person who has lost every ounce of sanity, “You don’t—understand what you’re asking for.”

You cling to him, eyes half-lidded, “Satoru—don’t pull out.”

He shudders, grip on you tightening painfully, “Baby—fuck. You’re gonna make me—shit, you’re gonna make me cum—”

You wrap your legs around him and pin him in place, he fails to hide the moan that leaves him, “Oh my God,” He grunts, “You want it—you actually want it.”

He convulses then, slamming into you one last time, shoving himself all the way until his tip kisses your cervix, and cums inside you with a sound that is pure, ruined surrender.

His cock is throbbing, pulse after pulse, pumping you full of hot, thick white ribbons. He stays there, trembling through it, shaking, and when he finally pulls out, he looks down.

The sight that greets him is his favorite in the world. His cum leaking out of your pussy in warm, heavy streams, “Fuck…That’s perfect.”

He drags two fingers through the load, smearing it, then pushing it back in you with the darkest smirk on his face, “I could get addicted to this,” He murmurs, before adding, “Maybe I already am.”

Your chest is heaving, the room spinning around you. He’s still hovering over your hips, transfixed on the mess he made like he can’t look away, “Should make you keep it.”

Your entire body tenses because he doesn't look at your face when he says it—he’s still staring at your legs, like the sight has rewired something fundamental in him.

He pushes his fingers deeper, you whine, “But I can’t,” He mutters more to himself than you, “I shouldn’t.”

He pulls his fingers out and wipes them on your thigh, eyes hooded and dark with something you’ve never seen in him before. Gojo sits back on his heels, rakes a hand through his hair, when it finally hits him—reality.

He actually did it. He came inside you. On purpose this time. His eyes flick up to yours, unsure, “…We need to get you a Plan B.”

You knew that was coming, but the tone is different. He sounds shaken, disappointed even, “Okay.”

But he doesn’t move. He just keeps staring at you—the bite marks blooming on your throat, the mess between your thighs he put there, and something in him cracks all over again, “That was the hottest thing I’ve ever done in my life.”

Your pulse stutters as he exhales hard, standing. The room tilts as he grabs his USC hoodie off the floor, tugging it over his head with shaky hands. He hesitates a second too long before speaking, “I-I didn’t mean to…do it like that.”

“Do what?”

His eyes flick away shamefully, “Nut in you like I was trying to get you pregnant,” He mutters, rubbing the back of his neck, “Because that’s what it felt like,” Your heart skips, he glances back at you, almost pained, “But that’s not—we’re not doing that.”

Silence stretches, then he shakes his head as if snapping himself out of whatever daze he’s in, “Get dressed. Please.”

You pull your shorts back on and he hands you one of his shirts without looking directly at you—like one wrong glance, one more glimpse of you fucked-out and dripping, and he’ll pin you back on the bed to do it again.

When you’re covered enough to leave, he grabs his keys; his hand finds yours, he squeezes without thinking and doesn’t let go. He leads you out of Sig Chi through a side door because he doesn’t want anyone seeing you like this. 

He walks too quick, not talking, not until you reach the quiet part of the sidewalk does he finally say something, “Don’t ever let me lose you like that again.”

You look up and he’s staring straight ahead, but his grip tightens, exposing more than he means to, “Come on,” He murmurs, unlocking the Porsche, “We’ll get the Plan B.”

But even as he says it, even as he feigns rationale, his hand won’t stop squeezing yours. The Porsche unlocks with a chirp, he opens your door for you and then slams his own harder than necessary. He starts driving, fast, silent, and focused but not on the road. 

Every streetlight flickers across his face, shadowing and revealing the truth in flashes. Good. She’ll take the pill. This was just heat, adrenaline, possession. 

But beneath that, something far darker hums through him. Still…fuck. I could give her what no one else can. I want that.

He swallows hard, grips the wheel tighter, drives even faster. The CVS is almost empty, thank God. He shoves his hands into his hoodie pockets because he doesn’t trust them not to shake, walking over straight to the aisle he was in mere weeks ago.

Gojo remembers the last time he bought it, but the last time he never wished, that for one stupid second, that if biology had given him a loophole, that maybe—maybe you’d keep a piece of him.

He grabs the box with stiff fingers and at the register, the cashier doesn’t make eye contact; something ugly and possessive in Gojo likes that. Likes that no one here knows what he just did or what he put in you and how deep you let him.

He pays the fifty dollars again, shoves the box into his pockets, and hands it to you the second he makes it back to the car as if he may take it back if he doesn’t. 

You take the pill out, open a water bottle, tip your chin back, and he watches. His jaw moves once, like he’s grinding the idea to dust. Good. She’s safe. She won’t be pregnant. This isn’t happening. 

Then, right behind it, a quieter, eviller truth. Would’ve been kinda nice if it was. 

And the thought doesn’t fade, it festers. Even after you swallow the pill and he drives away with his hands white-knuckled on the wheel, even after he drops you off at your dorm and tells you to text him when you’re inside. 

No, it fucking lingers. A wrong desire he keeps trying to destroy, a feeling he can’t outrun. Something vital within him shifted when he finished in you that second time, and it bleeds into everything that happens next.

The next morning, you’re brushing your teeth when your phone buzzes.

satoru: you got class at 10 right?

Before you can answer, another text comes.

satoru: be outside in 5

He picks you up with a coffee in the cupholder, the exact way you like it, and a muffin he claims he “accidentally bought two of”. You don’t call him out on the lie. 

Gojo doesn’t drop you off at the curb, either. He walks you all the way to the building and when you turn to go inside, he hesitates, “Text me when you’re done.”

“You don’t have to—”

“I know,” He cuts you off quietly, “But just do it,” And he walks away before you can fight him on it.

The night after, he shows up again in the same hoodie with the same look in his blue eyes, and that same damn inability to stay away.

He kisses you before the door fully closes behind you—soft at first, almost tentative, like he’s afraid of wanting you too much. Then he remembers your voice calling him yours, your legs wrapped around him, your cunt squeezing around his dick while he came inside you, and suddenly? He’s not soft anymore. 

He lifts you, carries you to your bed, lies you down like you’re fragile, but unravels you like he’s ravenous. He fucks you slow and deep, way too deep; breathing into your neck, voice shredded, hands quivering on your thighs.

At one point, he stops entirely. Stops moving, buried all the way inside you, hips pressed flush, eyes squeezed shut like he’s in physical pain, “Princess…” His forehead presses to your jaw, “If I move, I’m gonna cum in you again.”

You shiver and he doesn’t pull out, not yet, only when he finally forces himself; finishing on your stomach, staring at your body the way a sinner stares at temptation—ruined, in awe, and absolutely starved for more. 

In the days after, he starts acting like your boyfriend. Though neither of you ever say the word, and acting like your boyfriend also apparently includes spoiling you rotten, but he’d never admit that’s what he’s doing.

It starts with him handing you his card one afternoon, “Here. Go get your nails done. Want your hands lookin’ nice around my cock.”

You choke on air, but he won’t meet your eyes, pretending it’s not the sweetest, filthiest thing anyone's ever said to you. Next thing you know, he’s paying for all kinds of appointments. He sends you money for your facial along with a text claiming, “i could give you a better one but idt you’d like it as much”.

Then he’s bringing you on routine mall runs. He takes you straight to Sephora, Aritzia, Zara—anywhere you so look at or mention and buys everything you touch. You tell him he’s insane, but he just shrugs, “It’s not a big deal. Gotta keep you pretty for me.”

You don’t buy the reason for a second.

Then comes the dates. Real ones at fancy places. The first time you’re confused when he tells you to “dress nice”. The second time, you’ve learned that “dress nice” means he’s dropping a stupid amount of money at a restaurant where the menus don’t have prices.

From sushi restaurants in Beverly Hills to Italian spots in West Hollywood, the dinner always goes the same way. With him watching you the entire time like the sight of you sitting across from him looking so beautiful is doing things to his soul and paying the bill without giving you any time to even pretend to pick it up.

“Don’t insult my manhood, princess,” He jokes, already placing his card down, “I’d rather die than let you pay a dime.”

But the worst parts aren’t the dates or the ridiculous instances of spoiling you. It’s what happens after.

One night, you’re sitting in his bed when he removes his silver chain he never takes off, the one you’ve seen in every photo and TikTok. He’s hooking it around your throat while you protest, “Toru—”

“Shh,” He hushes, “Just try it.”

It settles against your collarbone, cool and heavy with a distinct weight to it. His eyes drag over your neck, slow and hungry, like the sight of something that’s his on you does something violent to him, “Mm,” He hums, thumb grazing the metal, “Looks real good on you.”

Your pulse stutters and he kisses you before either of you can process what it means.

And then there’s the night where you’re laying on his chest, tangled in the sheets after he fucked you senseless, when you ask, “What’s Japan like?”

His voice softens in a way you feel in your ribs, “Depends where you go. Tokyo’s crazy. Kyoto’s pretty. Snow up north is perfect.”

You smile into his skin, “Sounds amazing.”

“Yeah,” He replies, adding way too casually, “I’ll have to show you one day.”

You’re quiet for a second before saying, “Teach me something.”

His eyes are warm, melting, “Okay…Say this—suki.”

“Suki,” You whisper; he exhales slowly, almost shakily, “What does it mean?”

He hesitates, choosing to lie gently, “It means…I like this.”

You believe him, but the truth is written all over his face. He doesn’t mean he likes the moment, he means you. Then he looks at you with his chain glinting on your neck, wondering when wanting you turned into needing you—and he’s terrified he can’t stop.

And the need for you only grows.

He picks you up every day from class, keeps snacks in his car that he only buys when you’re around, gives you his favorite sweatshirt when he notices your cold, opens your door every time. On his wrist sits your hair tie, although he says it’s for you, part of you thinks he wears it just because it’s yours.

When you’re walking together, he switches sides so he’s closest to the street. When guys stare, he sees it before you do. One afternoon on the quad, a guy from your lab waves too eagerly at you. Gojo’s voice is flat, “Who the fuck is that?”

You elbow him, “He’s just in my class.”

Gojo scoffs, “Yeah. Don’t like how he looks at you.”

You try not to smile, yet you do.

His frat brothers also start to tease him, “Gojo doesn’t even talk to other bitches anymore.”

“Bro’s whipped.”

“He’s in love with the QB’s daughter.”

He throws a pong ball at their heads, but doesn’t bother denying any of it.

Then, the sex between you? It starts to evolve into something precarious. He no longer fucks you like some sleezy, fuckboy frat bro chasing a climax. The tempo is slower, sensual, intimate in a way that makes your blood curdle.

There’s a night in his room with the lights low and music soft, where you’re riding him, moving slow, his hands gripping your hips like you’re sacred.

His head falls back against the pillow, he’s too sensitive, too close, “Baby…” His voice breaks, “Don’t…don’t do that unless you want—”

But you roll your hips anyway and he loses it. His fingertips dig into your thighs, eyes rolling back, breath catching in a strangled gasp, “Fuck, princess—stop, stop—if I cum like this it’s going inside you.”

And the terrifying part is that he doesn’t sound scared of that. He sounds desperate for it.

He pulls out at the very last heartbeat, just barely. His cum splashes across your chest in hot, heavy ropes and he stares at you like he’s memorizing it. He touches it, swipes some with this thumb, smearing it over your skin. He whispers, almost reverently, “God…would’ve looked better in you.”

Then his gaze glosses over his chain around your neck, and he wonders what it would be like to give you something more permanent.

Next weekend, there’s a tailgate at Sig Chi for the USC football game. It’s loud and crowded, red solo cups litter the backyard and Don Toliver is blasting from a blown out speaker Gojo keeps threatening to throw over the fence.

You’re sitting in his lap in a tiny red skirt you probably should’ve reconsidered, but he hasn’t stopped touching you since you showed up. His hand rests on your thigh at first until it slithers its way to the curve just beneath your ass; thumb rubbing slow circles like he’s publicly claiming territory.

Every time you shift, you feel how hard he is under you. He’s shameless in how he pretends not to care, but his brothers definitely notice. One of the Pledges walks by and does a double take, though Gojo doesn’t look up. He just tightens his grip on your waist and says, completely casual, “Yo, Pledge. Flick me up with my girl.”

My girl. The words strike your bones, “Your—your what?”

Gojo finally lifts his eyes, jaw set like it’s the most obvious thing in the world and that he hates the entire Pledge class, “My girl,” He repeats, patting your thigh once, “C’mon, hurry the fuck up, idiot.”

