sienna

seven. 

shit—you were running out of time. better leave now than regret it later. 

you slowly lifted yourself from the chair, wooden legs scraping across the tile beneath. standing slowly minimized the risk of fainting and drawing attention to yourself—or worse, missing the thirty-minute deadline. katsuki glanced up from his phone, expression unchanging. you smiled softly. don’t show your discomfort on your face, fake a smile, ease any doubts. “i’m gonna head to the bathroom real quick, kats—dinner was great.”

six.

he grunted in approval, nodding just slightly before going back to his phone. releasing your tight grip on the back of your chair, you stumbled off to the stairs without another word. using the upstairs bathroom lessened the chances that katsuki’d hear and start asking questions you couldn’t answer without outing yourself completely. it was best he didn’t know. you’d always been good with keeping secrets anyways. 

five.

the ascent up your squeaky stairs was much harder than it should have been. your legs felt weak and wobbled with nearly every step. but to you, it only meant progress—proof that all your hard work was finally amounting to something tangible and real. the railings made it much easier, that way you could hold onto something for stability. again, toppling over on the stairs doesn’t do any good outside of drawing unwarranted attention.

four.

finally, you arrived in the bathroom, immediately reaching to turn on the sink. you glanced down to check the time: 7:35 pm illuminated the blackened watch screen like an angel answering your prayers. just in time. 

you dropped to the cold tile beside the toilet, knees settling beneath you in their usual position. luckily, you'd thought to tie your hair up before dinner this time instead of wasting precious seconds doing it afterward. you draped one arm over the ceramic, the other holding your upper body steady with your elbow. 

three.

carefully, you took two fingers and snaked them down your throat. you used to have a reaction; now it’d become more of a learned ritual. there wasn’t anything wrong with what you were doing anyway. it was no different from someone starting a diet or adding extra workouts to their routine. who cared about the method if the numbers went down either way? maybe most would judge you if they ever found out. they'd treat you like some poor stray that needed reassurance and coddling, telling you to "just find a healthier way."

two.

but they sure don’t judge its results. ever since you'd started, the compliments had come more often than they ever had before. more praise. maybe an older woman would give you a look of disgust every now and then as you passed her on the street, but what did her opinion matter? jealousy is a disease.

one.

you snapped your hand out from your throat one final time when you were sure it had all been thoroughly purged. you glanced down at your fingers through tears. they were coated in wet, sticky saliva from base to your fingernail. your hands were shaking quite noticeably as well. an overwhelming sense of accomplishment washed over you. 

you wiped your face with the back of your hand and forced yourself upright. the room swayed just slightly. nothing new. 

across from where you stood hung a mirror. the figure looking back at you was unfamiliar, hollowed out and worn thin. dark circles etched beneath its eyes. shoulders bowed beneath an invisible weight far too heavy to carry.

though none of that truly mattered to you in this moment. there was still one thing left to check.

peeking from beneath your bathroom counter sat a scale. you pulled it out without a second thought, shaking off your hoodie and sweatpants before stepping on. you couldn’t risk any extra weight being added. the number flickered across a small, rectangular screen just above where you stood. for a second, your breath caught. 

two pounds. you were two pounds lighter than yesterdays weigh in. a shaky laugh escaped your throat before you could stop it. see? it was working. it had to be. otherwise, what was all this for? 

next week you’ll aim for ten. 

you washed your hands, splashed cold water over your face, and practised a smile in the mirror until it looked convincing enough. then you headed back downstairs.

katsuki was comfortably sprawled across your small sofa, remote in hand as he sifted through the endless movie options, one arm slung over the armrest. he glanced up as the floor squeaked under your weight. you smiled. he stared for a moment too long. something dangerous flit across his eyes—something too close to concern. 

“...what?” you asked lightly, shifting your weight.

“you look like shit.”

your smile didnt falter. not even once. “gee, thanks babe.” you forced a small giggle.

“‘m being serious.”

"i'm alive, aren’t i? clearly it's not that bad.”

his gaze lingered for another moment before he clicked his tongue and shifted over slightly. “c’mere.” you blinked. “watch a movie with me.” it sounded more like an order than a question but you complied anyways. 

settling against his broad frame, you finally felt like you were able to relax, if just in the slightest. then an arm slid around your waist, fingers curved around your hipbone. the tiny movement that once might’ve offered you comfort, familiarity, lately had become something entirely different. suddenly you couldn’t focus on anything but your skin. your hips. your stomach.

was he disgusted in your body all the same? could he feel your every flaw beneath his hand? did he wish you looked different? did he notice how much space you took up? were your hips too wide—waist too fatty?

the thoughts came fast and relentless. you stayed perfectly still. didn’t say a word. suffered quietly beside him while the movie played in the background.

—

months passed whether you wanted them to or not. nothing in your behaviour changed. if anything, it’d gotten significantly worse. summer became fall. fall faded to winter; winter was always worse—you were cold enough as is. but at least now you could hide your withering frame beneath oversized clothes and fluffy silhouettes.

you found yourself exhausted constantly. head pounding with the slightest excursions. body aching no matter how much rest you indulged in. simple tasks felt far heavier than they should have. it wasn’t enjoyable, but every time you even considered stopping, the fear came rushing back. so you kept going and going. until your life revolved around numbers, around control. around chasing something that never seemed close enough.

katsuki did not stay oblivious. it was obvious how he eyed you down during meals, how he tracked your expression for any sign of discomfort. he noticed the way your hoodies hung looser than before and the constant dark circles under your eyes. he noticed the way you seemed to sway sometimes when you stood too quickly.

he tried to bring it up a few times, to no avail. you were persistent in your disguise, unwilling to let go of habits better left to rot. 

one night before bed, you noticed him staring a second too long, eyes lingering on your small frame and wobbly movements. “y/n.” he spoke quietly, tone rough and laced with an unusual disquiet. you turned to face him. “talk to me.”

you huffed out a small laugh, averting your gaze instantly. “what do you mean?”

“you know what i mean.” he insisted.

“kats, i don't know what you're talking about.”

“don't bullshit me y/n, you look dead on your fucking feet.” you paused, breath catching. you knew this had to be coming soon—just chose to ignore the possibility. slowly, you faced him again, wearing that same old practised smile, the one that held through even the hardest of nights.

“i'm fine, baby, promise. just been a little…tired. recently.” 

he didn't continue to argue with you about it. didn't try to force some half-assed confession out of you when you clearly had enough on your mind. but his expression held a melancholic tinge that told you he didn't believe it. he continued to stare on days where you seemed particularly exhausted. no more questions, not outloud at least. like he was silently piecing the puzzle together in his mind.

— 

months passed; dinner again. it was a random tuesday, nothing remarkable about it in hindsight. you shoved the first bite past your lips and chewed thoroughly, beginning the countdown. it was just routine, normalcy. nothing special. nothing different.

though halfway through helping katsuki clean up the dishes, panic suddenly shot through your chest. your stomach dropped. the countdown. the clock. you glanced down at your watch: 8:43 pm. fifty minutes had passed. your blood ran cold. how could you have forgotten? you mumbled some excuse to katsuki and rushed upstairs without even waiting for his response. 

your heart hammered through your chest the entire way there. too late, too late, too late. the thought repeated endlessly. 

you dropped to the bathroom floor, knees thudding harshly against the cold tile. you tried to calm down, to fix it and make everything okay again. truly, you did. you shoved your fingers as far down your throat as they could go, coating them in spit. nothing came up. again and again and again you tried. minutes dragged by. nothing.

your initial panic turned quickly to desperation. desperation to frustration, frustration to tears. before you knew it you were sobbing. helplessly curled over the toilet as you shook so hard it hurt to breathe. “please,” you whispered hoarsely. 

you weren't even sure who you were talking to anymore. your reflection stared back at you from the mirror across the room—pathetic and disgusting. a fucking failure.

the bathroom door creaked open. you didn’t hear it at first, didnt even notice until a familiar voice suddenly broke through the noise in your head. “...what the fuck?” everything stopped. your heart nearly stopped with it. 

you turned, and there he was, standing frozen in the doorway, staring. for one horrible second, neither of you moved. katsuki's face had gone completely pale—confusion, horror, and realization all hitting him at once. he crossed the room fast. "shit—"

you immediately broke. "i'm sorry—" the words came out strangled. "i'm sorry, i'm sorry—"

"hey—"

"i'm sorry—"

he grabbed your shoulders gently and pulled you away from the toilet. "fuck—" your entire body shook as tears poured faster than you could stop them. they burned hot against your skin, catching in your lashes and dripping down your chin. every breath came out broken, hitching painfully in your chest.

"i didn't mean—"

"hey." his voice cracked. actually cracked. which somehow that made everything worse. katsuki never sounded like that—never sounded scared. "shit, baby—"

you buried your face into his shoulder immediately. the apologies wouldn't stop coming. every breath felt like another one, every sob another confession spilling out before you could swallow it back down. his shirt was soaked within seconds, damp beneath your cheek as you clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you upright. 

"no, don't apologize." his arms wrapped around you, tight, protective, desperate. "don't fuckin' apologize."

"i'm sorry—"

"stop." his voice wobbled. "please stop apologizin'." you felt him press his cheek against the top of your head, felt his chest rising unevenly beneath yours. his heartbeat was racing. you could feel it through the fabric of his shirt, pounding just as hard as your own.

"i got you." another sob tore through you. "i got you, okay?" he sounded scared—terrified, actually. that realization hurt almost as much as being caught, because suddenly, this wasn't just yours anymore. the secret you'd spent months burying, hiding behind excuses and fake smiles and locked bathroom doors, was suddenly sitting between the two of you in plain sight.

after a moment, he slowly sat back against the bathroom wall and pulled you with him, settling you into his lap and holding you there. one arm wrapped around your waist while the other rubbed slow circles between your shoulder blades, steady and repetitive, like he was trying to soothe something much bigger than either of you knew how to handle.

you cried until your throat hurt, and he stayed through every ugly sob, every apology, every trembling breath. he didn't let go once. didn't pull away when your tears soaked through his shirt or when your hands clenched desperately in the fabric at his sides.

"i'm not goin' anywhere." his voice was quiet now, rough with exhaustion. "you hear me?" you couldn't answer, only nod. his grip tightened just slightly. "we're gonna figure this out." another shaky breath. "together."

She somehow couldn't understand the lovely chirping of her female friends whenever they spotted a boy whose shoulders filled his dishdasha and hair, black as the night, brushed the handsome crease of his forehead. And whenever his eyes spotted her small group of friends, they somehow always, always, would land on her.

With a deep wrinkle on her usually smooth face and eyes alluring like wild lavender, tugging at the young boys' hearts.

"Suguru, I think he wants to talk," her friend would say, while trying to pull herself away from her embrace.

But in such moments, Suguru would usually clasp their fingers more tightly and brush the silky skin of their friend's palm.

Much like in middle school, when everyone's hormones buzzed like crickets on a hot night, Suguru quickly realised how much she cherished the company of women. Their gentle fingers braiding her hair, skin always scented with flowers, eyes filled with sugary sweetness that melted on her tongue, mingling like tiny stars.

She liked whenever they cuddled into her chest, wrapping delicate arms around her waist. She loved when they decorated her skin with soft henna brushes, marking it with bending and curling patterns. She blushed when they cherished deep kohl kissing her waterlines, looking deep, deep, into her lavender eyes.

Suguru was always one of the tallest girls in class, and thus she loved how all her friends treated her like a big sister. Cuddling, tugging, and gripping her body in an always-so-innocent way, unaware that her heart melted whenever their fingers brushed.

Suguru had a few crushes in middle and high school, but she never made a move. She simply couldn't, for she had heard of long sentences and punishments for the love she somehow couldn't weed out of her soul. She knew that each of her friends would need to get a husband, have children and live a blissful life.

What was worse, Suguru knew she would also need to fulfil this tradition, even though she tried to put it off as long as she could.

After high school came university, and after university, a well-paid job; she didn't plan to resign solely for the sake of marriage. Born into a wealthy and rather understanding family, she could drag her feet for a long, long time, although her parents' dissatisfaction was slowly rising.

She could spend her own money on her own wishes and travel far and long, trying to ignore the ache blooming in her heart whenever she thought of what awaited her back home. In the evenings, she met her friends at lavish restaurants and cafes, where they chittered like fair birdies about the joys of their lives. They would talk about the marriage – Suguru would tell them about the latest trips.

But life in a country where being a woman sometimes still felt like being a dog on a leash, at its owner's hand, didn't pay off.

After she returned from one of her trips, Suguru's father made it clear that unless she found herself a husband, he would no longer, as her guardian, allow her to frill. Although by law she could travel alone, permission from a guardian was sometimes, rarely, required to show officials so she could cross the border without trouble.

On that night, for the first time in a long, long while, Suguru cried herself to sleep. With heart swelling with pain and disgust rising in her throat. The sole thought of having a husband and fulfilling marital duties filled her with uncontrollable rage. The sole thought of feeling those rough, heavy hands on her silky skin, of smelling the rich, heavy oil coating their necks and of a harsh beard brushing the soft petals of her cheeks – made her sick.

Her father, fortunately, allowed her to choose her husband herself, and thus he searched far and wide for the man who would be pleasing to the eye and of a personality easy to tame.

So when the neighbouring merchant came into her sight, Suguru stated that she would only marry him. A man of influence and wealth who would easily afford all her wishes. One with strangely delicate hands and kind eyes, who looked at her as if she were one of the long-forgotten Arabian goddesses.

With skin shimmering gold in the crisp sun, and those deep, almond-shaped eyes looking down at him with a slight annoyance. But he didn't mind, for he truly believed there was no one more beautiful than the Suguru herself, and so he married her on the spot.

He… felt that she was different. Slightly cold and mean, she refused to share a bed with him and forced him to awkwardly explain why, after months of marriage, their child still wasn't on the way. She talked to him like a friend but avoided any closer contact, let alone the pleasure he wished to seek from her.

Looking with a furrowed brow at how she laughed and chittered with their maids, while treating her husband as nothing better than a dog. Sometimes, a nasty jealousy would bubble in his heart, for he truly prayed to see a child who would match Suguru's beauty.

He would watch her stroll through the garden of their home, with olive trees matching her silky skin and deep crimson abaya disappearing behind the corners of creamy columns. Sometimes, while Suguru enjoyed her time in the late nights, with the scorching sun long hidden behind the pale houses and stars mingling high over the city, slowly coming alive, he would invite himself to join.

And talk as if with a friend, while cherishing the softness of her voice and eyes that, after a few months, stopped looking at him like a pest.

On one such night, she offered something. Something he wasn't expecting to come directly from her, although he had thought about it for a while.

"Why won't we take the second wife?"

He froze, looking at her with a slight frown. "I thought you wouldn't like it."

"I know you wait for a child, and I cannot make your dream come true. Let's take a second wife, then. I will take care of her," she slipped in a promise, her sly gaze meeting his. "But I have one wish."

His spine straightened, as Suguru rarely had any of them. "Let me hear it, my wife."

Something bubbled beneath the soft skin of her forehead, and a few strands of crimson hair slipped from the loosely wrapped abaya, falling onto her cheeks. The deep plum of the material matched her dark lips as she curled them into a smile and narrowed her lavender eyes.

"Let me choose her."

A gentle wind suddenly stirred the still, burning air as he stared at her, his eyebrows almost brushing his hairline. Men of his wealth often took more than one wife, but stories of nasty jealousy between the women and secret fights behind the husband's back were often the subject of female gossip.

And thus a warmth spread all over his chest, knowing that Suguru was not only eager to allow another woman to enter their household, but also offered to seek her out himself.

So he could only nod and smile, letting his wife play a matchmaker.

He didn't, however, know the reason for it.

That Suguru already had someone in her mind.

A woman of beauty far surpassing hers, with eyes of utmost kindness and a sweet laughter that made her heart skip a beat. With silky hands that brushed Suguru's cheeks with gentleness and a cheeky cheerfulness dancing in the corners of her eyes.

Suguru met you two months ago, accidentally bumping into you at a cafe. It was a late evening, as you sat with your aunt and uncle in the centre of the city. The scorching, crimson sun was long gone, and a slight freshness was creeping between the murmuring alleys. Suguru knew your aunt and uncle, as one of the neighbours living not that far from her, and thus when her eyes fell on their niece… oh.

"Hello," you said, giving her a gentle nod.

Suguru forgot how to breathe and needed a moment to welcome you with the same gesture.

"Ah, Suguru, please join us," your aunt said, inviting her to your table. "And meet our niece. She has just finished university and, you know, is looking for a husband," she laughed, gently patting your arm.

A hidden awkwardness shone in your eyes. Fingers gripped the pinkish abaya a little tighter, and lips curled into a faint smile. "With no luck so far."

Your voice slipped into Suguru's ears like the sweetest melody, and she found herself leaning a little closer. As if trying to drink in, hear, and taste every detail of your lovely face and deep eyes fixed on… her.

On Suguru herself.

"I'm sorry to hear that," Suguru murmured, in fact not sorry at all. "I know how difficult it is to find a good husband."

Your auntie scoffed, sipping her tea slowly. "Oh, but it isn't! You see, it's just that this little angel here spent too much time frolicking with her friends. She barely spends time with men!" Suguru's eyes glimmered, and her heart swelled with sudden pain as she remembered that she, too, used to cut herself off from any of the boys trying to win her hand. "She has so many suitors and rejects them one by one!"

Suguru glanced your way, seeing your eyes fixed on her soft hands. Golden bracelets hugged her wrists, and a crimson abaya wrapped around her arms. A silky headscarf fell loosely over her head and around shoulders, allowing raven locks to smooch the lean cheeks. Your throat bobbed as you watched her deep red lips curve into a rather cheeky smile. When your gazes met, you looked away, feeling a sudden warmth creep up your neck.

"I see," she hummed, following your delicate hands playing with a pinkish robe. "I'm sure she will find someone good one day. If you don't mind, I may have some suitors in mind."

Your aunt clasped her hands, then gave Suguru's elegant palm a gentle squeeze. "Could you? She'll be staying here till the end of the summer, so take as much of her time as you want," she chirped, before turning your way. "What do you say, sweetie? Do you want Suguru to help you?"

And with a warmth spilling into your heart and a deep flush rising on your cheeks, you nodded.

So Suguru… took great care of you. The best, maybe, was taking you out on "dates" and spending time in local cafés. Enjoying the strolls around the markets and stuffing you with figs, dates, and warm bread, until you couldn't walk without holding her arm.

Your aunt was over the moon whenever she picked you up early in the morning, promising that you would surely love the boy Suguru had carefully picked for you. But instead, she would take you for another stroll around the city, another "date", while learning every single detail about your life.

It's not that you didn't want a husband, for having a big family wasn't a dream you'd chased for a long, long time, but… well. You loved men. Or at least, you didn't mind them.

But nothing ever brought you more joy than the softness of a woman's body. Plush lips kissing yours, fingers brushing your wet thighs, and the sweet scent of skin wrapping around your senses.

Loving men felt natural, but loving women was something sacred.

Something always took place behind the closed doors. With Suguru's fingers gently unwrapping your scarf and palms slipping under the long robes. Her soft kisses traced down your neck, and lavender eyes drank in every grimace of pleasure twisting your face.

You soon learnt to love the softness of Suguru's body. The calming feeling of lying on her chest and nuzzling between her heavy breasts, as if nothing in this world mattered.

The slightly dominant air she exuded around herself, and a mature, gentle guidance whenever you were the one slipping under her robes. Peppering her spread thighs and hips and mould of her warmth, with kisses, before letting yourself get drunk on honeyed sweetness spilling on your tongue.

You loved the feeling of her body under yours, and yours beneath hers, with soft moans filling the rooms of one of Suguru's husband's many houses, you soon started to come to. With naked bodies tangled under the soft sheets, and always crossing gazes.

You both simply needed two months to fall madly and endlessly in love with each other, with your eyes always seeking out Suguru's lavender warmth and her fingers always finding yours.

So when she offered to enter her marriage – not for him, for us – you immediately agreed.

"I want us to have a child," she whispered one night, while brushing your cheeks softly.

The crimson sun was slowly sinking below the horizon, and an evening's ambient filled the warm corridors of the house. She would soon need to bring you back to the aunt, but for now, for this slippery second, she still wished to embrace you. Kiss your cheeks, and chin, and lips, while begging to marry him.

To marry her.

For you were…

"The noor of my eyes," she whispered, kissing your eyelids. "And Sultan of my heart."

And you nuzzled closer into her palm, kissing the soft, velvety skin and moving up, and up, along the forearm to the shoulder and neck, before pressing your lips to hers. She tasted of dates and coffee, leaving a lovely fragrance on your tongue.

Your fingers slipped down her chest, rolling the hard nipples, squeezing a fat of her breasts. A soft moan escaped her lips, and you drank it right away, before pulling her closer. With your legs hooked over her hip and fingers sliding down her belly, till the wetness of her pussy.

Rubbing swollen clit, you kissed the curve of her nose, and chin, and eyes, reciting quietly all the love letters hidden deep in your heart.

"I want to give you a child," you said, once again capturing her lips. "And I want to love you till the skin of your cheeks wrinkles like dates," she giggled, and you joined her, gently biting her lower lip. "I'll give you family, for your love makes my nights longer and days a bit sweeter."

And so, a month later, you were officially married.

And on the night your marriage was officially consummated, you slipped away from your husband's embrace and went to do it again.

But this time, fulfilling the union with the one your soul was bonded to. Lying beneath the soft body of your Suguru, with her lips tracing down your belly and hands already spreading your thighs.

"Beautiful," Suguru murmured, digging her fingers into your skin. With tongue giving you a wet, sweet lick, making your feet curl in pleasure. "My beautiful wife."

And she made sure your wedding night was as memorable as possible. With the gentle thrusts of her fingers and lips smooching your swelling clit with gentle sucking. Deep, kohl-lined eyes looking up from between your thighs and your fingers brushing through her hair. Your juices spilling sweetly on her tongue, and you sucking on her heavy breast, when the time to give pleasure back finally came.

And so you made love all night long, with a deepest love and most pristine devotion weighing your fluttering hearts.

As on a paper, you were married to your shared husband.

But in heart, from the beginning till the end to her.

©liahcharms all rights reserved. Do not copy, plagiarise, feed AI, translate or modify my works.

Quote "She is the noor of my eyes and the sultan of my heart" comes from the book A Thousand Splendid Suns by Khaled Hosseini.

Okay, my first take on Femguru... what do we think? Also, I love when Suguru is shown on fanarts with slightly darker skin!

As queer stories have rather low engagement and my taglist for them is short, I will be tagging you for them!

permanent taglist 1/2:

Breathless laughter. You run a hand through your wet hair. "Trust me, it did. Gosh."

This older gentleman is Suguru Geto, your boyfriend of nearly one year. He lives five hours away by car, in an rural town surrounded by thick clusters of cypress and cedar trees, far from the hustle and bustle of the city you've settled down to study in. You met him there on a trip with your friends, and the rest is history. He's the best boyfriend you've had to date: caring and patient, supportive but comfortable in redirecting you when you need it. Obscenely handsome. Obviously. Your age difference was never an issue, because Suguru is always transparent with you, and never treads around speaking candidly.

The single downside is how far he is.

(Of course, the issue came up early. Suguru has roots where he's at. History. A stable line of work. He knows all of the locals by name, is well-loved by all of them. Between the two of you, it's obvious who'd be expected to move. 

Except you don't like that. You don't like that it has to be you, that you'd have to build your life around his just because he's older. 

And neither does he. So, at least for the time being, you're at a standstill.)

But now, he's right in front of you. Greeting you with a sunny smile, smelling lightly of oakwood incense and coconut oil, looking better than ever. Hair tied into a half up-half down bun, white threads gleaming silver in between the ink-black. He never believes you when you tell him they're sexy. Age wears him perfectly.

Hunger stirs in your gut.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you," he murmurs, leaving a kiss below your ear that really, really isn't helping his case. You're gonna eat him up. "I know you've been stressed lately… I was hoping I could keep you company tonight."

"Why are you apologizing?" you huff. "This was the best thing I could have come back to."

The corners of his eyes soften. They're dog-like, adoring, taking you in. Seconds pass without him speaking. You share a long, weighty look, the patter of rainfall crescendoing behind you: the summer shower is only getting worse. 

"Let's go inside," you hasten, tugging at his bicep. Fishing for keys in your front pocket. 

Your boyfriend follows, cluelessly.