The Pledge blinks and scrambles to grab his phone, you try to move off Gojo’s lap, flustered, but his arm locks around your waist, “Sit still,” He murmurs into your neck, “Wanna see how pretty you look sittin’ on me.”

Your pulse skitters and he doesn’t even look at the camera—he looks at you, hungrily, lazily possessive, like he already knows he’s gonna post this shit.

When the Pledge sends over the photo, he’s immediately plugging it into his feed on Instagram, which is something he never does. His feed is reserved for himself, thirst traps, aesthetics. So when he posts you with a caption, “me and mine”, all of USC sees it and implodes.

He brushes a kiss onto your jaw, “Let them talk.”

And that same night, you barely make it inside his room before he has you against the wall, kissing you like he’s been deprived of it. Your skirt is on the floor already, your top has been shedded. He lifts you, legs locking around his waist, and thrusts into you so deep your vision spots.

His entire body is shaking, “Princess—fuck, slow, slow, if you keep—”

But you’re too cockdrunk to stop. He grips your ass, burying himself inside you to the hilt, moaning into your shoulder like he’s rupturing, “I’m not gonna…baby—I can’t, if you don’t let go.”

You tighten your legs around him and he falls apart. For one horrifying, heart-stopping second, he doesn’t pull out. He stays in your pussy, groaning into your neck, the two of you trembling against each other.

Gojo only yanks himself out at the very last fraction of a second, finishing in thick, desperate ropes on your inner thighs; he stares at the mess like it’s his masterpiece, but also like he wants it somewhere else.

He strokes your thigh with the back of his fingers, voice impossibly soft, “I can’t keep doing this. I’m trying. I swear I’m trying. But every time—every fucking time, I almost stay inside you.”

Your heart skips a beat, “And the worst part?” He looks at you, eyes blazing, “I don’t even know if I’d stop myself next time…”

And it happens two nights later, when things between you have settled into this terrifying, intoxicating rhythm. You’re already falling asleep in his bed, cheek pressed to his shoulder, his arm wrapped around your lower back like he’s locking in you place.

He whispers, “Come here,” Pulling you into his chest so your thigh slots between his and you feel him instantly—he’s hard, achingly so.

You look up at him through sleep-heavy eyes and he caves. He rolls you onto your back, slow, like he’s been waiting for an excuse to fuck you.

His mouth finds yours, hungry and unhurried; your breathing is barely steady when he finally pushes his cock into you and it’s different. All of it is. Far too deliberate, delicate, deep.

He groans into your neck, voice already wrecked, “Fuck…I’m obsessed with you.”

He’s still sliding himself in when you clutch his biceps, arching up into him with his breath catching in his chest, when he loses the last piece of control he had. His hips snap forward sharply, burying his cock fully inside, and curses low like the feeling of being right where he is now knocks the sense out of him.

He does try to pull out once, you feel it, the hesitation in his hips. But for reasons unknown, you wrap your legs around his waist on pure instinct rather than purpose, and he can’t stop what happens next.

Gojo collapses into you with a broken sound, forehead to yours, thrusts morphing sloppy and desperate, “Baby—fuck, don’t—” His voice cracks, “I can’t—if you do that—”

But you’re already tugging him closer, nails digging into his back, those pretty little cries spilling from your lips send him straight past rational thought.

His hands clamp around your hips, dragging you flush against him, “Oh…God—” He chokes and thinks maybe for a second, he’ll try to pull himself back, but the moment he feels you tighten around him, he breaks with a sound he’s never made before.

A desperate, helpless moan punched out him as he bucks his hips and stays there—buried, locked to you like he couldn’t move even if he tried.

“Fuck, I’m cumming—inside…shit,” And you feel it, hot spurts filling you so completely full that it steals your breath. He can’t even stop, his entire body spasms against yours, quaking through the release, his forehead lodged into your throat as if he’s holding onto you while he falls apart.

It’s a lot. More than the last time. More than either of you expected. So much, it’s leaking around him even while he’s still stuffed deep, twitching through the last waves. He doesn’t move, he just stays there, even when he pulls his face up to look at you with blue eyes blown, “…Fuck. I didn’t pull out.”

Your heart sits high in your chest, he watches your expression like it’s life or death, “Honestly…I didn’t even try.”

But that’s when it hits him. He should tell you to go on birth control. He knows it. That it’s the responsible, sensible, smart thing to do; the normal thing guys in college say when they don’t want their lives derailed.

Though, truth is? He doesn’t want normal, not with you. Because birth control kills the possibility, the danger, the fucked up little thrill that coils low in his stomach every time he pushes in deep and realizes that he could claim you in the one way no other guy has.

If you were on the pill, there would be no risk. No moment where he hovers on the edge, shaking, wondering if he should pull out or just stay, and he lives for that moment. That heartbeat of insanity right before he cums, where he thinks, if I don’t pull out, she’s mine for real.

So that’s why he never says the words, “You should get on birth control.”

And as deranged as it is, he doesn’t want to eliminate the one thing that makes fucking you feel holy, catastrophic, and fate-altering.

But…little does Satoru Gojo know that you’re already on it. You got on it right after that second time he finished in you.

Because that night scared you—you couldn’t trust him anymore, you couldn’t trust yourself either, and the recklessness was going to ruin you both.

You weren’t an idiot. Despite being a sheltered good girl your whole life and being inexperienced with sex, you know the consequences. And after watching his hesitation to pull out disappear night after night and feeling him stay inside you longer each time you fucked, you knew you made the right call.

However, you kept it a secret. You figured it was what was best for the both of you. You were protecting yourself all while letting him play out his little fantasy or whatever sick game he gets off on, letting him think every time might be the time he gets you pregnant.

It was smart, it was calculated, it was you being safe. Or…So you thought. Because of course, life had other plans, cruel and ironic ones. The kind of plans that are in motion before you even realize anything is wrong.

The Plan B you took after that second time he finished in you? Yeah. Unfortunately, it doesn’t work when you’re ovulating. And that night was exactly when you were.

The symptoms creep up on you so sneakily that you don’t even notice them. At first, it’s just fatigue. A bone-deep heaviness that sinks into your limbs on a random Monday morning, although you chalk it up to Gojo keeping you up until 3 A.M. again—him pinning your wrists above your head and whispering “one more round, princess”.

But then the smell of breakfast the next day makes you nauseaous, an odd twist within your gut when you catch a whiff of Blair’s bacon egg and cheese sandwich, “Girl, you good?”

“Fine,” You lie, "Probably just dehydrated,” Though you’ve been drinking water all day and still feel wrong.

Then your boobs hurt, really hurt. Tender in a way you’ve never felt before and Blair notices when you flinch throwing your tote bag over your shoulder, “That bad?”

“I think I’m getting sick.”

You’re not getting sick. You know what your body feels like when something is off and this feels different. The next morning you’re brushing your teeth when Blair says casually from the sink beside you, “When did you last get your period?”

“Last month,” But then your hand stops in mid-air.

Last month. You haven’t gotten it this month yet and it should’ve come by now. Your blood runs cold, “Wait…what day is it?”

Blair checks her phone, “October 27th.”

No. No, no, no. Your toothbrush slips from your fingers and clatters into the sink as realization cleaves through your ribs. It’s been three weeks since that night. Three weeks since the Plan B. Absolutely enough time to pass to start experiencing...pregnancy symptoms. And you already know it has a reputation for not always being effective.

“(Y/N)…?” Blair frowns, “What’s wrong?”

You lift your trembling eyes to hers, “Fuck class, we’re skipping. I need to go to CVS.”

She nods at that and the two of you urgently walk together to the CVS of doom and despair. Except this time, there’s no adrenaline buzzing within your veins, only fear.

You’re in the family planning aisle once again, but not to grab a Plan B, instead it’s a box of three pregnancy tests that feel far too heavy in your shaky hands. Blair hovers behind you, pale, “You really think—?”

“I don’t know,” You whisper, voice breaking, “I don’t know.”

But you do. You do know. You just can’t bring yourself to admit it. Your hands continue to tremble as you pay and walk back to the dorms and shut the bathroom door. Blair waits outside for you, “(Y/N)…I’m right here, okay?”

You nod, barely breathing, your reflection in the mirror looks like a stranger—pretty, terrified, wearing his silver chain around your throat like a brand or prophecy to something more.

You open one of the tests, take it, and set it on the counter. You wait two minutes, only two, and grip the sink and pray. For what, you’re not sure. That it’s negative? Or that it’s positive so you don’t have to keep pretending you aren’t already half in love with Satoru Gojo?

Negative. Yeah, definitely negative. You’re only eighteen, in your first semester of college. You moved across the country for this experience. Your dad would literally murder you for fucking it up.

You squeeze your eyes shut, then you look, and everything inside you falls, collapses, and rearranges.

Two pink lines. Bold and immediate. You’re fucking pregnant. That can’t be. You rip open another test and force yourself to pee again. False positives happen all the time, right? Right?

You wait another two minutes, only for the result to be the exact same…pregnant. Yeah, there’s no denying both. But fuck it, might as well take the third.

Another test, another positive. Three positive fucking tests, “Oh my God,” You whisper, “Oh my God…oh my fucking God—”

Blair knocks lightly, “(Y/N)? You okay? What’s happening?”

“He…” Your voice cracks, “He got me…pregnant.”

The word tastes unreal in your mouth, “But didn’t you take a Plan B? Aren’t you on birth control—?”

“I must’ve been ovulating or something,” You hiccup, tears brimming, “I-I did everything right.”

“Baby…open the door.”

You open it, numb, and Blair pulls you into a crushing hug as the three tests shake in your hand, “Oh, sweet girl…” She coos, “What are you gonna do?”

You shake your head, tears hitting her shoulder, “I—I have to tell him.”

As soon as you make it back to your dorm room you text him.

toru come over

now

please

He replies instantly.

satoru: omw what’s wrong

satoru: princess ??

You don’t answer, but minutes later you can hear the rumble of his Porsche pull into the dorms’ parking lot and not even seconds pass before his frantic knocking rattles your door. When you open it, he stops breathing. Your eyes are bloodshot red, your entire body is quaking, and his chain, of course it’s still on your neck.

“(Y/N),” He exhales, stepping inside and shutting the door behind him with trembling fingers, “What the fuck’s going on? Did someone—did a guy—? If someone touched you I swear I’ll—”

“It’s not that,” You whisper and hold out the three tests.

Gojo goes utterly still. He looks at the tests, then at you, then at the tests again. His throat bobs, “…What are those?”

“You fucking know what they are.”

“They’re…positive?”

You nod once, he inhales sharply like someone punched him, “Fuck,” He says it again, quieter, “Fuck.”

You watch his whole demeanor short circuit. At first it’s shock, but then something within him settles, something darker, something like acceptance wrapped in possession. He’s already thinking, you’re pregnant. With my baby. Mine.

His throat works once, hard. His mouth twitches, barely but unmistakably, because he tried to smother whatever expression is trying to surface.

“C’mere,” He murmurs, pulling you into him like he can fold the entire world away. You break immediately, tears spill hot and fast, your hands clawing into his hoodie as you shake uncontrollably.

And Gojo holds you, arms wrapped around your waist, palm pressing the back of your head gently into his chest, and behind your hair, unseen, his lips curl with a quiet, corrupt satisfaction he can’t suppress.

He does feel bad that you’re crying. He really does, but he also doesn’t care in the way he probably should. Because at the end of the day, you’re carrying his baby, and no one else will ever be able to say that.

He keeps rubbing circles into your spine, shushing you softly. His voice is warm, soothing, everything he thinks he’s supposed to sound like in this moment, “It’s okay, princess…breathe. I’m here.”

But really, ever since you said the words, he’s been reminiscing. Which time was it? After the third time he came in you, he’s stayed in you more often than not. He’s lost count of the nights he finished deep inside, hand fisted in the sheets, moaning your name.

Was it the night on his couch? The night he fucked you in the bathroom of his frat formal because he couldn’t stand the way his brothers were looking at you? Was it when he pulled you onto his lap and didn’t even pretend to pull out? Or—

You sob, “I don’t—I don’t know how it happened—I thought—”

He pulls back slightly, thumb brushing your cheek, “Well, we stopped buying Plan Bs. So we weren’t exactly being…safe.”

Your chest tightens, oh, right. He has no idea that you’ve been on the pill, “Satoru…I need to be honest with you.”

His thumb stills against your cheek, petrified for whatever you’re about to say, “…Okay,” He says slowly, carefully, “Tell me.”

Your bottom lip trembles, “I…I’ve been on birth control.”

Everything in him freezes, “…What?”