As soon as the door closes behind you, a dull thud echoing down the hall— you pounce. Wrapping your arms around his neck and dragging him down to your lips, sticky chapstick tethering you together when you mash them against his. A noise of surprise rasps in his throat, muffled against your mouth, but he's quick to catch himself; falling into your rhythm, parting his lips when you nudge at the seam of them, tongues gliding together in a sloppy, heated waltz. He tastes of pocket mints and need. An arm sneaks around your waist, hefty fingers dipping underneath your shirt to caress the dip of your lower back, causing your trembling frame to press closer. This ache in your chest feels like it'll never go away. Missing him, wanting him, drinking the oxygen straight from his lungs. Both the umbrella and plastic bag clatter on the doormat. 

Your breaths mingle in the dark corner.

When you have to pull away, slack-jawed and doe-eyed, you're met with his swollen lips and molten expression, honey-brown eyes hot with desire. He looks like he could eat you alive like this: cornered, taking a shallow, quiet breath. His cheeks dusted pink with peach fuzz.

But he maintains his composure.

(Age has made him patient, you think. He's always been good at holding back with you. Sometimes it makes you want to push and prod at that part of him— just to see how he'd react. If you could hit on something. Wear him out. He is weak to you; that much you're sure of.)

"… Oh, baby," he's breathless as he speaks, reaching down to pick the plastic bag off the floor. "I almost forgot to give you these."

Inside it is a blue bouquet, hydrangeas paired with clusters of baby's breath. The syrupy scent of rainy season sticks to their petals. He hands them to you with a sweet smile, all-together unfitted for the animalistic need you feel right now, tongue heady with the taste of his saliva, but it still makes your heart bleed. Your boyfriend is something of a flower buff: because of that, you know what they represent. You know about the story of the emperor who gave hydrangeas to his neglected lover, in apology, in repetance. You understand what he's trying to say.

Suguru doesn't just talk to you in words. He speaks to you in actions, expressions, even bouquets. That's part of why you love him. You don't have to look hard to see his care for you.

"… They suit you," he compliments, watching them find home in your arms. 

"Thank you, baby." You give him a kiss on the cheek, struggling not to grin at how pleased he looks. "I'll put them up by the window."

"Good idea. They'll look perfect there."

"Did you bring them from home?"

"I didn't," he shakes his head. "The temple is practically overgrown with them, though. I could have bought a bouquet from Mrs Satsuko, but I didn't want to risk them wilting during the drive. They're sensitive flowers, you know."

"Huh. Are they?"

"Yes." He smiles. "They need cool air and moisture. It's why they bloom so vibrantly when the weather gets like this."

Curiously, you look at the bundle of blossoms in your arms: their petals shaped like fallen stars, the colour of an evening sky. Sucking on a quiet hum. "I'll take good care of them."

…

Silence settles. Then tension returns, even stronger than before— impossible to resist. You bat your lashes, closing in like a coyote.

"Now," you purr. "Where were we?"

Suguru's throat bobs. It's the only tell you get into how much he's holding back, otherwise the picture of composure, your saliva still sticking to his bottom lip. "… Where indeed," he croons. Pulling you closer, and closer, letting you tug him away as you stumble to your bedroom.

Everything else can wait. You need him now. The rest of the world will sort itself out.

You end up straddling his lap, clutching onto his broad shoulders, panties pooled around your ankles as you sink down on his cock. Suguru likes to prepare you thoroughly, with his fingers and tongue and dollops of lube,but the need between your thighs is too great for that kind of patience. He lets you go at the pace you like best. Trusting you to know your limits. The fullness is a comfort, familiar, as much as it strains your pussy to take him to the root— nudging the line of too much, too fast.

Still, you can't help but want all of it. So you take every inch, carefully, from the bulbous head to the curved middle, waiting until you're relaxed enough to sit down fully. Once you've planted yourself on his lap, you pause to take a deep, steadying breath. The stretch burns. Your head spins. Suguru leans in to lick up the drool at the corner of your lip. He's got his palms on either side of your hips, tethering you to the sweltering need between your bodies. 

"Take your time, little one," he murmurs.

It encourages you, if anything.

You start to move. 

He guides you seamlessly, steadily, up and down his condom-clad cock— he slipped it on before you could protest, firm in his choice, more careful with you than you sometimes think is necessary— lips drawn taut around a silent moan. You want to stick your fingers down his throat and pull it out, but you suppose you'll have to do it with your hips instead. "Good girl," he praises, palms slipping underneath your thighs. "You look so beautiful like this." 

The smooth, baritone cords of his voice make you dizzyingly wet: head spinning, slick sticking to his pubes, your feet planted on the mattress to support your pace. Up, down. Up, down. Suguru's thickness is there to welcome you every time, mushroom tip smearing kisses at your cervix. Up, and down. 

A whimper splits your lips.

"I can tell you missed it," he sighs, holding you close, breathing down the side of your neck. It jolts through your fluttering pussy. Something embarrassing scratches at your chest, but you swallow it back down, digging your nails into his shoulders. "You're working it so sloppy."

Knowing him, he means it as a compliment, but it makes your neck burn terribly. He must feel the heat at your cheeks. With a sharp inhale, you flick his hands off your body, sinking down harshly just to hear his breath hitch. You squeeze around him, pointedly.

"Just… lay back," you pant. "No more talking."

Without protest, he does as you say; elbows cushioning his fall, biceps straining deliciously under your watchful gaze. His body is lethal. Firm and muscular, yet softened by age, perfect for resting your head against on days where your thoughts are too turbulent to carry. He hums, eyes flickering with something not quite amused, but endeared, like watching you ride him so desperately is cute to him. It makes you wanna tug at his roots and make him yelp. 

(… Actually, why don't you?)

"Ah—" he sucks on a sharp noise, caught halfway between a moan and a wince, his grip on the sheets tightening like a snare. Desperate, just like you. You watch his throat jump, rosy lips falling open as you get a good grip on his silky black locks, pulling just the way he likes. "Oh, I missed you. I missed you so much, baby." 

Almost unconsciously, you speed up. Raising your hips, then sinking down, using his hair as leverage. The rhythm grows sharper, more purposeful, smacking his pelvis every time you spear yourself open around him. Plap, plap, plap. Sparks firing through your nerve-ends. His balls feel firm underneath you, heavy. 

"A little harder," he encourages, giving your thigh a tender— needy— pat. "I can take it."

"Don't… be greedy," you chastise, out of breath, flushed with heat and trembling. It's a struggle not to stumble on your words; all you're focused on is fucking him, working his cock until you're satisfied. So hungry for him that you feel it like a knot in your stomach. But you listen, tugging harsher, moving your entire body with every loud, slick bounce on his lower abdomen, legs straining with the tempo you've set. 

"Good girl," he moans. There it is. Whatever triumph you feel evaporates under the heat of his hands, coming back to cup your hips, not guiding, only resting. You think of chastising him, but all that leaves your lips is half-whimper, half-whine. "Look at you…"

For a while, he lets you use him. Laid down like a meal with hearts in his eyes, breath hitching around sinful, broken noises, muscles tense and coiled. He reminds you of a tiger. Broad, sharp-eyed, lying in wait. What would that make you— a house cat? Needy and in heat? Playing with his cock like it's yours.

(It is, he told you once. He'd tell you again if you asked. There's no shame there— never was. Only yours. You can have it any time, honey.)

Eventually, when your hips slow to a sluggish grind, exhausted by the effort, the tides begin to shift. Violently, a boat rocked sideways. The band of his patience snaps, your chest pulled flush against his own; his cock pumping in and out of you with steady rolls of his hips, lovingly firm, knocking the mewls out of your mouth. You're being cherished— you know that— but it's intense, sweaty skin slipping against sweaty skin, his pulse thundering through your body, hot like a furnace. Intense enough to make you want to run from it, even though it's all you've been dreaming of for the last two weeks. 

Not that you could— even through the fog in your head and need in your belly, you understand that. Suguru is just as pent up as you are. You're staying right here until you're tuckered out and boneless, no ifs or buts about it. The promise is unsaid, but you feel it in the hold he's got on your body. He's not as harmless as he seems. Not when you need something of him and he's promised to deliver.

Only when you're shaking and writhing around him, wetting his abs with your come, does he focus on his own orgasm. Using you harshly, yet lovingly still, dragging you over his cock. He makes little noise when he gets there, flooding the condom with sticky batches of warmth that you can still feel through the latex, panting at your ear while his palm rubs down your back, like you’re the one coming undone.

Then he lifts you off his lap. Sweat dripping down his brow, a drunken haze over his eyes, fingers hooked against your ribcage. 

"I need to taste you," he pants. Eyes dark with greed, pupils overblown. Gone is the control he keeps such a tight hold of. "On your back, baby."

Your heart beats hotly, foreboding twisting in your belly. Thighs sticking together with slick. Breath stuck in your throat. You almost want to ask for a break, but he's already tied his hair up.

Quietly, you swallow.

He's nowhere near satisfied, is he?

After hours of being ravaged, made love to, held and taken apart and put together again— your bodies finally run out of fuel. 

You're tended to with steady hands, every touch intentional, familiar with the process: cleaned in the shower as you drift in and out of consciousness, floating somewhere underneath the blank slate of your mind, then made to drink from a water bottle to soothe your worn throat. Wrecked. Wrung dry. Cunt buzzing like a livewire. The culprit walks into your bedroom with a hot plate of food, wearing an expression so content you'd think he just came back from a week-long excursion to a hot spring. 

Shameless. Stupidly sexy.

"Can't feel my legs," you whine, sprawled out on the mattress, tucked in like a child. Stretching out your sore limbs with a groan. "God, I needed this."

Warm, rumbling laughter. Suguru walks over to your bedside, wearing nothing but his boxers and a cardigan he'd left behind in your closet, hickies sucked into his neck and collarbone. Your canvas. Sunset kisses smudging skin. "I'm glad to hear it," he croons. "Here you are. Make sure to clean your plate, alright?"

Suguru leans towards quick, easy cooking for your aftercare. This time it's fried rice with plenty of vegetables and thin slices of meat, cooked a perfect golden brown, smelling of sesame oil, soy sauce and ginger paste. Your weary hands reach for it, bringing it to rest on your chest. Warmth spreads through the blanket he wrapped around your shoulders.

"Ahhh—" you sigh, scooping up a pile of rice with the spoon he gave you. "I love you."

One of his palms brush against your cheek, eyes bright with satisfaction. Delighting when you lean into the touch. "I love you too, baby."

Without having to tell him to, Suguru crawls under the covers beside you. Offering his shoulder as a headrest while you eat. The room is coated in a thin sheen of shadow, only lit up by a half-broken lamp by the windowsill. It lulls your mind into a state of docile fatigue. Your body grows softer with every bite, entirely limp once he takes the plate off your hands and puts it on the nightstand. This security is what you like best. Sex with Suguru is mind-breaking in many ways, but this is the most staggering. How ready he is to hold you when it's over, even though he's nearly as tired as you are.

Badump, badump.

Your ear at his heartbeat. His palms at your back, arms around your waist, securing you against him— a shipwreck to his shore. There's nowhere else you'd rather be. Boneless in your boyfriend's embrace, aching terribly between your legs, but only in good ways. Quietly, a pitter-patter rattles at your windowpane, smattering against the glass. 

The world outside your apartment is just as it should be. It's a comfort to listen to, bleeding into the mantra of Suguru's steady pulse.

"When are you leaving?"

He shifts above you, planting a gentle kiss between your brows. It makes your lashes flutter shut. "Not anytime soon," he promises. His voice barely-there, as if he's terrified of startling you. You believe him. "Go to sleep, baby. I'll be here when you wake up."

…

"Hey, Suguru," you whisper, feeling your mind sink into slumber. "Can I tell you a secret?"

"… Yes, my love."

You nose at his pulsepoint. Burying yourself in him. Murmuring, beneath your breath:

"I missed you."

Suguru stills. His wandering hands, his doting lips, even his rhythmic heartbeat. Before he can respond, your mind grows dull and quiet.

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: Latest Essay Submission

Sure, I’m free on Thursday afternoon at 1:30pm for an office hour. I’m happy to discuss any parts of your essay you would like feedback on and answer any questions regarding the feedback I provided. I cannot, however, remark your essay. Department policy. — Toji

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: Thank You

Dear Toji Fushiguro, Thank you so much for your prompt reply, and for being amenable to meeting with me. Whilst your response greatly pleases me, it also disappoints — I was so very hoping you would consider re-reading my essay, because I am certain you will see the value in pushing me into the next grade boundary.  It is, after all, only a matter of recognising brilliance when it is placed directly in front of you. I trust this will not be your first encounter with such a phenomenon. Please consider it. Kind regards, Someone who would owe you the world if you do

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: Department. Policy.

No.

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: no??

Um, excuse me.  Do you not find your reply unprofessional and unnecessarily rude? As the Teaching Assistant, you have a responsibility to respond appropriately and with grace. Need I remind you, you are representing our dear Professor, who would want the very best for his students (which includes me). Nevertheless, I shall overlook this callous response in exchange for extra marks. I am, as always, generous. You could learn from me. Best wishes, Someone not above blackmail

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: nice try

I don’t know where you got the idea that you’re above policy, nor who told you I’d listen to you over the Prof (my employer), but you’re barking up the wrong tree. And in reference to your initial email, I have many friends, you are not one of them, but even if you were, I still wouldn’t pull strings and be as stupid as to leave a paper trail via email. If you want higher marks, earn them the normal way. Wishing you a speedy recovery from the head injury you must have suffered recently, Toji

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: I am well, thank you very much

Dear TA with a stick up his ass, Note how I have not explicitly asked to be given extra marks? I am only asking that you reconsider my essay and the marks you have awarded me, because I am absolutely certain you were mistaken in your initial assessment, which is fine. I understand. You’re overworked and underpaid. Shit happens.  So allow me to say, my essay was well-researched, balanced, concise, and thoroughly supported with relevant scholarship. I engaged directly with the question, demonstrated independent thought, and constructed a coherent argument that remained consistent throughout. According to the mark scheme — which I have, unlike some people, actually read in detail — I should be placed in the top band.  This is not an isolated case of overconfidence either. I have submitted numerous essays to both you and the Professor, and they have consistently fallen within, or very near, the top band. There is a clear pattern of performance here, one that does not suddenly collapse without reason.  In short, my essays are worthy of that standard. I am worthy of that standard. You are, at present, the only barrier between me and my deserved academic standing. I would encourage you to reflect on that carefully — on the weight of that responsibility, and on whether you are discharging it fairly. Wondering why you were ever hired, Girl who regrets ever giving you my last gum three months ago P.S. You really needed it

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: that supposed to make me want to reconsider?

I’m sure Mommy and Daddy gave you too much praise and love as a child and that’s why you are the way that you are, but you’ll find that I’m not so easily impressed.  Your essay had egregious mistakes that, if I had it my way, would have earned a 0. Be grateful I even let you have the marks you have now.  No one is ‘worthy’ of top marks by the simple virtue of existing. That is an arrogant way of thinking I despise. There is only hard work and determination, which yes, you show at times, so good for you, kid. Still not just gonna hand out extra marks because of whatever history you think we have together. Advising you to get over yourself, Toji P.S. Not taking judgment from someone who pops three gums in the morning instead of brushing their teeth

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: suing for emotional distress

Dear Toji Fushiguro, My parents are both dead, so thank you for bringing up traumatic memories. I really don’t appreciate the personal jabs. Please refrain from mentioning them, from talking about the people who worked multiple jobs to put me through college, who won’t be there to see me graduate, won’t be in the crowd cheering me on. But yes, they loved me very much. And it is because of their support, which I still feel even when they’re no longer here with me, that I do this.  It isn’t easy for me to grovel at your feet for scraps, for crumbs. However, I will do whatever I must to succeed. So judge me all you want, hate me, and show me disdain for my relentless, shameless ambition. Just answer me this one question: What are you willing to do to prove people wrong? Because if it is anything less than what I am doing, then you are not a TA deserving of my respect. Despite it all, best wishes, An orphan P.S. If you are apologetic and regretful, you may earn my apology via extra marks. Thanks in advance P.P.S. I do brush my teeth thank you very much!

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: you’re deranged

I saw you touring your fucking parents through campus just last month. You pointed at me and said and I fucking quote, see that miserable-looking homeless man? he’s the TA with no hobbies or interests other than grading that I told you about. Spare me the guilt trip.  Even if you were a Make A Wish kid, still not giving you shit.

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: did not know you heard me…my bad, big bro

Dear the greatest TA to have ever lived, So, yes, I did lie about being an orphan. But, I feel that I was one in another life, and the tragedy of that distant life long lived carries me through this one.  More importantly, I have a special message for you: Thank you so much for your continued responses. I deeply appreciate every hour you dedicate to aiding me, and the student body which you govern. I understand you are so busy and carry many burdens; it cannot be easy. Yet you persevere and always give detailed and insightful feedback that has never failed to guide me towards improvement. You truly are an inspiration. If I could nominate you for employee of the month, I would. If such a thing existed. Let me know and I’ll campaign for you myself. Scout’s Honour! (Please do forgive me for my lapse in judgment. It’s late and I am not thinking clearly). All the best and love in the universe, A student who really needs you to not tell the Professor about any of this P.S. It really is late, what are you still doing up? P.P.S. You jerking off? P.P.P.S. The video you watching any good? Send recs pls

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: don’t play games you can’t win

Dear idiot,  It’s just three marks. You can live without it.  Enjoying the ass-kissing though, Toji P.S. What the hell is wrong with you? P.P.S. Working. 

From: [email protected] Subject: lol sure

'Working.' And no, you give me too much credit. I really cannot live without the three marks. I need it for something. This isn't just vanity talking.

From: [email protected] Subject: go to sleep

We have an early lecture tomorrow. Shut your laptop and count some sheep or something. I don’t want to hear anything from you tonight again. I’m serious.

From: [email protected] Subject: fine

But this isn't the last you've heard of me.

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: stop. seriously

I know you’ve been following me. To my classes, the library, my hang outs, my fucking home. Don’t pretend otherwise — I could hear you whispering ‘oooh you wanna remark my essay sooo bad’ from behind a fucking bookcase. Not only is it stupid as hell, it’s also creepy as fuck. Do you not have better things to do? Like, I don’t know, hitting the books so your next essay will be better and we won’t have to do this whole song and dance? Next time I see you stalking me, I’m going to tie you up to a lamppost and let campus security deal with you. – Toji.

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: oh that?

Dear Toji Fushiguro, For legal reasons, I will neither admit nor deny your accusations. Perhaps every encounter you believe you had with me outside of lectures/classes/office hours were mere coincidences. Campus isn’t that big, after all. I promise I would never do anything to endanger you (unless, of course, it’ll give me extra marks — I kid, I kid). If my persistent appearances are bothering you, however, maybe you should reconsider your rejection of my plea to have you re-read my essay. Just food for thought. Best wishes, Woman who might already have been, but I’ll keep that to myself P.S. you’ll tie me up? Kinky. Didn’t know you have those kinds of interest rawr

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: fat chance

My answer was no yesterday. It’s a no now. And it will be a no in every single instance you ask me in the future. Grow up, Toji

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: never say never

We’ll see…

From: [email protected] Subject: hi handsome

Dearest Toji,  The distance is agony. I miss you so very dearly, yet every metre we are kept apart only strengthens my adoration for you.  Lots of love, Your soulmate

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: it’s too early for this

Don’t be emailing me during a lecture. Focus. And I don't know what distance you're talking about; you’re literally sitting on the front row, right in front of me. Damn near killed that girl when you shoved her for the spot. Listen to what the professor says — it’s important.  And stop spreading your legs; I can see your panties from here. — Toji P.S. Focus on your notes before I move you to the back.

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: boo you’re boring

Dear hot stuff,  Important, you say? Important in the sense of appearing in the next exam important, or important for the soul important? You don't need to tell me, just send one wink for the former and two for the latter. Also, I have no idea what you’re talking about.  I’m not wearing panties ;) All the best, Your gorgeous girl P.S. ngh I love when you wear those grey sweatpants, if I look closely enough, I swear I can see every vein

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: no.

Dear dumbass bound by the university’s Code of Conduct, You know better than to solicit unfair advantages by exploiting your personal relationships. I trust you also know that since we filed an official form regarding our relationship that you face different papers than your peers, which will not be marked by me.  — Toji P.S. quit staring at my dick. you panting like a bitch in heat ain't helping. neither was the low cut top you're wearing.

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: I know I know

Dear Mr. Strict TA, I’m well aware. I was just kidding. I actually appreciate that the department approved of our relationship, with the support of the Professor. Not that we would have let them stop us — I just like that we can still see each other in lectures and classes, whenever you’re auditing or teaching.  You know how worried I was that things would change if we became official.

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: yeah, me too

I owe the Prof a lot. Guess he was preparing for this day or something.  Look, just don’t do anything that’ll get you in trouble or will make the other students think you’re getting special treatment. I don’t like the idea that you’ll be discredited because of me. You got a bright future ahead of you. I won’t ever hold you back.  So head down, alright? Leave all the worrying to me. — Your Toji

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: I love when you’re sweet

Okay, okay. I’ll pay attention. This is a rather interesting topic anyway. I bet the PowerPoint was all you — it screams, I don’t get paid enough to use pictures and animation lol Oh, and don’t forget we promised Megs we’re taking him and his wittle friends to the movies tonight! Please don’t stay too late grading. Love, The best sister in law ever!

From: [email protected] Subject: Re: good girl

Yeah, didn’t forget. Little brat’s been going on and on about it. Says he wants to sit next to you, like I didn’t raise the runt. Whatever. Wait till he finds out you hog the popcorn.  Meet me in our usual spot after this lecture. I wanna verify something you said for myself.  Better not have lied to me.  — Toji

With the plastic box tugged under your arm, you typed in the message quickly as you were waiting for the traffic lights to turn green so you could finally rush home. 

you : i got the thing. ill be home in probs like 5 mins.

You couldn't deny the nervousness that took over your body. The lights finally changed, and you snatched the box out from under your arms and threw it in your tote bag. You made your way to the other side of the road with quick steps, getting lost in the big New York crowd. 

Just another busy Friday morning. Every person has a different goal. A different place they go to. Most probably go to work, but who knows? Maybe they are on their way to one of their loved ones in the hospital, or they are going on a date (even though it's eleven in the morning). 

Personally, you were on your way to your new apartment. You freshly moved out of the college dorm to your own apartment, and it was pretty hard to pretend like you felt sad for your roommate while she was sobbing in your arms when you told her the news. The truth was that you were straight up cheesing inside the whole time. You couldn't wait to have your own personal space, without anyone interrupting your study sessions or series binge sessions. But the best part : you finally had enough time to be with your boyfriend alone. 

Jake was your first ever boyfriend, which was a kinda embarrassing thing to admit at the age of twenty. However, you felt like you just entered your youth, even if it was late. You tried to ignore that part. People usually do cringy teenager type of things when they are sixteen, but you missed out on that. 

You weren't the type to complain a lot, but one day you found yourself spilling your heart out to Jake about it while your head was in his lap, his fingers caressing your head as he nodded understandingly. 

That's where the idea came from : the lipsmackers, now tossed in your bag next to your breakfast you got from the bakery on the corner of the street. 

It was Jake’s idea. He said, and I quote “We should start doing those ‘cringy’ things, then” 

You wanted to say ‘no’ so bad, because still, you are in college, a twenty year old independent woman who has a successful career in front of her. You almost did say no, but thinking it through, it can't hurt, right? 

So, Jake made you write a list of things you missed out on when you were a teenager. The things your friends would brag about to you, knowing damn well you are a lonely loser. The things that made you so insecure you couldn't stop scratching your arms. 

Lip Smackers were on top of the list. It was so nostalgic, at a time they were all over the stores. Well, you never had anyone to do it with. Until now.

You push down the bell next to your apartment door. Jake should be there, because he spent last night with you. You binged all the three Maze Runner movies, and neither of you noticed how much the time passed. By the time you finished, it was already four am. 

Soon, the door opens and the most gorgeous boy you have ever seen in your life smiles at you. Then he steps closer and wants to press a kiss on your lips, but you stop him.

“Remember, no kissing” you say, teasingly. You and Jake decided to not kiss until you got the lipsticks. It was anticipating, because you made the list two days ago, and you kiss, like, all the time. 

He rolls his eyes, but the corners of his lips are tugging upwards “Someone is strict” he comments, leading you in the apartment and closing the door behind you.

You set your bag down by the table, pulling your breakfast and the plastic box out of it. Jake glances at it, then his eyes find you again. “So? When do we start? I don't think I can handle another day without kissing you” 

He steps closer, grabbing you by your waist. And he moves dangerously close, his lips breezing your skin ever so slightly. 

You look up at him, smiling “We can do it now”

                             ⋆｡‧˚ʚ ୨ৎ ɞ˚‧｡⋆

You fiddle with the box a bit before you can open it, your hands shaking. Jake is sitting on the bed in front of you, and you could tell he just can't wait, because his back is perfectly straight and he has his hands on his knees as they are crossed. 