“I started it…after that second time, the night we fought,” You whisper, tears slipping fast down your cheeks, “I couldn’t trust us anymore. I knew we were being stupid and I just…needed to do something. But I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want things to change.”

Gojo stares at you like the entire universe just rearranged itself behind your eyes. Birth control. You were on birth control and still wound up pregnant. It wasn’t the nights after. It wasn’t the couch or the bathroom, it wasn’t the time he came in you so deep he saw stars behind his eyelids.

No, it was that night. The one where he called you his and you called him yours, the one where he finished inside you on purpose and you wanted it. The night you took the Plan B after he watched his cum drip out of you like it was the eighth Wonder of the World. Of course it was that night; a night that ended up being prophecy.

Gojo isn’t even upset with you for not telling him about the whole birth control thing, either. Matter of fact? Some twisted, fucked up, and deranged part of him feels satisfied. Because you really tried, you tried so hard not to get pregnant.

But fate already made its decision long before either of you pretended you had control and the idea of that makes something warm and primal settle in his chest, “Oh my God…it was that night.”

You squeeze your eyes shut, fresh tears dribbling down your cheeks, “Satoru, I—I don’t know what to do. This wasn’t supposed to happen. I took the pill, I was on birth control, we—we should’ve been fine—”

He shakes his head immediately, firmly cupping the back of your skull. What he wants to say is that this was always supposed to happen, but instead he opts for, “Hey. Stop. No. This isn’t on you.”

Because it isn’t. If anything, the blame sits squarely on him—he’s the one who kept cumming in you like he was trying to write your future with his body alone. You were the one taking precautions and trying to keep things under control. He was the one who didn’t stop.

So, of course you got pregnant. He practically begged the universe for it with the way he fucked you, “I should’ve been pulling out,” He murmurs, thumb brushing away the tears, “But I didn’t. That’s on me.”

Your breath breaks, “How come you don’t you look upset?”

Gojo stiffens at the accusation. He doesn’t look devastated or destroyed and he definitely doesn’t look like a twenty year old frat boy whose life got flipped upside down.

He looks…eerily calm, “I don’t know what I’m feeling yet,” He lies; he knows exactly what he’s feeling and it’s not something he can say out loud without disrupting whatever fragile world you’re clinging to.

You turn away, pressing your hands to your face, shoulders jerking, “My whole life is screwed, Satoru. My dad—my classes—everything. I don’t even know how to breathe right now.”

His stomach twists, he hates that his lack of fear and panic makes him feel like a monster. He steps closer until his chest brushes your back and wraps his arms around you from behind, tugging you into him.

“Princess,” He murmurs against your shoulder, “I know you’re terrified. I get it. You have every right to be. But I need you to hear me,” You don’t look at him, but he tilts his head, voice dropping into something achingly soft, “You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Your lips quiver, “Then why does it feel like everything is falling apart?”

He exhales slowly, forehead dropping to the curve of your neck. Everything is falling apart for you, but for him? It feels like everything is falling into place.

The girl who arrived to USC that every guy wanted, the girl who has always been good until she met Satoru Gojo, had been claimed by him. He closes his eyes, swallowing down the feral pulse in his chest, “It feels like it’s falling apart because you’re shocked. It’s big and sudden. Anyone would feel what you’re feeling.”

You shudder and he tightens his hold, protective in a way that feels instinctual, “But you’re not alone in this. Not for one second.”

You sniff harshly, “You’re taking this way too well.”

He almost laughs at how easily you see through him, “I’m taking it the only way I know how.”

Quietly, privately, his mind says a different thing, because some part of me knew this was coming the second I didn’t pull out. He presses a soft kiss to your temple before you can see the flicker in his expression.

“Talk to me,” You whisper, voice rasped, “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

He hesitates, because the real answer is, you’re pregnant because of me. Because you told me to make you mine and I did. What he says to you is gentler, “I’m thinking that we’ll figure it out and that you’re safe with me.”

But beneath it, humming like electricity in his bloodstream, I don’t regret it. Not even a little. It was always gonna be us. You were meant to be mine.

You don’t even get a chance to respond to what Gojo has said when the universe decides to fuck you over for a second time. Your phone vibrates in the pocket of the hoodie you’re wearing—his hoodie. A single buzz, then another. You still instantly, Gojo’s hands pause on your waist, “Who is it?”

You pull back just enough to fish your phone out, wiping at your cheeks with the back of your hand. Your vision blurs as you blink at the notification. And when you see the name on the lock screen, you freeze entirely.

Gojo’s brows knit, “Baby?”

“…It’s my dad,” You swipe his message open with tottering fingers and the text hits you like a brick to the sternum.

dad: Hey sweetheart! Good news! College gameday is in USC this weekend so I’ll be seeing you in a few days.

dad: I can’t wait to see you, princess. Love you.

Your throat swells, he leans in slightly to read the message himself because you can’t find your own voice, and for the first time tonight, Satoru Gojo breaks, “…Oh fuck.”

Your dad is coming in three days.

He shakes his head with careful subtlty—like any sudden movement will scare you into actually committing to this plan. 

Disbelief clouds his features, heavy and foreboding like the sky before a summer squall— 

The nerve. The gumption. The audacity so potent on such an unassuming young woman. 

You want to lose your virginity to a stranger and you’re, what, warning him first? 

It’s like you want him to disrupt your plans. 

He watches you roll your eyes, all pursed lips and impudence. 

“Oh, seriously?” you sass. “Calm down. It’s really not that big of a deal.”

Eddie practically chokes on his scoff, and the strangled sound ripples over your body, drawing out the look he knows well. Annoyance—it forces you to sit up straight. 

You squirm in your seat for a moment, like a million tiny ants are marching up your spine, dancing over the tension in your shoulders. And he knows…the argument is imminent, but not before he speaks his piece—

“Not that big of a deal? Sweetheart, stubbing your toe is not that big of a deal. Forgetting to check the mail is not that big of a deal,” his voice raises as he gestures wildly, feeling like a Bible Belt preacher wailing about temptation of the flesh. “Losing your virginity? To a stranger? That’s a pretty big-fuckin’-deal!”

Again, you roll your eyes—blatantly disregarding the way his head cocks and his own eyes narrow in warning. He hates when you do that. When you brush him off so easily, like he’s dust on your pristine shoulder—

A quiet chuckle leaves your lips as you avert your gaze, suddenly finding the speckled laminate far more interesting. 

Like a puppy hearing an unfamiliar noise, Eddie’s head cocks back the other way, trying to figure out what exactly he said that has you laughing. Usually he loves the sound, but he doesn’t like the tone of this one. There’s something deeply derisive buried beneath the nonchalant surface. 

“I’m sorry, I must’ve missed the joke there, sweets. Care to clue me in?” he rasps, goading you.

A jeering smirk pulls at your lips, like you’re finding his simmering temper and deepening voice increasingly amusing. 

After another soft huff—a sound that could almost be mistaken for a scoff—you level him with a penetrating look, your smirk slowly splitting into an incredulous grin. 

“Sorry,” you start, but a chuckle bubbles up your throat, catching on the clearly insincere apology. “Sorry, I just find this whole thing very funny.”

Eddie sucks his teeth as he watches you shrug dismissively—no longer backing down, no longer avoiding his darkening gaze. He lets your words sit in the air, hoping their stuffy bitterness will suffocate you into surrender, but instead, they seem to brandish your skin like armor. 

And just like that, out comes your most dangerous weapon: your self-satisfaction. 

From all his years with you, he knows, when your complacency reaches an all-time high, there’s almost no way to change your mind. You’ve already doubled down once, and you’re about to batten down the hatches. Because more than anything, he knows you hate being wrong and hate it even more when you’re told you’re wrong. 

And through festering nerves and itchy discomfort, Eddie realizes he just shot your idea down and danced on its grave. 

Of course, he wouldn’t have had such a strong reaction if it weren’t such a sensitive topic. But you don’t know that. All you’ve heard so far is you’re wrong, and I know more than you. 

It’s moments like these where Eddie curses his motormouth—his almost comical inability to shut up, or, god forbid, consider what he means before he opens his trap. And until he finally learns his lesson, he figures he’s doomed to live with his foot in his mouth for all eternity.

With you shifting in your seat, and time ticking against him, he knows this bomb is going to need an extra delicate defusal. But he’s not certain he can remain level-headed about this subject matter. 

Not when it’s you. 

Not when damned images of a faceless man caressing you plays in technicolor through his mind. Because sometime ago, somewhere along the night drives and the lazy days, his wires got crossed. And now those wires are sparking, threatening to burn him through and through.

Maybe you’re not the bomb, after all. 

“Oh, you find it funny, do you?” he questions, nodding his head. 

“Well, yeah. You’re sitting here trying to tell me that, what, losing your virginity is supposed to be special?” you mockingly ask, your features alight with mirth. It’s like you’re a bloodhound catching a scent—the scent of sweet, sweet hypocrisy. 

Eddie opens his mouth to answer your rhetorical question, because…yes. 

For you? 

Yes, it should be special—

“You know what? I want you to go look in a mirror and say what you just said to me, and see if you don’t laugh too.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” he argues, jerking his head back. Your words might as well have physically manifested themselves into a slap because that’s how they feel, acidic and seeping into his skin with a sting.

“Please! You remember telling me about your first time? You came to school the next day bragging to me and the Hellfire guys about hooking up with some older chick in the bathroom at the Hideout! Remember that? You wore it like a badge of honor!”

He had taken you in as a freshman, just like he did every lost soul. Battling off the stifling monotony of high school together, it was no surprise you developed a crush on him. He was—is—so sweet. So funny. So unlike anyone you had ever met. 

He would play the fool just to make you laugh, but he’d defend your honor in an instant. Your very own protection against the venomous cheerleaders and mouth-breathing jocks.

When he would get himself going about something or other, marching along the tops of the lunch tables, it was like staring straight into the sun. You bloomed under his gleaming rays, flowering and reaching toward his warmth with every wild grin, every silly headshake, every teasing joke.

He was addicting, and you would come bounding into lunch every day itching for a fix. 

Then you were a sophomore and Eddie was a senior—for the first time. 

One day, he came in with a new story to tell, and no amount of sunshine could restore your wilting leaves, your shriveling flowers. No amount of water could satisfy the buds that never got to grow and now never would—

Every prideful sentence—every dirty detail boasting the changed man he had become—acted like a rain of pesticide on your delicate ecosystem.

It was a level of desecration you couldn’t undo if you wanted to. 

And you weren’t sure you were even strong enough to try.

Because it became clear that day, he wasn’t yours. He wouldn’t be yours. 

You couldn’t see him the same after that. The chemicals contaminated the image, degrading and defacing the likeness. 

He wasn’t the man you used to dream about every night. 

He didn’t look like he once had—so soft, so sweet. A man able to rot your teeth right out of your skull if you allowed him the honor.

A man so saccharine and delicate, like candy floss. 

But maybe it was the image of him that was delicate—not truly him. 

After all, your tears melted the wisps pretty easily. 

All that was left was piles of sugar—too wet for consumption, and not in the right form—and a crash unrivaled by any confectionery you’d ever had. 

White, hot anger seeps from every pore in Eddie’s skin, replaced by the shocking chill of a memory he’s tried very hard to forget.

He feels like throwing up—

This. This, right here, is why he’s vehemently opposing your plan. This feeling constricting his chest, like not enough fresh air in the world could inflate his lungs—

He thought the experience was cool at first. He thought he was being totally “metal.” 

But he was just being used. 

The woman never asked his name, and when he tried to talk to her, she crudely told him to focus less on talking and more on fucking. It was a mortifying experience. He almost wasn’t able to finish from the sheer embarrassment of it all, but eighteen year old hormones were a thing to behold.

And despite what he would have everyone around him believe, he still cared way too much about what people thought of him. So he strutted into lunch the next day, hopping up on his soapbox to spread the good word of his monumental conquest. High from the excitement of the boys, he embellished most of the story. 

And now, here you are, sitting in front of him, smug as can be, thinking you’re proving your point with his own hypocrisy. 

But he’s not a hypocrite. 

He’s just a liar. 

He has lied to you about a lot of things and, funnily enough, all those things seem to be crawling out of their grassy graves, hungry to take a chunk out of him. 

Because as much as you may think you’ve cornered him with a “gotcha” moment, your reminder of his past transgressions only makes him all the more passionate about how you should spend your first time. 

He can’t let you feel how he felt. 

Not you. 

You deserve better than empty touches and unfeeling words. 

“You wore it like a badge of honor!”