Your heart is thumping in your chest. You don't even know how to play this game properly. It sounds so dumb — a grown woman being anxious to play a kissing game with her boyfriend. It's straight up ridiculous. But the lipsticks bring back so many memories, and most of them being bad, you just can't help your feelings. 

When you finally manage to get the lipsticks out of the box, you look up at Jake.

“Okay. Cover your eyes. And don't cheat” You tell him, and he nods as he lowers his head and buries his head in his hands.

You look down at the six different lipsticks, indicated in vivid colors. You end up picking the sprite one first. As you apply it on your lips, you taste it a little bit, the sweet flavor getting on your tongue. It tastes horrible, like every candy from the 2000s. It's not much of a surprise.

You throw the green bottle back to the other ones, mixing them together.

“You can look now,” You insist. 

Jake looks up faster than the speed of light, his eyes landing on your glistening lips. He's so freaking cute when he's all excited but can't get what he wants yet. 

You smile softly “You are really excited”

“I am” he doesn't deny it, he gets on his knees so he can crawl towards you. 

He moves slowly, almost hesitant like it's your first kiss ever. Like it's his first kiss ever. He gulps nervously, Adam's apple bobbing visibly in his throat. Jake leans down and presses his soft lips onto yours. He doesn't move at first, and you don't either, because you have no idea what to do.

After a few moments, you feel his tongue darting out and licking your bottom lip. He grabs onto your shoulders and pulls you closer to taste it better, but his tongue only licks your lips and he's very careful with it.

He pulls back, looking up for a moment. “Hm” he humms, thinking “I think… Sprite? Maybe?”

You nod heavily, feeling your cheeks getting red. “You got it right on the first try. That's good” 

“Alright, next one” He hurries, lowering his head again.

You let out a small laugh, picking out the next lipstick. You hesitate for a moment, should it be Coca Cola or Fanta? Coca cola is an iconic flavor, he would get it fast, meaning he wouldn't kiss you for long… But Fanta is his favorite. Maybe he would get that even faster.

But again, Fanta is his favorite. Bingo.

You pick up the neon orange bottle with more confidence now, smearing it all over your lips. Once. Then twice. Then thrice. 

“I'm done” You smile and close your eyes, this game is so fun after all. 

You keep your eyes closed but hear the bed creaking under his weight as he crawls closer again. He's so so slow, it makes you want to pull him closer as fast as possible. It feels like he's doing it on purpose.  

He leans down, your eyes are still closed. You feel his hot breath hitting your skin, your slick lips offered to him. His lips feel softer this time on yours, he kisses you like he's trying to hold back. You know it, it happened before. It makes you feel a little more excited, knowing he's trying his best to control himself.

He licks your lips again. Once, then twice. Jake tilts his head slightly and licks your lips once again, this time he licks into your mouth. It's a bit awkward, he’s hesitant with it, but you let him. His hands find the side of your burning hot cheeks, and he tilts your head upwards for more availability. The angle feels better now, and you straight up make out at this point. His tongue finds yours continuously, and his lips are moving hungryly on yours. 

He kneels between your legs, but you feel him crawl closer, gesturing you to move back. And you do, until your back hits the bedframe. The kiss never breaks, his movements are far away from hesitant. Jake moves his hands from your cheeks to your waists, squeezing it slightly.

“This one is… good…” he manages to spit out, then he dives onto the softness of your lips again. 

Jake bites down your bottom lip, and you can't stop a small moan from getting out. You let your hands wander and you ran them through his soft brown hair, grabbing onto the back of his head to push him closer. 

His hands feel hot against your skin as he pushes your shirt upwards. 

He breaks the kiss, and you finally open your eyes to meet his. His pupils are blown wide and his whole face is red like he's tipsy, drunk on your lips. Not to talk about his glossy lips, the lipstick messily smeared all around his mouth, some of it on his cheeks. 

“Can I take this off?” He asks softly, tugging your shirt.

You nod and help him, then your eyes flick to his yellow-black striped shirt. A silent gesture, but he gets what you want immediately and takes it off. He tosses both of the shirts aside and fiddles with his zipper. Your eyes track his every movement. 

“Fuck” he cusses when he finally unbuttons his jeans and pulls it down, throwing it aside.

The next thing you know is that he’s on your neck, sucking on the smooth skin. It will probably leave marks later. 

He works his way down with his mouth, and you take a deep sigh before you look down at his back, watching how his back muscles flex with every movement, every time he leans lower and every time he moves his hands on your hips.

“Jake… Please” you beg. He looks up at you, his fingers hooking onto your pants as he pulls them down without teasing.

His tone is soft when he asks “Please what, angel?” 

You swallow, squirming in your place “I want you”

He smirks up, and moves back up to kiss you. As he kisses you, he still feels the vague taste of the Fanta on his tongue. He grinds his hips down, you feel his bulge against your panties, fabric to fabric.

“What do you want from me? Be specific?” He tilts his head, looking at you with those big puppy eyes.

You are sure you are about to melt. Why is he soft and cute, but also so handsome and hot at the same time? How is that possible?

You lick your lips, looking down at his body hovering above you. “I want you inside of me, please, Jake” you whisper. 

He smiles, grinding down again. His bulge presses to your wet panties, the fabric is — gosh — so thin. 

“Hm, what a nasty girl…” he mumbles, kissing on your cheek. “I gotta prepare you for that, then, because I don't think you can take it right away”

He drags a line with his index finger  across your chest, between your breasts, across your stomach, and then he plays with the lace of your panties for a while. Jake sees the anticipation on your face, and it makes him nearly laugh. He ends up letting out a small giggle as he pulls the panties down. 

How could he ever tease you rudely when you look at him so softly? 

He circles on your wet clit, and you let your head fall back on the bedframe. When you are about to catch your breath and get yourself together, you feel two of his long fingers sliding inside your dripping hole. Your hand flies to grab his muscular arm, letting out a moan. 

“Jake!” you scream when he curls his fingers inside, just the right way. He moves them fastly, setting up a rhythm. You clench around his fingers, the stretch makes you see stars when he scissors his fingers impatiently.

As he plumps his fingers inside with his right hand, he holds you in place with his other one, his thumb caressing your stomach. 

When you are about to burst, your mind going dizzier than ever, he pulls his fingers out. 

You take deep breaths, chest rising and falling heavily. He moves his hand up to your face and pushes his fingers inside of your mouth suddenly, forcing you to suck on them. Your mind is already so fucked up that you just do whatever he tells you to do. “Good…good girl” he mumbles, the sight of you sucking on his digits and tasting yourself turning him on more than it should be.

“Do you think you are ready now?” Jake asks but he's already pulling his boxers down, out of breath.

You nod, and watch him as he reaches to the bedside table and pulls out a condom and lube. He rolls up the condom and smears lube over his cock, making it slippery. Jake lines up against your entrance and he sucks his breath in as he pushes in. He always does this, you’ve noticed it already. 

You moan as your muscles tense, grabbing the sheets next to you to keep yourself steady. He stops, a small whine leaving his mouth.

“Are you okay?” He eyes you up and down, and his gaze sets on your face. You look at him, your eyes half lidded and your gaze hazy. 

“Yeah” you breath, barely audible. 

But Jake hears it, and he starts to move slowly. Even though he stretched you out with his fingers, you still feel like your walls are about to break at any moment.

You arch your back as he pushes again and bottoms out slowly. You feel him slightly shaking, a sign that he's still trying to control himself. 

His shaky breaths caresses your skin. 

“Jake” you mumble out, and he immediately looks at you. “You can go faster” you add.

You don't need to tell him twice, he picks his pace up and starts going in a faster rhythm, kneeling up on the bed so he can fuck inside you deeper. 

You moan out his name as he spreads your legs wider and lifts your hips. This angle makes it better to reach your G spot with every thrust, his movements getting smoother, the lube helping him out a lot. 

“So pretty and tight for me” Jake digs his nails onto your calves and moves them around his waist, gesturing you to lock them around him so he can get deeper. And you do it, trying to ignore the fact that your legs are beginning to give up and tremble.

Jake moves effortlessly in and out of you, and you open your teary eyes to look up at him, watching as he bites down his bottom lip. His muscles tense and flex with every move, and he keeps his eyes on your smooth wetness between your legs. The lube is mixed with your juices by now, and he can't get enough of the sight.

The bed creacks every time he bottoms out, the bed frame hitting the wall progressively. You grab the sheets like your life depends on it, the lipsticks slowly rolling to the edge of the bed until they fall down on the floor with a thud. 

You feel how you are falling apart slowly, your legs are undeniably trembling. Jake moves his hands from under your thighs to the curve of your ass, caressing in slightly. 

“Take it” he commands, thrusting hard. 

“Shit, Jake I’m going to—” without being able to finish the sentence, it happens. It's so sudden that you don't even realize what happens. 

Not until Jake stops his movements and pulls out. He leans down and presses a kiss on your neck, giggling “I didn't know I could make you squirt” 

You widen your eyes, the adrenaline still rushing through your body when you look down at your legs. Jake kneels up again and starts to stroke himself, looking at your pussy being covered in your juices you squirted out. Jake is also covered in it, his dick and abdomen glistering. 

Jake whimpers as he strokes himself, biting down his bottom lip. He comes into the condom with a whine escaping his lips a few moments later. He spanks your cunt with his dick, slightly pushing it between your wet folds. Then, he collapses onto the bed and steadies himself by putting his palms next to you on the bed. 

You are still dizzy and high by your enormous orgasm, probably your biggest one yet. You are also kinda shocked and embarrassed by how you ruined the sheets, but it seems like Jake isn't bothered by it. 

He lays down next to you, exhausted. You both turn to look at each other on the bed, just watching each other gasping for air. 

“I'm… sorry” you say after a few silent minutes, referring to the way your sheets are all wet now.

“Sorry? You don't have to be sorry” Jake smiles at your awkwardness. “This was probably our best session yet, if you’d ask me”

You can't help but smirk at that. “Yeah?”

Jake nods “Yes. Next time we play this guessing game we should spice it up a little”

You cock an eyebrow “Spice it up? This wasn't spicy enough?” 

“What I mean is that next time you should put it on your other lips” 

Your jaw nearly drops, and you hit his arm playfully. You try to hide how the idea doesn't make you disgusted at all, no, you will probably even think of it more than you should later. 

“You are such a freak, Jake Sim”

“But you love it” he leans closer, pressing a kiss on your forehead. 

“hurts?” you parrot disbelievingly, too deep under the spell to feel the burn in your thighs. “‘zuku, know what hurts?”

“no, i know,” he sobs, balls squeezing painfully as the familiar pressure returns to his cock. it’s familiar, but it’s not the same; there’s no cum involved, he’s been drained too dry to give you anything. “l-last time, please. i need a minute to, ngh, relax.”

it hurts. izuku’s cock is practically purple with overstimulation, but he’s too entranced to pull you off himself. when you’d arrived home, tugging at his belt and babbling about what had happened, izuku took a moment to consider if he had any notes on something like this.

villains with these types of quirks have always been rare, and it’s just his luck that one popped up before valentine’s day.

the couch groans from the combination of movement and weight on it, yawning with wear. izuku has never underestimated your strength or sex drive, but this . . you’re bouncy, and he’s wondering if the villain’s quirk enhanced your stamina too.

in a startling display of affection, you grab at his jaw and kiss away his tears, cooing sweet, sensual nothings into his ear. your voice is smooth when you tell him how good he’s doing, how sexy he looks when he’s whining so sweetly. just when he’s thinking it can’t get any better, you hit him where he’s weakest with a sultry murmur of want you to put a baby in me, izuku.

flustered, he can’t help but let out a squeal when you nip at his neck, kissing over previous bites and smatterings of freckles.

“do what you want with me,” he surrenders, verdant green eyes meeting your own. “hah, if that’s what you want, jus’ use me. fuck me, baby.”

BAKUGO KATSUKI.

⟡ you have the misfortune of tracking a villain with japan’s number one hero, the all too explosive dynamight. everything completely unravels during the confrontation, when katsuki’s rushing forward to deliver the final blow. the dastardly villain releases a thick, noxious smoke that fills the air with a sickening sweetness — despite all the coughing and hacking, he manages to subdue the villain until the police arrive, but you never make it back to the agency to regroup.

ridiculous, is all you can think as you’re being folded in half in the back of a company car that’s sneakily wedged in an alleyway. katsuki’s not-so-gentle teeth nip at the tender skin of your thighs, and he doesn’t think twice about the marks that are sure to show up by tomorrow.