Your voice echoing in his mind has a sentiment never meant to be revealed tumbling past his lips with frightening ease—

“Yeah, and I lied!” 

Slowly, your self-satisfied smile falls off your face. Confusion overtakes your confidence. 

Capitalizing on your stunned silence, Eddie continues—

“That first time was fucking awful! I felt like shit. I only acted like it was good because I thought that’s what I was supposed to do…. Because I was stupid and young.” He utters the words with disdain, mortification and frustration mixing low in his gut until he feels more flammable than ever.

“It wasn’t good,” he repeats, a frown etched tightly into his features. “It just made me feel…empty.”

Your silence weighs heavy on his shoulders; selfishly, he steals a glance at you, at the crease in your brows and the way you seem to be reflecting. He can almost see you reliving that day in your head, searching for any twitch of an eye, any too-quick-to-fall smiles. 

But he’s a good liar. Always has been. Even when it comes to you.

The idle hum of electricity coursing into the yellow bulb above him acts as the soundtrack to your response.

“Well, I don’t plan on doing it in the Hideout bathroom, so I think we’re good there,” you shrug.

Eddie purses his lips; he knows it’s deliberate. What you’re doing, it’s purposeful, and you’re doing it to piss him off. Because you’re pissed off. 

Your eyes narrow at his, challenging him in the silence of the trailer.

A huff of air escapes through flared nostrils—he’s refraining.

But you’re killing him. 

Sometimes you can be so difficult, but he wouldn’t stick around if he wasn’t addicted to the agony of trying to figure you out.

That’s half the fun of every conversation he’s had with you. 

You push his buttons more than any woman he’s ever met, but you’ve twisted him up so bad, the only time he feels normal is when you’re looking at him. Doesn’t matter if it’s with anger or fondness or humor. 

You’re a paradox he can’t sort out because you’ve made him like this—wires crossed and incendiary feelings—but you also have a way of fixing him. Though, it’s usually just to mangle him all over again.

And he’d like to be your only victim. He’d like to burn in only your pyre, if given the chance. 

If given the chance.

If given the chance, he’d like to put a stop to this. And with the quasi-warning you’ve granted him, he feels this is as good a time as any to poke as many holes in your plan as he can—

“What’s the rush? Why now?”

He can see in your eyes, you’re taken aback by his question as your challenging gaze turns suspicious. “What do you mean, ‘Why now?’ Because I want to, that’s why.” 

Your argument is slipping; petulance curls off you in plumes as thick as smoke. And the scent is sweet to him.

Eddie settles back in his chair, sliding his hips down—looking the epitome of leisure and apathy, he hopes. Though, unable to fully transform while walking the repressive tightrope, his left hand fiddles with the rings on his right—a nervous tick he hopes you’re too annoyed to notice. 

“Well, yeah, but why not yesterday? Why not a month from now?” He shrugs, feeling flinty resentment sharpen his edges as he continues the onslaught of questions, now bordering on antagonistic. “Why not prom night a few years ago? Isn’t that where all the girls go to lose it? You went, you had a date. You could’ve.”

Your eye twitches.

“Because I didn’t want to, jackass. I’m ready now. I want to now…”

Instead of responding, Eddie just raises his brows, feeling unimpressed. Your words sit in the air, floating in between you both as they grow stale. 

The soft whistle of the A/C unit and the ticking of the old clock on the wall make him feel like he’s trapped in this liminal space where conversations never truly end because nobody’s point ever actually gets made. Like he’s just meant to sit here, staring at you, both waiting for the other shoe to drop, but nothing comes. Because that’s not how the game is played. 

Unfettered, Eddie continues to look at you, as though you’re something to be watched—consumed. A separate entity he can’t touch, but he can play the part of an onlooker, waiting for disaster to hit. 

You squirm and shuffle in your seat. He observes. Waits. Gives you the space to tell on yourself because he knows you’re not strong enough to resist it.

Your eyes sporadically flit from his to random places in the trailer as you avoid his patient gaze. 

After a few seconds, it appears the opened cereal box and empty beer cans across the room become a bore to you. 

Slowly, your far-out gaze drops down the kitchen counter, landing on the floor, sliding to the side, and back up the table until it rests on his joined hands, fingers threaded, rings bulky and glinting in the dull glow of the humming bulb. 

He sees the exact moment you buckle under his unyielding attention—the moment you give up. Your shoulders deflate the smallest amount, free of tension and low from submission. Your chest collapses under the expression of a deep, silent sigh. 

 “I’m tired of being a virgin,” you mutter, shame darkening every syllable. “I just want it over with, I don’t care anymore.”

Eddie purses his lips again, nodding, because he understands the feeling. He remembers the pressure. “And you don’t wanna wait to lose it to someone you love?” 

You don’t respond. Don’t look at him. All you do is laugh. Just a quiet, humorless chuckle. A few notes of melody that tell him you’ve got a well of emotions, thoughts, and opinions on the subject that you’ll have to spare him for time’s sake. 

But Eddie’s not in the business of letting you off easy. As much as you can be difficult sometimes, he can be far worse. 

He can talk, and talk, and talk for hours. Stall forever if he needs to.

Suddenly, he sits up, hunching his shoulders forward, determined. “I think you should wait…. For someone you love,” he implores.

You roll your eyes again, as though he’s spinning you an opulent fantasy and swearing it’s true.

He crosses his arms, mirroring your own movement—

“Thank you for your input, I’ll take it into consideration.” You shoot him an insincere smile before looking up at the ceiling of the trailer, as if thinking, only to return your gaze to him seconds later. “Okay. I’ve considered it. And I’m choosing to ignore it.” 

Eddie bristles, sucking in a quick breath to bolster his impending rebuttal, but you don’t even let him—

“I don’t know if you've noticed, Eddie, but there’s a distinct lack of guys lining down the block, waiting to woo me. And that’s fine, it’s whatever,” you shrug, shaking your head like you couldn’t be less bothered. “I can’t make someone love me. But this, I can control…” 

You snort, mordacious words spewing from your perfect lips. “One thing I know about men is they may not be quick to love, but they’re certainly easy to seduce.” 

Eddie shifts angrily in his seat. Not quick to love? 

As if that could be true. Who in their right mind—

Part of him wants to yell at any guy who’s ever rejected you, but the other part—the dark, untamable ego—wants to jump up in celebration, in smug satisfaction that he’s not having to duel for your devotion. 

But he doesn’t do either because love is awful. 

It’s like staring into a mirror and all his worst flaws are staring back. 

Right now, his selfishness is glaring at him, and yet, he can’t seem to care. That’s the worst part. 

He should be good. He should be better for you. Should want to be better for you. It’s what you deserve. But you’ve done something irreversible to him. 

And love is fickle. 

Because, unfortunately, he can relate to you on one thing—the woes of not being able to make someone love you. 

The pain of wanting it and not getting it. 

If he could…. 

If he could get it… 

If he could make someone love him—if it were possible—he wouldn’t be stuck here listening to you plot how you’re going to lose your virginity to some guy. Instead, he’d be half-way to the bedroom by now, your hand in his, and a million sweet kisses waiting for you. 

But love is fickle. 

“Okay, fine. Yeah, guys are easy, but you can’t lose it to a stranger. That’s probably the worst way to go about it,” he complains, regarding you with almost-pleading eyes.

You pause for a moment, your eyes narrow at the earnest display of caution on his face. But then you must remember this is the face of a liar, because—

“I mean…people hook up with people all the time. Some even after they’ve just met at a bar,” you pointedly argue, pinning Eddie to the spot with a time-hardened gaze. 

His lip curls as he regrets ever opening his mouth that day in ‘84.

If he had known it would give you the perfect shield, allowing every argument he lobs at you to bounce off and hit him square in the chest, he would have never said a word. In fact, he has half a mind to create time travel just to go back and kick eighteen year old Eddie’s ass—

“And besides, I’m not doing it with a stranger. I was thinking of asking Jimmy Royston,” you shrug, focusing on the chipped nail polish you can’t seem to stop picking at. “I sat next to him in Chemistry, like, all of junior year.” 

For the first time in what feels like forever—well, at least since you told him your plans for later—Eddie laughs. A boisterous, belly laugh that echoes around the trailer, the sound bouncing off the smoke-stained wallpaper and hitting every surface in sight. 

Too busy wiping tears from his eyes, Eddie misses the way your face sours, your lips curling into a dangerous sneer.

He starts a few sentences that immediately devolve into gibberish and giggles when he pictures you and Jimmy Royston so much as speaking. God, his stomach hurts— He always did sat you were the funnier one out of you and him. 

A terse ahem draws his attention back, and he tries to stop his body from shaking with heaving laughter.

“Oh, sorry. Phew! I needed that, I needed that.” He wipes some escaped tears off his cheeks. “Ohh, thank you, sweetheart, that was very funny. Thank you,” he says with a breathless grin, smoothing his shirt and rubbing his sore abdomen. 

Staring at him with a heavy brow, your expression remains still—

When your facade doesn’t crack—when you don’t smirk and revel in how hard you made him break, like you usually do—Eddie’s smile drops off his face, replaced by unabashed incredulity. 

You’re serious. You truly mean to tell him…Jimmy Royston is your man of choice? The guy who vomited all over himself in ninth grade when he had to dissect a frog in biology is the one you want to lose your virginity to? Jimmy ‘Puke-y’ Royston?  

What’s more, your choice is based on a year of being lab partners? Really? Eddie has known you since freshman year—known of you since elementary school—and you’re choosing an acquaintance over him? 

Not even an acquaintance—an obligatory desk-mate. How romantic. Touching, really—

He can’t help but imagine how that conversation would go. “Hey, Jimmy, remember me from Chem? Stoichiometry, am I right? That shit sucked. Anyway, do you wanna fuck me?”

All of a sudden, he starts considering whether he could win in a fight against the short, slim guy. 

Who knows? It may come to that if he fucks this up and fails to convince you never to leave his trailer—especially not for Jimmy Royston. 

“Sorry, you wanna have your first time with your eleventh grade chem partner? Are you out of your goddamn mind?” Eddie wails, a crazed, bemused look in his eyes as he leans forward over the table that separates you two. 

You groan loudly, rolling your eyes so hard your head lolls back. “Oh, what now? You don’t want it to be a stranger, I said it’s not gonna be. Now you don’t want it to be someone I know? Seriously, Eddie, you’re grasping at straws here.”

“Someone you know? Jimmy is someone you know?” he scoffs, his brows lift so high they disappear into the messy curls of his bangs. 

When you don’t say anything else, only pursing your lips and avoiding his fiery gaze, he nods fervently, his frizzy locks swaying softly with the movement. 

“Yeah, well, of course. You guys go way back,” he mocks. “You know what, while you’re at it, why don’t you call up Chris Trilcek? You were paired up for that final presentation in world history freshman year. Bet he’d be a hoot-and-a-half in the sack, and I’m sure he’s free!” 

“Oh, do you think I should?” you ask, staring off to the side of his frazzled face like you’re actually considering his teasing suggestion. “I mean it’d be nice to have options in case Jimmy isn’t up for it…”

Before Eddie has a chance to figure out if you’re being deliberately obtuse again, you’re up, leaving him to stare at the empty space across the table as you rifle through the junk-drawer in his kitchen. 

Inside the deep drawer, stray batteries and an impressive rubber band ball roll about as you dig through a shocking amount of take-out menus. Once you find what you’re looking for, you make your way back to Eddie, plopping onto your chair, letting the item drop from your hands and onto the table with a loud thump. 

Quickly, you split the phone book open, flipping through the flimsy pages to get to the ‘R’ section. 

“What the f—” 

Eddie shakes his head wildly, slamming his hand down on the binding of the book before he drags it to him and away from you—away from your deft, searching fingers. 

“Hey!” 

You reach across the table to pull the White Pages back, but before you can get your hands on it, he shoves the book off the surface like an attention-seeking cat. It goes flying, falling to the floor of the trailer with a loud, hollow thud. 

“Hey! I need that, asshole!” you yell, vexation turning your tone shrill.

You stare into his eyes for a moment, annoyance cooking your insides like a stew as you’re met with utter indifference and what looks to be a hint of smugness. You’re going to kill him. 

Stuck in another stand-off, neither of you move until you make the mistake of glancing at the ground, noting the landing spot of the heavy book, splayed out—frail pages folding under the weight of itself in haphazard creases. Eddie follows your gaze and that’s all it took to give away your next move.

In a flash, you turn, bending down, and reaching to the floor. Eddie matches your hasty movements as you both tumble out of your seats, trying to beat the other to the book. The very tips of your fingers brush the laminated cover when he lurches forward, pushing the book out of your grasp once more. 

“Ugh!” you shriek as you scramble toward it, at an advantage because, though he got it away from you in that split-second, he still pushed it to your side of the room—further away from him. You feel a brush of wind against your bare skin as he swipes at your ankle, trying to catch the limb to drag you back to him, but you’re too quick. You get a hold of the book and stand up, rushing over to the yellow landline by the door.

“Fuck!” he shouts, clambering after you. The noises of you vigorously flipping through the pages and the click of the phone coming off the hook only seem to add to his panicked fervor. 

Eddie comes to an abrupt stop behind you, his body nudging you closer to the wall with his nearly-uncontrolled speed. You can feel the heat radiating off of him, his chest warms your back as he breathes heavy. 

Right as you’re about to start typing in the number you found for the Roystons, the phone lodged between your ear and shoulder disappears—yanked free, and slammed back onto the hook by a large, ringed hand. 

Another annoyed groan tears from your throat as you feel his body loom ever-closer behind you. Hunching your shoulders, you turn away from his right hand—the one that guards the phone—to protect your precious White Pages. But it doesn’t work— 

His left hand—the one you hadn’t noticed was resting on your hip—ambushes you from the other side. 

Quickly, Eddie firmly presses the pads of his spread fingers onto the thin page you were reading from, and balls his hand into a tight fist, effectively ripping the delicate paper from the book, trapping it beneath his iron grip. In a fit of rage, you whirl around, leveling him with a sharp glare.

He backs away from you, fist still closed around the paper, shielding it from your inevitable reach. Slamming the book onto the side table beneath the phone, you march toward him. 

“Eddie, what the fuck?” you yell, matching his retreating steps with your confident stride. When he runs out of space, you corner him against the far wall and the couch, zeroing in on his fist. 

Eddie lifts his hand high above his head, fully aware of how silly this game of life-or-death keep-away is. But he’ll be damned if you get that fucking phone number. 

As you reach for the crumpled paper, he uses his body to block you—leaning back when you lean forward, stretching and giving you more of his body to reach over. You grunt and mutter obscenities at him, balancing on your tip-toes, but nothing helps. You can’t reach it. He’s never been more overjoyed at his lanky stature than in this moment—

Giggles freely escape his grinning mouth while he watches laser-sharp focus and irritation mar your face as you shove him, trying to get him to break and finally give you the page. He’d never admit it to you because you’d probably junk-punch him—especially right now—but he’s loving the way you’re all over him. 

Your touch is everywhere as you reach and pry for the bane of his existence. Not to mention you smell amazing. He has to stop himself from curling into your roving hands, but he must remain sturdy. For both of your sakes. 

“Sorry, sweetheart, but I don’t think you’re tall enough to ride this ride,” he goads, utterly drunk on you.

You let out the loudest groan he’s ever heard from you, leading him to snicker some more. But he soon regrets his overconfident teasing when you give up on aiming directly for his hand and instead start pawing at his arm. 

A sharp chop to the inside of his elbow sends shockwaves of dull pain through his nervous system as you use your full body weight to pull down on his raised arm, now partially crumpled from your assault to his joint. 

In a moment of desperation—your body hanging from his flexing bicep, slowly but surely bringing it to your level—Eddie shoves the ball of paper into his mouth and releases the tension in his arm, dropping it to his side. The sudden slack causes you to nearly fall over, but before you do, he wraps his arms around your waist, catching you. 

Your irate features melt into a look of disgust as you squirm out of his arms. 

“Ew! Egh! That’s so gross, Eddie!” 

“Mmm, phone book,” he taunts through a mouthful of White Pages. 

“You know, that was your phone book, right? You just lost yourself a whole two pages of R’s,” you say, raising a brow. 

“Don’t care.” 

His petulance is muffled by the crumpled paper in his mouth, and he can’t help but cringe at the taste. Paper. It just tastes like paper. But old. 

Suddenly, he sidesteps your body and crosses the room, heading back to the kitchen to throw the page away. He can feel the thin material softening from his saliva and it’s making him want to scrub his mouth out. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see you watching him as he spits the wet slop into the garbage, sees the way you carefully step toward the phone again. 

“Ugh, you’re a child.” 

He pauses from scrubbing a towel over his tongue—attempting to clean any remaining pieces of paper from his mouth. “And you’re a brat.” 

You huff at his declaration. “Am not!” 

“Are too!” he rebuts, dropping the towel and coming out from around the counter. 

“I’m just trying to tell you you’re gonna regret it! I’m on board with the ‘virginity is a concept’ train—hell, I’m the conductor! My point is, sure, it’s a concept, but it’s a concept with feelings attached to it. And feelings get all confusing and…feelings-y,” he rushes out, frustrated at how he can never find the right words when you’re around. “You might not believe it now, but if you go through with this, you’re gonna feel pretty shitty afterwards.” 

He ends his spiel by crossing his arms over his chest and leaning back against the counter, staring at you. He’s said his piece.

You watch him for a moment, then—

“Great. Thank you for the wisdom, Gandalf. But how ‘bout you go share that with someone who cares? I’ve got a ‘T’ name to call.” 

You turn around, pick up the phonebook once more, and flip through a few chunks of pages to get to the right section. 

Eddie lets out a loud, defeated sigh as he lets his arms drop to his sides. “You’re really not gonna give this up?” 

Scoffing, you shoot him a glare from across the room before looking back down at the list of names. “Exactly which part of ‘I’m gonna lose my virginity tonight’ did you not understand?”

He sucks his teeth as he watches your finger find Chris’s last name, your hand already reaching for the phone. 

Fuck it—

“Fine. If you really wanna lose it to someone, and you don’t care who, then lose it to me,” he shrugs, crossing his arms again. 

He glances away from your now-still figure, your shoulders so high, they’re nearly up to your ears. 

Forcing a level of indifference he’s never quite been capable of—especially not when it comes to you—he stares downward, as if the well-worn carpet beneath his feet could ever be more interesting than the woman whose second home is his subconscious.

You’re pretty sure you can hear the fibers unfurling beneath his shifting feet. Or maybe it’s your feet. Maybe it’s your heartbeat in your ears, not his. Everything is a little confusing and you can’t seem to look away from the wall. It feels like a safe place to rest your unseeing eyes. 

Your arm aches and you retract it from where you were reaching for the phone—you hadn’t made it, you were half-way there when he said it. 

Carefully, you turn your head to him, trying to figure out if this is some shitty joke he’s spouting just to piss you off or if he has well and truly lost it. But his face is devoid of any humor and he looks as sane as he ever did—which was never a lot, but no different to now. 

More than anything, he looks almost vulnerable as he avoids your shocked gaze. 

“What? Eddie—” you start, already exasperated because you’ve decided that, even though he appears to be completely serious, he must be joking, “if this is another way for you to try and–”

“It’s not.” He shrugs his shoulders again, finally meeting your eyes while shoving his hands into the back pockets of his ripped jeans. “You win. I capitulate to her majesty.” 

You raise a brow at the medieval lilt and his waving bow to you, but before you get to reprimand him for the joke, he continues— 

“If you’re gonna go have sex with someone you feel nothing for, then why not feel nothing for me?”

You almost want to laugh at his “foolproof” logic, but the familiar pain in your chest is accompanied by something else. Something almost warm. Like rays of sun fighting through cumulonimbus clouds.

Damp dirt, new leaves, and fertilizer.

He’s offering something you only ever dreamed of like it never crossed your mind. 

Like it would mean nothing.

An agreement. A one-time deal. No strings attached; an easy fix to your problem.

But what if you want strings? 

Does he want strings? 

Strings do get messy when left untied. All the criss-cross feelings and knotted touches. 

But it’s him—

“Eds—”

Like he’s been burned by your solemn tone, Eddie cuts you off in a hurry. “At least it’d be with someone you know. Like really know…. Someone who cares about you—about your experience.”

The fragility in his eyes makes you want to console him. To tell him you believe every word. That you’re sure he would be good to you. 

Because he looks like him—

The soft, sweet man you saw all those years ago. The one you prayed to at night like a deity, asking for a few more seconds of his hand on your lower back, or more moments of just you and him. More laughter, more affection, more time. More, more, more. 

All the little things that molded you into a reverent devotee in the first place. 

Asking for every small thing to bolster your faith.

And now, he’s finally offering something much larger. 

Reaching for you with a divine gift.

How could you possibly say no?

Criss-cross feelings, you remind yourself.

Strings to tie your heart down, could be useful—

Fuck it. 

Slowly, you set the phone book down and make your way over to his spot against the kitchen counter. Stopping right in front of him, you look up with hesitant curiosity. 

You’ve never really been this close to him. Not with this much on the table. 

Mindlessly—shamelessly—you glance at his lips before succumbing to the cloudy glint in his eyes, the darkness that falls like a veil over his once-lively irises. 

There’s something there, you find. 

Something else that swirls deep in the molten shade of brown. 

Something you want to know more about. 

Your hands hang uselessly below you, resting against your body as you nervously fiddle with your fingers. The pointed tip of your tongue glides along the soft skin of your lips, leaving your mouth parted—like a siren call to his. 

You couldn’t be any closer to him. Butterflies flutter in your stomach as you feel the soft puffs of air from his wanton mouth. But you won’t move anymore. 

You leave yourself for him. He can have you if he wants. 

A sacrifice.

Eddie’s eyes rove over your face, looking down at the way you’re almost reaching for him, but it’s as if you won’t allow the touch. Won’t allow the crossing of some imaginary barrier you’ve built. 

Steadily, he lifts his hands—crosses the line—trailing his fingers up your neck like a ghost of a touch, until he settles his gentle grip on either side of your head. Stealing a moment from Time itself—just a second, a blip, like he’s plucking a ripe berry to savor in the thousand milliseconds he’s stolen—he smooths his thumbs over your temples, granting himself the selfish gift of feeling you.

His eyes consume all, admiring the dainty flutter of your mascara-blackened lashes, the softness of your skin—he marvels at the feeling.

Simmering from the heat of your body, he tries to memorize all your prettiest features, seen through an advantage he’s never had before. To be this close. To never be again. 

He’s going to make it worth his while. He has to.

A lowly victim to your gravitational pull, he finds himself leaning toward you, like light toward a collapsing star. And there’s no escaping you, not when you so easily warp the fabric of his being with frightening ease.

Loud in his straining ears, he hears the slight hitch in your breath when he nearly brushes his lips with yours, but he loses himself before he can truly feel you. Instead, he plants a cowardly, chaste kiss to the corner of your mouth.

Simply not enough, but more than he could have ever dreamed of getting. Another bittersweet paradox.

“D’you want this?”

He’s so quiet, but he can feel the way you shudder against him. The way you feel him, his words mumbled devoutly into your skin.

“I wanna lose my virginity,” you whisper confidently, like it’s the only thing you're absolutely certain of.

Eddie tries to fight the way his face falls, but he can’t seem to manage it when your words serve as a reminder of how little this all matters to you. Or, at least, how little you care who you lose it to. 

But, ever-observant, you notice, and he catches the worry as soon as it draws your brows together. 

“T-To you…” you amend. “Can I?”

The frail uncertainty in your voice feeds the fire deep in Eddie’s gut, like bone-dry wood being thrown into the hearth on a years-long winter night. 

The flames, once dim and hopeless, time-weathered and starving, roar back to life. 

Subtly, he nods, relishing the way you relax. Bound to your request, he allows his palms to glide down your form, taking his time to explore the new terrain until he grabs ahold of your soft hands. 

Side stepping your body, he gently pulls you to his room. His backwards strides are confident—a sign of comfortability in the home he’d call yours, just the same as he’d call it his. After all, these walls have seen nearly every iteration of his care for you. From acquaintances to friends to—

Neither of you speak as he guides you around his frame—you, now in front of him, and him, leaning his weight against the bedroom door until it clicks shut. 

Wayne is on a fishing trip for the weekend with some buddies from the plant, but he’s not particularly known for remembering to pack everything, and Eddie is keen on protecting your modesty and ensuring your comfort. Like you deserve. Like he knows he can—better than anyone.

He drops one hand from yours only to lock the door. Once he’s certain there will be no interruptions, he walks you back toward the bed until you’re standing right in front of it. 

Dropping your other hand, he reaches up and gently smooths the hair near your temple again, addicted to the way your eyes flutter. His hands slide down your figure until he’s toying with the hem of your t-shirt—his t-shirt, the one you stole in tenth grade and never gave back. 