“d-deeper, katsuki,” you writhe against the seats, too handsy for his liking. “please, it’s not deep eno—”

“shut it,” he grunts, scowling down at you. his usual expression doesn’t quite have the same effect it usually does, since it’s been mellowed out by the villain’s aphrodisiac like quirk. “don’t you dare tell me how to fuck, got it?”

a bratty huff escapes you, and you make a show of rolling your eyes at him, seemingly unimpressed. “i wouldn’t have to if you’d just do it right. oh, but who am i to judge the number one?”

a vein bulges from his forehead as he listens, crimson eyes seething silently while you continue to lay it on thick. “i guess dynamight can fuck however he wants, even if it’s subpar—”

in an instant, katsuki’s hand is on your throat and applying just enough pressure to force out a gasp from you. that teasing and talking back worked—now he’s really about to come undone, show you just how strong the number one pro can really be.

“can’t take that back now, can you? if you think you can insult me and order me around, oh,” katsuki grinds his teeth, pressing your knees into your chest without taking a moment to appreciate the pretty moan that leaves you. “fuck, you’ve got another thing coming. shut your mouth.”

“make me.”

he can’t seem to recall a time where he’s ever been this turned on—that aphrodisiac quirk’s got nothing on the way you talk to him, challenge him in a way that nobody has before.

katsuki draws his hips back, slow and deliberate in each movement. you were right, he wasn’t giving you his all; but now, he will, and he won’t stop until you eat your words. deeper? harder? faster? if that’s what you’re asking for, he’ll give it to you.

you watch breathlessly, mesmerized by the frustrated scrunch of his face, all because he can’t stop replaying your words in his head. a harsh slap to your clit snaps you out of your daze the moment it lands, stinging terribly.

“let’s work up to that, alright? you’re going to—”

“what if i don’t, katsuki?” you tip your chin up at him, looking down your nose at him. “then what?”

another slap, this time with a little more strength behind it. he disregards everything you just said, getting ready to give you an explosive orgasm you’ll have to work hard for.

“that’s what. now, let’s try that again—you’ll be good and count each slap, unless you want me to spank this slutty pussy raw,” satisfied by the responding clench of your cunt, he arches a brow and smirks. “your choice, brat.”

TODOROKI SHOTO.

⟡ with a new, unstable virus spreading rapidly through japan, scientists are racing to develop a cure. it seems to act like the standard flu, but it affects quirk users differently—shoto ends up with an unusual kind of fever.

“ah, ‘m cumming, sho,” cum squirts from your pussy like a waterfall, and everything’s so overwhelming that you unintentionally push his cock out. “good, ‘s so fucking good.”

sweat coats his face, clinging to the rough scar on shoto’s left side. panting, he sucks in a breath, grasping around for his swollen cock.

“i’m sorry,” his voice cracks once his tip slides through your sticky folds and makes your back jolt off the bed, “it’s just—shit, it’s not enough.”

“a-again? i, hah, don’t know if that’s a good—”

shoto shakes his head, shivering as a thin layer of frost appears on his right cheek; it sparkles brilliantly before melting into droplets of water that drip from his jaw. “i’m still burning up,” it’s completely out of bounds, but the low rasp of his sickly voice scratches an itch in your brain. “see, lovey? can’t even use my quirk to fix it.”

a sigh escapes you, and you spread your trembly thighs one more time. “i might be too tired to drive you to the hospital after this,” you warn.

“i know, but baby,” gratefully, shoto pushes forward, burying his cock to the hilt inside you. his warm hand settles on your lower belly to add some pressure, gearing you up for another explosive orgasm. “i don’t wanna be like this when we go to the hospital.”

he flushes darkly with embarrassment, and the mental image of a tortured shoto rutting into a hospital bed as waves of the fever’s severe effects overwhelm him is enough to make you soften.

once he starts to thrust, developing a rhythm that would put your own fingers to shame, his mouth drops open and he’s babbling incoherently. “ . . always so fucking hot around you, baby. i-it’s not my fault you’re so—haa, shit—so perfect, making me burn up whenever you’re not looking.”

and because being this deep inside you is as close as he can get to heaven, shoto sees no reason to hold back on the honest praise. he’s always been a little shy to express himself during sex, mouth drying up whenever he tries to say something rather dirty, but not now. since his brain is being fried by the heat at the moment, he won’t feel any embarrassment.

“sho, right there,” a breath is punched out of your lungs, and your nails scratch at his shoulders each time his tip kisses your sweet spot. “oh god, ‘m gonna make a mess again!”

his cock twitches and he moans your name, only egging you on. “can’t wait to taste it, darling.”

you fall off the edge, his words serving as the final push. euphoria curls through you, cresting like a wave until the sensitivity becomes too much, bringing you back to earth. abs clenching, shoto pulls out to cover your stomach in white.

in an instant, shoto’s temperature drops. quietly, he shivers against you, huffing into your neck.

“i want to stay like this before we leave.”

“you’ve got ice forming rapidly on your back, sho.”

“it’ll melt if i’m cuddling with you . . could you also rub my back? maybe i just need to sleep it off.”

KIRISHIMA EIJIROU.

⟡ eijirou listened to you specifically tell him NOT to eat the wrapped cookies you had in the fridge and when you left, he did exactly that.

“babe, baby, you feel so good,” cum races down his fingers in creamy rivulets, puddling at the base of his cock. caught up in his fantasy, eijirou flicks his wrist faster, hoping with all his heart to imitate the hot squeeze of your cunt. “s-so pretty when you take me, always so fuckin’ beautiful.”

his voice cracks just as the door opens, and your purse falls to the floor. your boyfriend is spread out on the bed, flushed feverishly and gasping out your name like he’s delirious—it would be the perfect scene to come home to if you didn’t spot two torn cookie wrappers near him.

“eijirou,” you speak his name lowly, catching his eyes and raising a brow. he’s not sure if he should feel awkward or turned on because of your scolding tone, so he just swallows dryly and looks toward you with hooded eyes. “already forgot the speech i gave you? why’d you eat the cookies?”

shame creeps up his neck and makes his skin prickle uncomfortably. grasping for a response, eijirou decides to question you right back. “why’d you have sex cookies in the fridge?”

“they were a surprise for valentine’s!”

oh.

now he really feels dumb for spoiling your plans. perhaps if he hadn’t been so hungry, so greedy, he wouldn’t be embarrassed under your scrutinizing gaze.

but the feeling doesn’t last long—your tough face drops into something more sultry: doe eyes and an upturned quirk of your lips that’s sure to finish him.

the mattress sinks under your weight, and you scoot beside him with a self satisfied smile. it’s small and quiet, but a voice in the back of his head tells him maybe you wanted this to happen; you certainly don’t look too upset about it.

“no way, baby,” a hiss escapes him when you slap his cum-stained hand away from his cock, instead choosing to replace them with your own. “am i dreaming? mrs. red riot, are you—”

his narration throws you off, and you choke just kissing his tip. you know eijirou’s surprised and eternally grateful, but damn. “mr. red riot, you’d be quiet if you wanted me to.”

“sorry,” he says earnestly, tensing up to hide the fact that he’s shaking like a leaf when you finally take him in your mouth. “i’ve just—” he inhales sharply as you slowly, torturously take him inch by inch. “i’ve been waiting s-so long for you to come home, babe.”

you swallow, throat squeezing tight around his cock, and eijirou’s clean hand flies to the back of your head, hovering precariously. “i’m crazy about you, all day every day, and the cookies made it worse. ‘m sorry for spoiling the surprise, i didn’t mean to—haa, w-what’re you doing to me? oh, you’re gonna make me—”

it doesn’t take long for obscene slurps and occasional gags to fill the room as you suck eijirou’s cock, spoiling him with each languid bob of your head. it’s too much, and the tension grows thicker in his gut, setting his insides ablaze with anticipation.

he’s hurtling toward his high, jerking his hips up and shamelessly preparing to fill up your throat this quickly—but then, you push yourself off of him. a shudder ripples through his body, and he throws you a pained, wide eyed look.

“why’d you..? baby?”

you motion for him to lay on his back, and he can see the gears in your head turning behind a wicked smile. “might as well draw it out, hm?”

“you’re gonna milk me?”

he’s so cute . .

you want to see him crying.

you hum, “only until you’re begging for me to stop.”

KAMINARI DENKI, ft. SERO HANTA

⟡ an undercover sting at a mysterious village with your work partners doesn’t go as smoothly as planned. the village, out in the far country, has been reported as the one place with the highest levels of quirk activity in japan. little did you know about the fact that this place is home to infectious pollen that makes its way into people via the air, or about its temporary effects on people . .

“what the fuck,” you moan, vision blurry between their faces and intermittent flashes of light. “there’s no way it’s from a plant, it can’t be—”

hanta’s tongue darts out to lick the salt away from his upper lip, and he points a finger toward a passage in the encyclopedia. “the symptoms are, ngh, the same.”

one of your hands works denki’s cock while the other shakily flips through an encyclopedia of germs and the like; hanta’s buried to the hilt inside of you, tan cheeks flushed with exertion.

“can’t you just read after?” denki unhelpfully suggests, blinking back a few tears while sparks of electricity fly off from his blond hair. “let’s just fix—yeah, baby, jus’ like that—fix the problem now and figure it out later.”

“shut it, denks,” hanta rolls his eyes, rocking his hips into you. despite the fact that the three of you are totally naked and in the middle of some kind of threesome, you’re researching what apparently caused this surge of uncontrollable arousal.

things began not long after you arrived in the village, where everything had looked unsuspecting and normal. surely there was a villain lurking around somewhere . . ? why else would there be so much unusual activity, enough to alert the authorities?

“look, they f-found something similar in america,” hanta’s voice wavers uncharacteristically, his own high racing through him with such intensity he doubles over.

“forget about the book,” denki’s begging while pressing dazed kisses to your tits, one hand tossing the book aside and slipping between your trembling thighs. “c’mon, babe. show us what you look like when you cum.”

perhaps this is something to be selfish about — when will an opportunity to fuck your hot coworkers come around again? hanta’s everything you’ve been daydreaming about, with a muscular physique sharp enough to have been cut from stone. denki’s just as attractive, though his features are softer, the result of his constant snacking while on the job or in the agency.

hanta nods in assent, already trailing over the edge. “want you to gush all over me, baby.”

thrashing under denki’s fingers, it momentarily occurs to you that maybe they’re a little too experienced. neither of them were concerned with a threesome when it was suggested, and there’s no mistakes in their almost synchronized movements.

just watching your eyes flutter and roll back is enough to make denki cum with a moan of your name as his cock sprays white. hanta’s pupils probably dilate a hundred times their size at the erotic sight, and his hips begin to stutter as heat races up his spine.

denki, shaking profusely, musters his voice and maintains his hurried pace. “g-good girl, go on ‘n let it out.”

since stepping foot into the village and inhaling that damn pollen, the pro hero’s been getting realistic flashes of thoughts he’s kept locked away for some time. you, on your knees, looking up at him like you’re ready to do more than just please. you, with your pretty eyes full of tears as you lose your mind beneath him.

an orgasm stronger than the lustful effects of any aphrodisiac tears through you, and your cunt bears down so hard it forces out hanta’s own high as well. with all his might, he tries to resist the surge of weakness that hits him and fails—he collapses on top of you, hugging you closely and burying his face in your neck.

loosely, your jaw hangs open and breathy gasps leave your mouth. denki’s sparking with electricity beside you and simultaneously struggling to get it under control. a single yellow spark flies off his body and mildly electrocutes hanta, snapping him back to reality. he jerks against you, sounding exhausted.

“uh. so, um, what’re we supposed to report when we get back?”

TAKAMI KEIGO.

⟡ bless his heart. for valentine’s, he decides to be a silk heart-shaped box of japan’s most expensive chocolate for you. he’d been so focused on finding your favorite flavors along with new ones that he didn’t even realize that he’d purchased sex chocolate.

“it hurts, dovey. it’s s-so painful.”

since sharing the box of chocolates with you, keigo’s been reduced to a pathetic mess who can’t seem to stop shaking when you just barely touch him. vermilion feathers puff up and out at his back, his messy wings conveying the way he’s crumbling inside.

you’re just as hot, skin crawling with a lustful itch only keigo can scratch for you. the frenetic beating of his wings whips up cold gusts of wind stronger than any ceiling fan, and not a single goosebump rises on your skin.