His selfishness befriends the possessive fiend he fights back daily, because you’re moving through the world marked by him. And in this moment, Eddie wonders if you really could have let another man touch you in the shirt that whispers his name against your soft skin.

Heat thrums just below your surface, boiling and bubbling, nearly spilling over when you feel him tugging at your shirt, silently asking for permission. His hands wait patiently.

You don’t respond. Don’t know how to speak. Nerves rattle against your ribcage. Or maybe it’s your heart testing its prison, looking for a way out as it pounds and pounds and pounds—

“Can I take this off?” 

His low mutter—almost a monosyllabic slur of sound—registers a second later in your hazy brain. You nod, forcing your lungs to expand, but nearly choke at the faint scent of his cologne. 

It’s familiar. Piercing, clean, and rich—

You remember the day he got it. When he dragged you to the mall, forcing you to smell every option. He bought the one you liked the most. Even when he wasn’t too sure about it. You remember warning him about the price tag, about how he should pick one he really likes if he’s going to splurge on it. But he wouldn’t hear it—

“Words.”

A confused hum creeps up your throat as you greedily bask in his scent, feeling the world move in slow motion around you. His unending touch carves canyon-like ripples into the tissue of your mind.

When you manage to focus on his eyes, there’s a level of fondness in them that has you grabbing onto his wrist for support.

“Wanna hear your words, sweetheart. Y’gotta tell me what you want.”

Understanding washes over you like cool hose water on a hot summer day. Quickly, you open your mouth to ask him—no, beg him—to undress you, but before a single word can crawl out from between your parted lips, you feel his warm fingers dancing along the delicate skin of your waist, leaving a wave of goosebumps in their wake. 

Your breath catches, and you shudder because he’s both hot and cold—

His attention warms you; his touch leaves you shivering from a chill that is so frigid it begins to manipulate your frayed nerves, tricking you into feeling the burn as if it were born from the bluest flame and not the calloused hands of your best friend—

“I— I, um…”

You shake your head as you try to remember what you were about to say before the words ran away from you and into his arms, stealing whatever desperate sentiment you meant to express. But no matter how hard you try, you can’t seem to figure it out, to fill in the blanks—like a cipher missing its key. 

His thumbs are drawing little shapes into the soft skin beneath your shirt, aiding and abetting the thieving words. The unfamiliar affection makes your abdomen twitch and your core pulse with need.

Before you get the chance to draw up some semblance of sanity, Eddie leans into you, effectively shrinking your entire world to just him. He’s everything you feel, everything you smell, everything you see, everything you touch, everything you…want to taste.

You so desperately want to know what flavor his kisses are—

Bitter smoke from the habit he can never quite kick? Malt sweetness from the beer he loves to drink? Cool mint from the gum he always carries around?

Would you grow ravenous at the first hint of Marlboro Reds? Would you crumble under the eager pressure of his lager-soaked tongue? Would your mouth water at the lingering scent of menthol on his breath?

You’re trapped in his thrall the second he closes in on your space. His head tips to the side, running his lips along your warm cheeks, your jaw. You shiver at the soft brush of his mouth—an action you’re painfully aware is not meant to be shared among friends. No, this kind of touch is reserved for lovers only— 

“What do you want, sweetheart? Want me to touch you? Want me to hold you?” he murmurs, heavy gaze locked on the way your lips part, and you quietly pant. Your head bobs toward his mouth, body leaning into his arms, drawn to the heat of him. 

You hear the sharp intake of breath, feel his nose nuzzling your hair. Then, as if fighting for control, his hands flex, only to grab onto your hips and drag you tight against him, like he lost the battle. Or maybe he surrendered. The way he hangs over you, almost relieved at the closeness leads you to believe it’s the latter.

Emboldened by his body against yours—all growing hardness and twitching muscles—your hands paw at his abdomen, his waist, kneading and pulling him impossibly closer.

“What do you want, baby?” 

You bite back a whimper at the new endearment. 

Because that’s reserved for lovers too—

“I want…W-Wan’ you. I wanna be…be with you,” you mumble breathlessly, mindlessly.

In a huff of impatience, he pulls your top over your head. You hear the way he swallows back a groan and you wish he wouldn’t have. 

With expert dexterity, he removes your bra, and this time, he doesn’t hold back. You practically bloom under his attention—his wide, hungry eyes, his almost pained rasp of humming appreciation. 

His hands slide up the sides of your body, featherlight fingers following the length of your ribs, brushing inward as he traces the skin just below the curve of your breasts. 

Your wandering hands fiddle with the hem of his shirt before slipping under the material, flexing and groping at his toned abdomen. You pull at his narrow waist, a wordless plea for him to touch you more. 

But he seems uninterested in your needy silence and you remember his instructions—

“Eddie, please. Please, touch me. I need you…. Wanna feel you.”

“Whatever you want,” he agrees, nodding.

Electricity prickles and dances across your skin like invisible lightning as he finally slides his hands over your sensitive breasts. Gently kneading the weight, he smooths his thumbs over your pebbled nipples. You gasp at the sensation, the way it directly triggers the heat twisting and turning low in your core with a quickness you’re not accustomed to. 

Leaning down, Eddie attacks your jaw and neck with greedy, open-mouthed kisses. His nose nudges you zealously, like he’s devouring your delicate flesh and still aching for more, so you tilt your head away, eager to provide. 

You tug his shirt up his body, but quickly realize you’ll need him to break away from your neck to get the material over his head. You lightly push on his abdomen, and he begrudgingly stops his assault, understanding what you’re looking for.

With a level of speed you’ve never once seen him use, he peels his shirt off, balls it up, and blindly tosses it somewhere in the corner of the room. 

Unabashedly, you ogle his body in a way you’ve never allowed yourself before. Your heavy-lidded gaze is first drawn to the pick hanging just below his collarbones, sitting perfectly against his pale skin. Then, your eyes drop, admiring the tattoos that litter the expanse of his chest. 

You’ve only ever seen them a few times—mostly at the Hawkins pool on hot summer days, and once when you walked in on him changing. You remember how you couldn’t get the image out of your mind. The contrast, the searing visage of inky-black against milky-white, pressed into skin like a pretty decoration meant to be admired. 

And like a set path guided by nothing but desire, your eyes track down, down, down his body—all heat and hardness. Your mouth waters when you catch sight of the tuft of coarse hair trailing from his navel to whatever lies beyond the waistband of his jeans. 

Whatever lies—

But you already have an idea; you feel him pulsing against your stomach, you felt him twitch when you whimpered moments ago.

All heat and hardness.

Drawing you from your trance, Eddie’s deft fingers fiddle with the button on your jean shorts, making quick work of the fastenings and dragging the material down your legs. He drops to his knees, peering up at you with something in his eyes so…raw that it has you grabbing onto him, your balance escaping you. 

With your hands on his strong shoulders, you watch with rapt attention as he removes your shoes and socks, then he gently cups one ankle, lifting it and helping you out of the leg of your shorts before doing the same to the other. His touch is so soft—so gentle—you think you might cry.

Barely anything has happened yet and he’s taking such good care of you. You shudder to think how this would have gone had you called up Jimmy or Chris. 

Nobody could compare to Eddie. 

Feeling weightless, heavy, high, and stone-cold sober all at once, you meet his eyes. 

“You look…” he pauses, swallowing harshly, “you’re so beautiful.”

Your ears ring at the hidden sentiment between those three words. A million extra meanings you can’t catch, but you heard them like a whisper in the wind—real and slipping through your fingers the moment his hungry lips grace your skin once more.

Large hands squeeze the backs of your thighs, and you feel the tickling brush of his frizzy curls against your bare legs. 

Wet, searing kisses travel upward, his hands slide in tandem with the needy affection. He holds you with a type of reverence you couldn’t have foreseen—as if you could have ever foreseen this. He moves along your body like you’re allowing him, not like he’s the one doing you a favor. 

You sigh when you feel the heat of his breath over the place you need him most. He’s stopped at the apex of your thighs, panting like a desperate man, blocked by a flimsy slip of fabric that you’re certain he could shred to pieces with the way his eyes have darkened. 

“C-Can I?” His strained voice breaks through the music in the room, disrupting the melody of syncopating gasps and pants. 

It feels like the world is moving as you stay perfectly still, staring down at him, his arms wrapped around your legs, fingers greedily curling in the waistband of your panties. You find yourself thankful for his steady, obedient grip. 

Underneath his wanton gaze, you feel the weight of roles reversed. It’s like it’s his first time, the way he’s looking up at you like your permission will fix him. Your touch will mend something broken. 

With wide eyes and parted lips, you nod. “Y-Yes. Please, Eddie.”

A sound torn from deep within his chest rumbles out, reverberating around the room, bouncing off of every wall and hitting you like a spell. Low, where his breaths warm you, a fiery enchantment unfurls in volant tendrils like ink in water.

Suddenly, Eddie drags the thin material down from around your hips, another appreciative groan rips from his throat as he watches the gusset of your panties fall last, stuck to your wet folds. A delicate string of arousal clings to the fabric, unable to part from it. 

You watch his efforts slow, his lids grow heavy like he can’t control the need. Then, he presses his face between your thighs, the very faint graze of his tongue leaves you trembling. 

With one targeted swipe, Eddie’s tongue snaps the silky string, catching what he can with overwhelming zeal.

“Want more,” he mumbles into your heat. “Sweets…”

“Yes,” you interrupt, already drowning in desperation. “Need you—”

He growls and pulls your panties the rest of the way down your legs before his large hand lifts one of your thighs to sit on his shoulder, allowing him easier access to your soaked core. He hums brokenly—a lewd sound of appreciation. 

The second he drags the flat of his tongue through your dripping folds, your gasps devolve into messy moans, but the sound only seems to encourage him more. With foreign ferocity, he devours you. 

“Oh, god, Eddie,” you mewl, hips twitching against his face, hands threading through his fluffy hair for balance. 

Vibrations from his responding groan move through you, tearing you apart until you’re nothing but wanton shreds. Your knees almost buckle beneath you, but he presses into you. Harder. More persistent. The force sends you falling backward onto the bed, your hands hurry to break your soft descent.

Your hips hang off the edge of the mattress—one foot still planted on the ground, the other dangling over Eddie’s right shoulder. His hands grope and knead the fat of your thighs as his tongue eagerly laps up your arousal like a man starved. Your arms give out from under you, sending your back barreling down to the untucked sheets on his mattress. 

You’re panting and burning up; the heat of his breath meets the warmth of your folds, creating a smoldering furnace where his mouth dances over you. It’s an unfamiliar sensation, and one you think no other man could ever replicate. 

Your hips react ardently to every twist and flick of his tongue, the talented muscle toying with you until you’re shaking and whining and bucking against his mouth for more. 

The moment you feel the tip of his tongue draw tight circles around your swollen clit, your head flies back in ecstasy. Your hands wander the space around you for something to grab, first, trailing over your breasts with a teasing squeeze before reaching for the sheets beside you. But it’s not enough. The material is so thin, you can’t get the grip you need. 

Like he can sense the desperate energy rolling off of you in tidal waves—like he knows the feeling—Eddie grabs your hands, momentarily sacrificing his fragile skin to your clawing, pressing, sinking, crushing—

Your thoughts are plucked from somewhere high in the ether and placed back into your head the moment you feel his dragging touch, then, softness. Peering down the winding, curving terrain of your body, you meet his dark eyes, see the way he’s moved your restless hands into his hair.

The whine falling past your lips is drowned out by his aching growl deep within your wet folds. He tightens his grip around your hands before letting go, encouraging you to hold onto him—to use him.

And you do.

You tug him closer, grinding your core against his mouth until you arch at the dull pressure of his tongue breaching your entrance, pressing into you powerfully, exploring untouched territory you wish could be marred by his ministrations. Like a token to memorialize this moment in time. Something that says you’re his—

Quickly, your hips start to lose their rhythm against his face, recklessly twitching and squirming with every break he takes from fucking you to flicking your clit with searing precision. 

“Eddie, Eddie, I’m gonna— Please, Eds, I—”

Not even bothering to pull away, he moans his pleas right into your pussy. “Give it to me, baby. Mmmph, give it to me, sweets. Taste so fuckin’ good—” 

The tone he’s using, the way he pauses after every other word to slurp and lap at your quivering folds, almost makes it feel like he’s not even talking to you. Or maybe not just you. But it’s like he’s speaking directly to your weeping cunt, pleading for more—more arousal to devour, more fluttering pulses to tickle his tongue.

Your brows contort in pleasure as tears prick at your waterline—almost there, almost there.