“right there, kei,” you moan, tears gathering in your eyes as he continuously hits your sweet spot. “oh my god, don’t stop.”

as if he’d ever plan to.

he hiccups, face flushed and hair tousled like he’s just returned from some mission out in the wild. softly, with the barest note of urgency, keigo whines out your name and a request.

“dovey, c’mon,” his voice cracks halfway through his sentence, shattered with unmistakable pleasure. “just tell me what you want, and i’ll, ah, i’ll fuckin’ give it to you.”

keigo’s entire body thrums with the need, the purpose, to please you, and his own pleasure hinges on you and your praise. sure enough, you cry out to him, words saccharine and addicting.

“make me cum, kei,” and he doesn’t need any further instruction, not when he knows your body this well. smooth fingers slip between your thighs and work your clit, causing your back to arch when he applies just enough pressure to send electricity through your nerves.

you’re wrapping around keigo’s waist, drawing him in and breaking down his self control easily.

“want me to fill up this pussy, baby? i can do it again and again—” he punctuates his words with harsh thrusts that amplify the clap of skin against skin almost as much as a quirk could, “while you take it like you were made to.”

quaking beneath him, you nod frantically, as if those are the words you’ve been waiting to hear. while he was so vividly illustrating the scene, his wings unconsciously began to wrap around your bodies, a sign of how much he wants it too.

you gasp, eyes squeezing shut with the last image being keigo’s face, twisted in ecstasy and scrunched with concentration. “gonna—‘m gonna cum, kei!”

“with me, dovey, please,” sweat pours down the sides of his face as the heated bliss tightens in his gut, applying an unbearable pressure to his cock. “let me feel you cum around me, ughhh.”

sloppily, keigo presses open mouthed kisses to your lips, and a delighted moan escapes him when you kiss back. your lips are soft against his, and your tongue carries the sweet taste of valentine’s chocolates, the expensive ones he’d come home with earlier.

After a long day at work, you finally get to go home and relax with your boyfriend, Yuji. 

​

He too was tired after a long day of killing curses and what not. All he had on his mind was getting home to you (who always gets home before him) and enjoying some quality time with you.

​

You and Yuji's favorite thing to do together after a long day was to embrace each other and cuddle, and that's what you both had done. You lie on your back flat against the couch as Yuji holds a remote up to the TV, flicking through shows and movies.

​

“Is there anything in particular you want to watch, babe?” Yuji wants to pick something both of you would enjoy watching together, but he also just can't decide for himself what he even wants to watch.

​

“I'm good with anything Ji.” There's that sweet nickname you've given him that he loves so much. He feels butterflies in his stomach every time he hears your voice say his nickname.

​

Yuji just picks a movie after struggling to find something that catches his attention. When the movie starts playing, he flips around to face you and rests his whole body flat against yours, his head on your chest as he sets the remote next to both of you.

​

A couple of minutes into the movie, Yuji has started to squirm against you. He’ll lift his head to reposition it back against your chest, or he’ll shift down just to shift back up. He couldn't stop moving. He was uncomfortable, and his level of comfort was starting to negatively affect yours.

​

“Yuji, baby. I love you, but if you don't stop moving, I'm gonna have to kick you off me.”

​

“Noo ok” he pouts, “I'll try to stop. it's just…mmh…”

​

“Just what?” you ask him when his face flushes pink and he doesn't finish his sentence.”

​

Yuji lifts his head off your chest and turns it so his chin is resting back on it.

​

He looks up into your eyes with furrowed brows that wrinkle his forehead, his bottom lip sticking out in a pout, he looks like a whining puppy. 

​

But puppies' cheeks don't turn pink like his. He looked embarrassed to say what he was about to say next. 

“Your bra is making it hard to get comfy, is all.” he pouts even more, hoping to convince you with his eyes to take it off.

​

“Yuji….”

​

“Mmhmplease. Can we take it off?”

​

“Why do you have to lie on my chest so badly?” Don't think for a second that you didn't want it off. Of course you did. Bras were like an invention from hell, comfort wise. But what was worse about bras wasn't actually wearing them. It was the hassle of having to take them off, especially when you were so tired and already resting comfortably.

​

“Why don't we find a more comfortable position for you?” you offer to him.

​

“NoO please… I wanna stay here. Isn't your bra uncomfortable anyway? You always complain about it when taking it off.” He got you there. He paid too much attention to you sometimes, not like you were complaining about it, though.

​

You've had a long day, though, and have honestly just ignored the uncomfortableness. Too tired to bother taking it off.

​

“I complain that much?”

​

With a nod of his head, he responds. “You even let out this cute sigh of relief the moment you take it off.

​

“I do not.” you argue with him.

​

“Yes huh.”

​

This conversation had caused a playful argument between you two. Both of you are too stubborn to let the other one win. When you ran out of things to say, you refused to stay silent and let him win.

​

With all of the strength you could muster up, you flip your body around, throwing Yuji off of you. He fell to the floor with an ‘oumf’ next to the couch.

​

Hiding your face in the backrest of the couch. You turn your back to Yuji, who remains lying on the floor.

​

Yuji gets up and leans his chin on the couch cushion next to your head so you can hear his whispers meant for you.

​

“Babe…” he whined to you like a child.

​

“Please?” he begged like a puppy wanting attention.

​

When you still didn't respond to him and continued to give him the cold shoulder, he became more persistent in getting your attention. He gets quiet behind you, standing up to his feet.

​

When no other noises come from him, you get worried that you had taken it too far and had accidentally hurt his poor feelings. Turning around with an apologetic look on your face, you're ready to apologise to him.

​

You twist your neck. Front half still facing the backrest of the couch, but your face is looking behind you to Yuji. Only Yuji wasn't where you had left him anymore.

​

“Uh! Yuji?!” you call out to him, thinking he had sulked off to go cry to himself to tease you.

​

Instead of a response from him, you get a noise coming from behind the couch.

​

Turning around to the back of the couch, you see Yuji peeking over the top of the couch at you, waiting for you to notice him. When you do, with a grin on Yuji's face, he jumps over the couch with control and gently lands back on top of you in his original cuddle position.

​

“AH! Yuji, come on your heavy!”

​

“You weren't complaining about that earlier, sweet girl.”

​

Yuji says playfully, his breath hitting your neck and tickling you as he laughs at your squeamishness. He had pushed his face into your neck, giving it small, sweet kisses. You could feel the way he breathed through his nose into your neck.

​

You kept squirming till Yuji finally laid off the kisses on your neck. Moving his lips to rest on your cheek, not to kiss, just to be close to your face as he asked his question.

​

“Can I please lie back down on your boobs?... no bra this time.” 

​

He asked with confidence, thinking his kisses had lifted your spirit. Not that you were ever actually upset with him. 

​

He was wrong. He could see on your face the conflict going on in your head.

​

It's not like you DIDNT want your bra off, you did, it's just A LOT of work to do.

​

You'd have to sit up. Pull your arms into your shirt, then pull and twist your bra till the clasp is on your stomach for easy access. Then you'd have to actually unclasp it, throw it off, and put your arms back into your shirt sleeve, and find that comfortable position you were once in, but end up never finding it.

​

You understand, it's not really all that much work if you actually think about it. But after the long day you've had. Anything sounds like more work to you, and more work isn't what you want to do.

Before you could think any longer and tell Yuji ‘No,’ the answer he's dreading to hear, he speaks up once more.

​

“I'll take it off FOR you, sweet girl.” He mumbled into your cheek.

​

You almost didn't understand what he said, but that's impossible when he's speaking right into your cheek, next to your ear.

​

He lets out a little giggle as you attempt to side eye him. Struggling to meet his eyes fully, given how close his own eyes were to yours.

​

You don't say any words to Yuji, you just raise your arms over your head. That action of yours however, is enough to tell Yuji you're allowing him to do what he's been begging for all this time.

​

Yuji had gotten onto his knees for balance. Each one is placed next to your hips so he doesn't accidentally squish you in the process of taking your shirt off, now kneeling over you.

​

He placed his hands on your waist, giving you a quick kiss on the lips.

​

“Thank you, baby.” Yuji leans down to whisper into your cheek again, before gripping your shirt in his hands and pulling it off and over your head.

​

When he had taken your shirt off, it had tousled your hair a bit, making it messy, but neither of you cared as Yujis' next actions made your breath stop for a moment. 

​

Yuji had tossed your shirt off somewhere across the room and moved his hands back to your body to start doing what he's been wanting to do since he had laid down on your chest.

​

His hands had moved back to your waist, warm from his body heat, before slowly sliding them up and behind your back to find the clasp of your bra.

​

You had arched your back a little to allow easy access to your back for Yuji. Pushing your chest up into his as he sweetly looked into your eyes.

​

So sweet, and so innocent. Yuji wasn't lustfully looking at your chest that was touching his own. He was staring deeply into your eyes, his own eyes heavy and lidded. Either from the long day he's had himself or because of all the love he feels for you.

​

Yuji's hands had found your bra clasp, and with experience, he had unclasped it like the countless of other times he had. 

​

After your bra was unclasped, he leaned in closer to your face.

​

You met him halfway. Unarching your back to lean your shoulders up and wrap your arms around his neck for a slow kiss as his hands continued to travel up your back. The warmth from his hands lingered.

​

His hands traveled up to your shoulders, grasping your bra straps along the way as he released you from the kiss.

​

Once he had pulled your bra down your arms and off your body, you let out a big sigh of relief, feeling satisfied at the comfort that came with your bra being gone.

​

“See! You're doing it again. I told you, you do that.”

​

“Shh, whatever, Yuji.”

​

Now your chest is exposed. Nipples starting to stiffen from the sudden cold air. But not for long.

​

Yuji, with a youthful glee, had raised your bra over both of you in the air. “Yes!! Finally, it's off! Yuji Itadori, you've done it again! Another win for Yuji!” He giggled.

​

His laugh was so contagious that you yourself couldn't hold back your laugh from his silliness. 

​

Yuji had tossed your bra aside as well before leaning his face back down.

​

With his butt high in the air, Yuji wrapped his arms around your waist to pull you impossibly closer, resting his cheek back onto your breast, blocking the continuous air flow from hitting just one of your nipples.

​

“See? Doesn't that feel much better, baby?”

​

“Put your butt down, femboy.” you say flatly in playful annoyance.

​

He's got you down to a T. Knowing what you're feeling and thinking before even thinking and feeling it.

​

“Yes ma’am.” He said in urgency, slamming his hips down to rest flat on you, just like before, when you had both started the movie.

​

Both of your guys' attention had returned to the movie, though it was hard to follow along and understand anything going on now, from both of you not paying attention to it earlier.

​

“That movie sucked.” He mumbled into your chest as his cheek and face were squished up.

​

“Yeah, it did.” you agree, closing your eyes as the end credits started to roll.

​

You're on the verge of falling asleep. After the long day you've had and Yuji's body heat and weight splayed out on top of you, how could you not after the long day you had?

​

The warm touch of Yuji's hand on your other naked breast had made you jump. Not expecting the touch.

​

“Yuji…”

​

“Yea baby?”

​

“You said you only wanted to rest on them.”

​

“I am”

​

Too tired to care for his actions, you let him continue. If anything, it was almost comforting. His warm body on you, his comforting weight grounding you, and his calloused hands not sexually squeezing or fondling, but just slightly holding and, on occasion, rubbing his thumb in circles on you softly. It's almost as if he were comforting himself.  

​

You had fallen asleep to his comforting touch. Yuji could tell with his head pressed to your chest. It was easy to hear the moment your heartbeat settled into a steady pace. Sitting there and listening to it was like heaven to his ears, it was the only thing he could focus on other than your soft skin under his cheek and palm.

​

It was the loudest thing in the room, your heartbeat that is, not the TV. The TV had long been turned off after the end credits started rolling. The atmosphere was perfect for Yuji himself to fall asleep. 

​

Streaks of sunlight had peeped in through the curtain, waking you up. Yuji's weight was still on top of you. The moment was peaceful.

​

When the feel of something warm running down the curve of your boob had made you jump slightly, you tried your best not to wake Yuji up after the long day he had had himself yesterday.

​

You looked down thinking some spider thought it was invited to the cuddle session with you and Yuji, only to not find anything, but your small jump from earlier had caused him to stir a bit and… oh… Yujis is just drooling. Mouth slightly agape and his cheek still smooshed from the curve of your breast.  