Suddenly, you miss the pressure of his mouth for a split-second while you hear a sucking sound, then your chest wracks with desperate sobs as you feel him slip a single finger inside you. 

“Oh, god! Oh, fuck!”

His other hand holds your hips down, blunt nails sinking deeper into the surface of your skin as electricity speeds along a high-strung coil—crackling and tight—just below his large palm. But the coil soon snaps when he starts to drag his long, thick finger against your velvety walls, thrusting in and out—gentle yet firm in his actions. 

“Eddie, Eddie, oh, fuck!” 

Unmade and raw, all you can do is babble incoherent whines and pleas as he teases you even past your orgasm, his tongue working your clit until it throbs to the beat of your racing heart.

When your legs start shaking from overstimulation, you finally gather enough strength to push on his head—appealing for mercy.

Like he’s not ready to part from you just yet, Eddie doesn’t yield to your push, though he does begrudgingly grant you reprieve. But he stays between your legs, and for a moment, you wonder if he’s not just breathing deeply to catch his breath. The way he inches infinitesimally closer, the way he won’t let your thighs close—it’s like he’s reveling in your heady scent—

“Fuck, you’re so pretty when you cum. Squeezin’ my finger so hard. God, this was just one, baby,” he boasts, utter glee defiling his already dirty words.

You whimper. One finger, and you felt so full.

In response, he garnishes your twitching pelvis with wet, sloppy kisses, like he’s searing a promise into your skin—

His hands do their best to hold your hips down, allowing him to take a tour of the tops of your thighs, the divot where your folds meet your legs, your mound—soaked and slobbered on by his overzealous mouth. 

Peering down your body, open-mouthed and desperate, you nearly mewl at the way his eyes are glazed over. He looks drunk on the taste of you. Completely and utterly wasted. What’s more, his face is covered in you. 

All the way up to his nose, his skin shimmers in the light, glistening with your juices. But he doesn’t seem ashamed of the indecent display. Instead, he seems proud. Proud to wear you on him—like a badge of honor.

“Eddie, please. I want more,” you whine, breathless from the come-down. 

“Pretty girl,” he purrs, nuzzling your thigh, “so desperate. Am I turning you to the dark side already?”

You shudder at his smug grin, but you can’t find it in yourself to care about his overly-inflated ego. Your mind is mush, and all you can think is his name prefaced by the dangerous word “my.”

“Please,” you mewl. 

His grin widens, and you note the hunger no longer hidden in the dark brown of his irises. Because he’s not aiming for decency anymore. Not in the way he’s eyeing you like you’re a meal and he’s famished, and not in the way his words are rife with untapped desire. 

“Alright, pretty.” He pats your thigh before backing away from you. “Up on the bed.”

It’s a soft order. A gentle command as he grabs your forearms and helps you scoot your hips all the way onto the mattress before letting go, allowing you to shuffle to the top of the bed. 

Once your head hits the pillow, he watches you settle into place, shoving the untucked sheets out from beneath you and off to the side. Without taking his eyes off of your movements, he works to remove his jeans, shoving them down his legs, along with his boxers. 

Now that your moans have ceased, the room is so quiet, he can hear your sharp intake of breath when his hard cock bobs free from its constraints. He bites his lip at the subtle shock shifting across your face. It’s flattering, but more than anything, he’s leaking at the thought of fitting inside you. 

“That’s— You’re—” 

Every one of your sentences seems to die on the first word, and he watches your thighs clench as your focus stays on his thick length. 

Heat warms Eddie’s cheeks as he tries to stop the smile from overtaking his face. He shouldn’t be like this—he should be calm, cool, and collected, but clearly exceeding your expectations has him feeling a myriad of things. Giddy, confident, smug…eager. 

Mindlessly, he wipes a hand down the lower half of his face, gathering your slick arousal on his palm, then collects the precum pouring from his ruddy tip, and spreads the combination of juices over the expanse of his thick cock. He grants himself a firm, teasing squeeze as he steps toward you, but quickly detours to the bedside table to rifle through the top drawer. 

“I’ll make sure it feels good, don’t worry. You’re gonna help me with that,” he says lowly, then stills his searching hands as he looks to you for a nod of agreement. When you give it to him, he smiles fondly. “Good girl.”

A quiet huff of amusement escapes him when he hears your strained whimper—the way you so obviously try to keep yourself quiet, but can’t help it. 

He’s starting to catch onto what you like. How you like to be spoken to. And your responses are addicting. The clench of your thighs, the pulse of your walls. The need that crawls up your throat like it’s fighting its way out of you.

He desperately wants to know what else his words can elicit. Or maybe even try something more than his words—

His body warms as he wonders what you’ll sound like when you’re wrapped around him. His mind conjures its best guess at the noises you’ll make when his thrusts knock the air out of you, like sweet rasping melodies meant to torture him. 

He wants to know just how shrill your cries will get when you’re nearly there, searching for just a little bit more. 

But most of all he wants to hear the sweet words that will slip past your loose lips, your mind too cockdrunk to stop the affection you’ll share. The secrets you’ll spill. God, he’s aching to hear you.

If he could, he’d lock you in his room and run experiments on you for a week straight—just to find out what makes you tick. He’d take you apart piece-by-pretty-piece, just to put you back together again. He’d hold you tight and play with you passionately, like you were his favorite toy. 

His.

Drawn from his thoughts by your shifting body, his attention diverts to the box of condoms he manages to find deep in his bedside drawer. He tears at the paperboard and pulls one out, showing you the foil packet before ripping it open—

“Safe sex,” he declares, sliding the oily-feeling latex out of the wrapper. 

His wry smile widens to a goofy grin when you giggle at his words, easing the tension. 

“Stupid,” you mutter, knocking your shin against the side of his thigh as he hovers near the head of the bed, putting the condom on. 

Once he’s done, he crumples the wrapper in his hand, glancing over at you before throwing it on the cluttered surface of the nightstand. “You sure you wanna do this?”

You roll your eyes, smirking. “Yes, Eddie. You already ate me out.”

That leaves him frowning—

“Sweetheart, just because we did that doesn’t mean you have to continue. We can be done. Nothing more needs to happen if you don’t want it to.”

You remain silent, only staring up at him with so much…something…in your gaze, it makes him want to fold in on himself like the discarded foil. And he thought the ease with which you crossed his wires was bad— 

“I know,” you mutter softly. “But I want to. With you. Will you…. Will you take care of me?”

Eddie’s breath hitches, and there’s a stinging feeling behind his eyes—one he knows all too well. 

You sound so small, so nervous. As if he could ever deny you something that was meant to be yours. His care. His devotion. 

“‘Course I will.” 

He nods one too many times, entranced by the way you seem so delicate under his watchful eyes. 

Delicate because you’re asking him to take care. In the way he’ll touch you. The way he’ll guide you. The way he’ll—

Slowly, he steps closer. You scoot to the side, making room for him to knee his way onto the bed. 

His hands brush your ankles, featherlight affection smoothing up your legs, stopping at your knees. With the utmost reverence, he gently parts them, settling between your thighs. 

“You look so pretty like this. I mean…you look— Well, you look…pretty all the time,” he nervously amends, eyes flitting over your face, but never any lower. 

He wants you to know he means you. You’re pretty. Beautiful. Gorgeous. Not because you have a gorgeous body, but because you are gorgeous. 

You shift beneath him, avoiding his gaze and, instead, focusing on pulling him to you. Softly. Needily.

He follows your guidance, leaning over you until his hands land beside your head. And just like before, he’s memorizing the moment. Every twitch of your brows, every flutter of your lashes, every quiet breath from your pleasure-bitten lips. 

Below, you glance to the side, find his wrists, and wrap your hands around each one, as if grounding yourself in his touch. Only then—when his pulse beats wildly against your fingers—do you meet his eyes.

Wandering palms—soft and unfamiliar in their affection—travel the length of his arms, pausing over black ink, then continuing up until they reach his biceps. He shivers as you hum, squeezing the corded muscles that lay twitching restlessly beneath heated flesh. 

“You’re pretty, too,” you murmur, sliding your palms back down and rubbing at his wrists. 

Eddie chuckles, then swallows. “No, I’m not.”

The subtle twitch of your brows, the split-second peek at the budding frown that says you disagree has him beating you to your rebuttal—

“Not like you.”

His heart leaps in his chest as your hands suddenly drag his face to yours, like you’re about to kiss him with overwhelming need. But you don’t complete the motion.

And neither does he.

Because he’s not sure he can come back from all of this if he kisses you. 

If you allow him to have you in that way—

He’s not sure he’s strong enough. Not enough to feel you like that, to close his eyes and claim your lips like they belong to him, and then go about his life like he never felt it. The beat of your heart against his, pounding in nerves and want. The truthful desire dancing from your mouth to his. 

He couldn’t go back to living a lie. To live like he doesn’t think about you every single day. Like he doesn’t wonder what you’re doing when you’re not with him. Like he doesn’t do the most mundane shit and spends the whole time thinking about how much better it would be to do it with you. 

So he doesn’t kiss you. He can’t. Not when you’re not his to keep. 

Instead, he leaves a delicate, chaste brush of an almost-kiss to the corner of your mouth. Again.

Another cop-out from a coward. 

You struggle to contain your disappointment, resigning yourself to the fantasy in your head. The imagined taste of his tongue tangling with yours. And with wanton hands, you reach for his hips, subtly pulling him closer. 

“Need you,” you mutter, hearing the hitch of his breath as you whisper the plea against his mouth. 

“Fuck— Okay.” 

You watch as he reaches for his length. Taking a strong grip, he guides the thick tip along your slick folds, gathering your wetness. 

The raw combination of moan and a sigh leaves your lips—an accidental slip portraying just how much you’re aching for him. 

“It’s gonna feel a little weird, like…pressure. Okay? But you gotta let me know if it hurts, sweets, you hear me?” 

Your fluttering eyes, panting mouth, and rolling hips aren’t enough of a response, apparently, because his voice grows firm. 

“Hey, pretty girl, you with me?” 

“Mhm,” you whine, nodding your head. 

“What did I tell you?” he asks, smoothing a thumb down your temple before tapping three times. 

“Um, you— you said, um, if it hurts, I'll tell you.” 

“Good girl.” 

His muttered praise leaves you mewling, inching your hips closer to him, looking for more—yearning for it. 

Your mind devolves into pure static as he presses his thick tip into you slowly. Through bleary eyes, you see his teeth sinking deep into his lower lip, like he’s fighting to maintain his composure. For a moment, you wonder what it must look like from his point of view—the way your folds open up to him, welcoming the intrusion, ready to wrap around him in a vice grip.

“Oh, god. Mmm.” 

Your features crumble at the sensation of dull pressure—exactly what he warned you about. It doesn’t hurt, it just leaves you wanting more, like you’ll find reprieve once he’s fully inside you. 

“How you doin’, baby? Need a break?” he rasps, kneading your thigh gently.

“Need more.”

“Fuck, y’want more? Wanna feel more o’ me?” 

You whimper and nod, your heart racing as his slurred words drag you down into the flaming pit of desire.

Your mouth parts in a silent gasp when you feel him press deeper inside of you, his stiff length sliding past your walls. Your ribs contract and expand in raucous breaths the moment you see just how much of him is left. He’s just barely got the tip in—

As your gaze creeps up his body, you realize Eddie hasn’t looked down once, not to where you’re connected. You wonder if it’s self-preservation or if maybe it’s part of his care for you. The way he watches your face intently, like he’s monitoring every slight change in expression leads you to believe it’s the latter. Probably both, really.

But you’re thankful he’s looking, because he immediately notices when the pinch in your brows shifts from pleasure to a wince of discomfort. 

His hand is on your face in a second, smoothing the crease between your brows and petting your hair soothingly.

“Baby, you okay? Is it too much? You feelin’ pain?” 

You shake your head stubbornly, sucking in a deep breath, leaving your mouth open and panting as your gaze stays glued to the sight of him inside of you. You notice it’s not just the tip, he also gets impossibly thicker through the middle of his length, and you’re sure that’s what you’re feeling now—

“Hey, look at me.” His thumb catches your chin, guiding your eyes to meet his. “I can make you feel good, but I need you to help me out. Tell me what you’re feeling.”

Something flashes in the molten color of his irises and he leans down, brushing his lips against your cheek. You practically preen as he grants you a sweet kiss, and part of you—the rotted, selfish part—wonders if feigning pain would allow you to finally taste him properly, all smoky mint and dancing tongues—

“Let me make you feel good, baby,” he implores.

“‘S just a pinch, ‘s just— It’s fine,” you placate, rubbing your hands gingerly down his sides. 

“Alright, we’re gonna wait here, and you tell me when I can move, or if you wanna stop. But in the meantime, try to relax all your muscles. Sometimes we get all tense, even when we don’t mean to.”

You nod hesitantly, taking a few more deep breaths, making a conscious effort to drop your shoulders and let your muscles rest. After a full minute of breathing, resting, and leaning into his soft palm on your warm cheek, you nod again. 

“Okay, you…you can move now.” 

But he doesn’t. Not yet. As if trying to discern the truth, Eddie just studies you for a moment. Then he moves, inching further into you.

When your jaw goes slack at the feeling of fullness, you hear a rumble of sound, like a groan that’s been cut off too early, and you have half a mind to ask him if he needs a break. But before you get the chance, your words catch in your throat as he rests lower on you.

“Pretty girl,” he coos, his hot breath tickling your ear, leaving your cunt pulsing with need.

Then a hiss—the kind that sounds like it’s bordering on pain, but is only one degree away from pleasure—escapes his lips, and you realize just how tightly you were squeezing him.

Then, suddenly, he bottoms out, the firm, jolting movement forcing all air from your lungs. 

“Oh, good girl,” he huffs out, voice strained. “You’re doin’ so good for me, taking me so well. How’s it feel, sweets? Think you like it? Wan’ more?”

Struggling to turn pitiful mewls into actual words, you nod your head fervently, reaching down to press your palms against his hips. “Mmm, wan’ more. Please, Eddie.” 

For the first time, he glances down, and you hear him choke at the sight. Electricity prickles across your delicate skin, and the sting of your teeth sinking into your lip does nothing to disrupt your giddy hum as you try to push him away.

In the dark shade of his eyes, you can tell he recognizes your movement as a very desperate, unsuccessful attempt at getting him to pull out—to chamber a thrust. And he seems utterly amused—

“Oh, baby, did you want something? You wanna do the work? Help me out like a good girl?” 

Something deeply raw and needy peels from your throat in response, and you silently rejoice when he pulls back, aiding your efforts. Unfortunately, it’s only a couple inches because—to your burgeoning frustration—he’s following your guidance, and your arms don’t reach nearly as far as you need. 

But you’ll take anything right now; desperation is cooking your nerves and boiling your insides. 

So you sink your nails into his hips and pull him back to you with a sudden yank.

Your mouth drops open at his shallow thrust, unintelligible noises of debauched need tumble past your parted lips. 

Clawing at his soft skin, you struggle to set up another thrust. “Please, please— I need more.”

“More? But you’re doin’ so well all by yourself,” he condescends, eyes twinkling with hunger as he lets you push and pull him. “Look at you go, pretty girl. Makin’ yourself feel so good. What an independent little woman.”

His teasing shakes you to your core because it’s so him. It’s your best friend, just in a new scenario with unfettered access to your body and pleasure. God, you’ve allowed him too much power— 

“Eddie! Please! I’m— I need it. I need you…”

Amusement washes from his face and you pout as he pauses, as if admiring a view. Then he ducks down.

“Whatever the princess wishes,” he murmurs lowly, lips brushing against the heated skin of your cheek, syrupy sweet affection dripping from every word. Gently, he pulls out, nearly all the way. 

The mewl that was halfway out of your mouth catches like a lock clicking into place. A loud, desperate cry comes out in its stead—a reckless, candid response to the deep gut-punching thrusts barreling into you. They’re not hard, not rough, but firm. Controlled. Resolute. 

Like he wants you to feel it. Feel him.

You chase your breath in his rutting hips, surrendering to the affection he’s searing into you with every pass of his stiff length against your pulsing walls.

Red streaks paint his milky-white skin, blooming beneath your hurried hands like a casualty of your desire. Curses, groans, and harsh gasps fall from his slackened jaw. Heat bubbles deep in your core, rivaling the warmth of the salacious words he whispers into your flesh. 

“Shit, you feel so good, sweets— Oh, god, wan’ you to be— Fuck!”

Tears flood your waterline as you stare at the ceiling, features permanently fixed in shattered pleasure. Your mind struggles to hold onto the hitch in his breath, the unfinished sentence you’re dying to hear. But the sensations are overwhelming. Every nerve in your body is sparking—all livewires itching to explode.

All you can say is his name, all you can feel is him, and yet, it’s still not enough—

“Eddie, n-need m-more, ple—aseee!”

“Ah, fuck, baby, I know. I got you—”

Eddie glides his tongue over the pad of his thumb before reaching between your legs and circling your swollen clit. 

And suddenly, it’s like lightning has struck the furnace deep in your core, shooting high voltage shocks up your body until you grow so hot you’re almost cold. A sensation of fullness takes over, like you’re mere seconds from bursting. 

Delirious with passion, your hand flies down to stop his movements—to stop what you know is coming.

“H-Hold on, I— Eddie, I need to— I wanna feel you! Please, please, let me—”

Your needy sobs have him slowing down until he stills inside of you, chest heaving and damp with sweat.

“What— You can feel me. Aren’t you feelin’ me, sweets?” He reaches his hand up to the space just below your navel, pressing in only slightly.

You whine from the pressure, and your cunt flutters around him in rhythmic pulses like it’s trying to entice him back into movement. 

And, God, you can feel him— 

He’s burrowed his way deep inside you, but it’s still not enough—

“No— Yes, I— Oh, god, I c-can feel you. I just—” Your words melt into a whimper as you squeeze your eyes shut. The feeling of warm wetness slides down your cheek.

You’re vaguely aware of a dip in the bed on either side of your head, and as you blink away the blur, you realize Eddie has dropped to his elbows over you, caging you in. 

His lips trace the track of the tear in reverse, starting first beneath your jaw, then up the expanse of your face. But his mouth doesn’t open—it’s not a trail of kisses. Just a soothing glide of soft pink, collecting salt water. 

“What do you wanna feel?” he asks patiently, like he’s ready to bring your deepest desires to fruition. 

When you don’t respond, he brushes his lips against the thin skin of your eyelids in short, delicate kisses. 

“I’ll do anything for you, baby. Just tell me what you want—”

The raw truth of his statement rings in your ears along with a prayer in the shape of your name—reverent, impassioned, desperate. The tone has you questioning when the god became the devotee. 

Your eyes flutter open as you peer up at him. 

“Wanna feel you. All of you. I don’t want— I don’t want anything in between,” you whisper, your gaze flitting between his earnest attention and his glistening lips, wet with your tears.

Eddie’s mouth parts slightly, a look of quiet shock mixing with curious disbelief as he tilts his head, like he’s observing you for any lapse in conviction. But there’s none to be found. You’re certain you want this. So he gives a single nod, yielding to you.

Before he can even shift his weight, you’re already pushing at his hips again. He lets you move him until he slips out, then your eager hands reach for his hard cock, sheathed in thin latex. 

The calm Eddie found since ceasing his thrusts starts to dissipate as he watches your movements with rapt attention. 

Acutely aware of the expansion of his ribs on every breath in, the scent of sex and your perfume permeating his olfactory receptors has any semblance of control quickly leaving his body. 

The sensation is like a loss of inhibitions. Like he’s gorged himself on you and now he’s utterly wasted. And he knows from personal experience, he doesn’t make the best decisions when inebriated—

The reminder that he’s here for you—that he’s supposed to be the one guiding you—is hard to hold onto when you’re expertly drawing him back into you, teasing yourself with the thick, ruddy tip of his cock, painting your folds with dribbling precum. 

He shudders at your wrecked moan, your eyes smoked out with hunger and desire and nothing else as you leer at his flexing length.

“F-Fuck, sweetheart, are you sure about this?”

You only hum in response, deep in focus.

“Unh, unh, look at me.”

Eddie’s thumb catches just beneath your chin, drawing your attention to his hardened features. The moment your far-out gaze focuses on him, he struggles to ignore the way your pupils have almost eclipsed any trace of color in the iris. 

But then your attention falters, your eyes slowly glide down to his mouth, your lips parting like a call to him—

He adjusts his grip, his thumb and fingers digging into your cheeks.

“No, up here, pretty girl.”

Tipping your chin up, he manually fixes your gaze to his.

“Are you sure you want this?”

As if words are too difficult to drum up, you whimper imploringly. 

And all it takes is one warning tilt to his head and you’re righting yourself. Forcing the words to come— 

“Yes! God, please. I need you…”

Satisfied, Eddie nods, taking a moment to revel in just how gone you are for him. 

“Okay.”

Another pitiful whimper escapes your closed mouth as you push harder into his grip—wanting, asking.

Knowing exactly what you’re missing—a quick learner in the language of your desperation—a smirk curls at his lips. “Good girl—”

Then he sinks into you in one quick, deep thrust that carves a half-scream, half-gasp from your chest. 

His shoulders drop at the feeling of your wet heat, your greedy walls, hugging every square inch of his cock, gripping onto him like a lifeline.

“Oh, fuck, baby. Shit, y’gotta stop squeezin’ me like that. You’re not gonna give me enough time to pull out,” he mutters, dragging his hips back and slamming into you, starting a brutal pace. 

Tears flood your waterline once more as you cry out for him, your hands touching, groping, and grabbing every bit of muscle you can get ahold of. 

“P-Please, please, E-Eddie! Oh, god, oh—oh god! Feels s-so g-good!” 

Your knees drop open as your hands blindly reach for his hips, pulling him in for impossibly deeper strokes. 

“I’m— E-Eddie, I—”

“I know, baby. I know,” he chants, holding on desperately to the last shred of his sanity.

Ducking lower onto you, he shifts his weight to reach between your thighs and circle your clit. With an open-mouthed pant, he watches as your eyes roll back, your loud moans drowning out the vulgar sound of skin slapping. 

His gaze flits across your face, memorizing your pleasure-shocked features like it’s the last time he’ll ever get to see this particular crease in your brows, this heavy-lidded trance. Panic fills his bloodstream as he realizes it might very well be the last time—

And if it’s the last time, maybe he’s allowed to be selfish. One time. Just this once—

“Fuck it,” he breathes out, dipping down until his mouth capture yours, swallowing every last moan.

Your palms fly to the sides of his head, dragging him further onto you until the range of motion in his hand severely shrinks under his own rutting hips. You lick into his mouth like you’re trying to taste yourself. Overwhelmed with desire, he begins to lav his tongue into you the same way he devoured your cunt earlier. 

Your responding mewls leave him trembling, and he worries over the tightening in his abdomen, the coiling heat deep in his gut. He starts to pull away, but he feels pressure at his hips. You’ve wrapped your legs around his waist, locking your ankles, leaving him no way of escaping your hold. Fuck, you’re going to be the death of him—

“Baby, we can’t— I gotta— I need’ta pull out,” he slurs against your mouth. 

“Please don’t,” you whine, spit-slick lips haphazardly forming around the pitiful plea.

Eddie feels his chest crack open with raw, tortuous longing. Hips faltering to a grinding rhythm, he lets his shoulders sag under the pressure of wanting—the weight of possession. All it would take to claim you, all it would take… is just to let go. To make you his.

He’s not strong enough—

“Please don’t,” you repeat, gliding your hands down his damp skin until you still at his lower back. With a foggy mind driven by the most basic desire to claim—or rather, be claimed—you muster all your strength and press your palms hard into his spine, dragging him to you. 

Following a groan that sounds suspiciously like a surrendering cry, Eddie pulls his hips back just enough to shallowly thrust into you. They’re firm, breathtaking strokes that feel like he’s trying to permanently burrow beneath your flesh, and his mouth glides over yours in a messy, blind display of drunken need. It’s a thorough loss of all space and you revel in it.

“Fuck, sweets. I— I—”

“E-Eddie! Ed—die, I’m— I’m c-cl— Please, don’t— Don’t—”

Eddie’s thumb starts circling your clit with renewed vigor, sending spasms shooting down your legs so strong that your ankles unhook. Like two magnets repelling each other, they go flying to the bed, twitching and convulsing. 

Deep in your core, you feel a magmatic pressure that just builds, and builds, and builds, until something snaps—

Arching into him, you cry out as your body goes weightless, and your mind floats into the ether once more. 

His groans, his grunts, the smacking of skin on skin—every sound echoes as you move further away from your mind. Vaguely, you’re aware of his faltering thrusts, his hungry lips devouring. Your mouth might be moving in tandem with his, or maybe you’re babbling incoherently, it’s unclear—all your senses are fried.

All you’re certain of is the sinking of your body. Deeper than the mattress, deeper than the floor. Down, down, down—you’re dragged into the pit of sated desire while your soul soars high above you.