​

Guess your boobs really were that good of Pillows.

​

Damn you, Yuji…

Authors Ending Note: I might come back to this and fix it up a bit, I did read over it but got lazy and just started skimming through (I hate reading my own writing - ok)

You'd been on the guest list before, your brand had collaborated with half the houses present tonight alone, but this year felt different. 

This year, you weren't just a designer in attendance. You were the fiancée of one of Prada's youngest ambassadors, and the whole world knew it.

You'd spent the entire morning preparing. Not because you needed the time, you could throw together a look in twenty minutes flat, a skill honed from years of running your own label, but because the outfit required precision. 

Every detail was deliberate, every accessory a statement, and if there was one thing you refused to do, it was to show up to a Prada event looking anything less than editorial.

The fuzzy grey high-neck winter jacket was your own design, a prototype from your upcoming fall-winter collection that you'd finished stitching at two in the morning the night before. 

The thick scarf wrapped around your neck was a mix of blue, white, grey, and brown plaid patterns, hand-woven by a small atelier that was run by the sister of your online friend in Scotland that you'd been supporting since your brand first turned a profit. 

The black mini-skirt was deceptively simple, a high-waisted silhouette that hugged your hips just right, the hem hitting mid-thigh. 

Your brown winter boots were lined with shearling, practical but polished, the kind of footwear that said you understood the assignment: fashion first, frostbite second.

But the highlight, the pièce de résistance, was the tights.

Black polka dot tights. 

Tiny white dots scattered across the sheer black fabric, close enough together to form a pattern but far enough apart that you could still see skin underneath. The dots caught the light differently depending on the angle, shifting from stark white to almost pearlescent when you crossed your legs. You'd spent an embarrassing amount of time deliberating over them, holding up pair after pair in front of your full-length mirror until Riki had finally wandered into your studio, chin resting on your shoulder, arms looping around your waist, and murmured, "The polka dots. Obviously."

You were also wearing a pair of black-framed glasses, rounded, slightly oversized, with thin metal arms, that Riki had gifted you on your six-month anniversary. He'd picked them up from a vintage shop in Harajuku during a tour stop, tucked them into his carry-on between his passport and a half-eaten pack of melon bread, and presented them to you in the back of a van with his manager yelling at him to hurry up. 

The frames suited you in a way that made his chest tight every time you put them on, which was precisely why he'd bought them. Your hair was curled at the ends, soft waves framing your face, and your bangs were clipped back with two small silver clips, half-moon shaped, another one of your designs. White fuzzy earmuffs sat over your ears, the kind that looked like they belonged on a snow bunny in a 1960s ski film.

When you finally emerged from the bedroom, Riki was leaning against the kitchen counter, scrolling through his phone with a glass of water in his other hand. He glanced up, did a full double-take, and then just — stopped.

His phone slipped. Not all the way, not dramatically, but enough that he fumbled to catch it, his fingers closing around it a second too late, and it clattered against the marble countertop with a sound that made you wince.

"Riki—"

"Don't move."

"Huh?"

"I said don't move." He set his glass down carefully, deliberately, like he was afraid any sudden movement would shatter the image in front of him. His eyes dragged over you slowly, from the earmuffs perched on your head to the glasses sitting on the bridge of your nose, down the column of your neck wrapped in plaid, the grey jacket, the mini-skirt, the polka dot tights, the boots, and something in his expression shifted. His lips parted. His throat worked. He looked, for a moment, like a man who had just realised he was thoroughly, devastatingly out of his depth.

"You look," he started, and then stopped. Swallowed. Tried again. "You look unreal."

"You already said that when I tried on the jacket last week."

"I meant it then and I mean it now." He pushed off the counter and crossed the kitchen in three long strides, his hands finding your waist like they were magnetised to the spot. He dipped his head, pressing his forehead to yours, and you could feel the warmth of his breath fan across your lips. "The tights," he said, voice low. His fingers skimmed down your side, over your hip, settling at the bare strip of thigh between your skirt hem and the top of your boots. "The tights are going to be a problem."

"Ow, you don't like them?"

"I like them too much." He kissed you then, soft and slow, his thumb tracing circles on the outside of your thigh where the polka dots pressed against your skin. When he pulled back, his eyes were half-lidded and there was a faint smudge of your lip gloss on his bottom lip. "We're going to be late."

"You started it."

"I'm aware." He smiled, the smile that crinkled the corners of his eyes and showed the slight overlap of his front teeth. "Come on, baby. Car's waiting."

Riki's outfit was, by his own admission, "an attempt at restraint." A black puffer jacket with a fur-trimmed hood that made him look like he'd stepped out of a streetwear lookbook, a white sweater peeking out from underneath the hem and collar, baggy denim jeans that sat low on his hips in that effortlessly cool way that only he could pull off, and his trusty pair of winter boots, the same ones he'd worn to three different fashion weeks and refused to replace because, in his words, "they're broken in perfectly." Around his neck was a striped blue scarf that you were eighty percent sure he'd stolen from your dad's closet last Christmas, but you didn't have the heart to call him out on it because he looked so damn cozy wearing it.

The estate was beautiful in the way that only places with old money could be, ivory walls and wrought-iron gates, gravel paths that crunched underfoot, and a sprawling garden that had been transformed for the event. 

Heaters stood at intervals along the walkways, glowing orange against the early evening dark, and sheer tents had been erected over the main areas, their fabric catching the golden light of the chandeliers suspended within. 

The air smelled like pine and expensive perfume, and everywhere you looked, someone was wearing something that cost more than a semester of tuition.

You and Riki entered together, his hand resting on the small of your back, and the cameras erupted. Flash after flash after flash, a wall of white light that made your glasses reflect like mirrors, and Riki's grip on you tightened, not out of possessiveness, but out of practice. He'd learned to guide you through crowds like this, his body angling to shield you from the worst of the surge, his hand a steady anchor against the chaos.

"Over here, Mr. Nishimura!"

"Miss! Miss, over here! The tights—who designed them?"

"Are those your own brand? Can you confirm—"

You smiled, tilted your chin, let the cameras capture the outfit from every angle. Riki did the same beside you, effortless, practiced, the product of years in an industry that demanded you be both accessible and untouchable. But just before you stepped past the photo wall and into the venue proper, he leaned down and pressed his lips to your temple, and the resulting shutter sound was deafening.

"You're killing me," he muttered against your hair.

"Behave."

"No."

The event was the kind of thing that looked effortless but required an exhausting amount of social choreography. You and Riki had been seated at different tables, his as Prada's ambassador, yours as the founder of your label, and while the tables were only about twenty feet apart, the distance felt insurmountable in a room where every conversation was a negotiation and every smile was a calculated move.

You handled your end with the ease of someone who'd been doing this since she was nineteen, when your grandmother's old sewing machine had been your only investment and your kitchen table had been your cutting room. 

You shook hands with buyers, charmed editors, laughed at jokes that weren't funny, and somehow managed to compliment someone's shoes without lying. 

Your grandmother had raised you to be warm, to hug people when you met them, to touch their arm when you laughed, to lean in close when they spoke so they knew you were listening. It was second nature to you, as automatic as breathing, and in the fashion industry, where everyone was accustomed to a certain degree of frostiness, your affection was disarming.

Which was how you found yourself in conversation with a man whose name you hadn't quite caught, something French, maybe, or Belgian, who had apparently designed the installation's centrepiece and was very keen to tell you about it.

"Your work is extraordinary," he was saying, his accent rounding out the consonants in a way that made everything sound like a compliment. "The way you construct silhouettes—it's architectural. Structural. I see a lot of myself in it."

"Oh, thank you!" You beamed at him, genuine and bright, because you appreciated any kind of comparison to architecture. Your grandmother had been a seamstress, yes, but she'd also been the daughter of a carpenter, and she'd always told you that building a garment was no different from building a house, you needed a strong frame, good materials, and a steady hand. "That means a lot coming from you. The centrepiece is incredible, by the way. The use of negative space—"

He stepped closer. You didn't notice. You were too busy gesturing at the installation, your hands painting shapes in the air the way they always did when you were excited about something. He reached up and adjusted the clip in your bangs, his fingers brushing against your hairline, and said, "This was falling. I fixed it."

"Oh! Thank you," you said, smiling. "These clips are tricky, they slip sometimes—"

"Your glasses too. May I?" And before you could respond, he was sliding them further up the bridge of your nose, his fingertips grazing your cheek, and you blinked at the proximity but didn't pull away because why would you? He was being helpful. He was being nice. That was a thing people did — they helped each other. Your grandmother had always said that kindness was free and should be given freely, and you'd lived your whole life by that philosophy.

Across the venue, Riki was in the middle of a conversation with a Prada executive about an upcoming campaign, and he was doing an admirable job of appearing engaged. 

He was nodding at the right moments, asking the right follow-up questions, even managing a convincing laugh when the executive made a joke about a rival house. But his attention was divided. It had been divided since the moment you'd separated, his eyes tracking you across the room like a compass needle finding north, and right now, that needle was spinning wildly.

He saw it all.

He saw the man lean in too close — close enough that his breath was probably visible in the cold air between your faces. He saw the hand that reached up to fix your clip, fingers lingering a beat too long against your hair. He saw the way the man adjusted your glasses, his touch drifting from the frame to your cheek like it belonged there. He saw the way you smiled up at the man, bright and completely, heartbreakingly oblivious, because you were you, and you assumed the best in everyone, and it had never once occurred to you that someone might be using the excuse of helpfulness to touch you in ways that made Riki's blood pressure spike.

His grip on his champagne flute tightened. The glass was sturdy, Prada didn't skimp on glassware, but he could feel the tension in his knuckles, the fine tremor of restraint running through his forearm.

"Nishimura?" The executive's voice cut through. "You had thoughts on the Milan venue?"

"Sorry, yeah." He dragged his gaze back to the conversation, forced his expression into something neutral. "The Milan venue is great. The lighting is the main thing—we need to make sure the—"

The man had his hand on your shoulder now. Your shoulder. He was leaning down to say something near your ear, his thumb rubbing small circles against the wool of your jacket, and you were nodding along, completely unaware of the way his eyes were tracing the line of your jaw, the curve of your neck, the dip of your collarbone visible above the high neck of your jacket.

Riki smiled through it. He smiled through the next conversation too, and the one after that, and the one after that. He smiled when a photographer asked for a solo shot, and he smiled when a stylist complimented his scarf, and he smiled when a fellow ambassador asked about the ring on your finger, visible now that you'd taken your gloves off to accept a drink, because what the hell could he say? That he wanted to cross the room, slide his arm around your waist, and tell every man within a ten-foot radius to back the fuck off? That he wanted to bite the spot where that stranger's thumb had touched your shoulder? That he was actively restraining himself from doing something that would end up on every gossip account by midnight?

He could practically see the tweets already. 

Oh my god.

PRADA’S NISHIMURA RIKI CAUSES SCENE AT PRADA EVENT—JEALOUS BOYFRIEND OR JUST BAD TEMPER? followed by a thread of clips taken from unflattering angles and captioned with takes so hot they could melt the ice on the garden paths. 

He could see the think pieces, the psychoanalysis, the stan Twitter wars between people who thought he was justified and people who thought he was toxic, and neither side would be right because neither side knew the truth — they didn't know that you were the most oblivious person on the planet, that you thought everyone was just being friendly, that if someone flirted with you using the subtlety of a sledgehammer you'd probably just think they had great posture.

So Riki stayed where he was. He smiled. He networked. He kept his grip on his champagne flute tight enough that the tendons in his hand stood out like cords, and he watched, and he waited, and every time the man touched your shoulder, three times, he counted them, three goddamn times, he filed the number away like a brand seared into his memory.

By the time the event wound down, Riki had shaken approximately forty hands, smiled through approximately sixty conversations, and consumed approximately four glasses of champagne on an empty stomach. 

He was tipsy, not sloppy, not sloppy enough for anyone to notice, but just enough that the edges of things had gone soft and warm and his tongue felt loose behind his teeth. The buzz was pleasant, distracting, a buffer between his brain and the image of that man's hand on your shoulder that he kept replaying like a scene he couldn't stop watching.

You found him near the exit, adjusting his scarf with one hand and his phone with the other, and you slipped your arm through his like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Ready to go, baby?"

"Yeah." His voice came out rougher than intended. He cleared his throat. "Yeah, let's go."

The car was waiting — a sleek black sedan with tinted windows, booked privately through the service Riki always used when he didn't want the company van's driver to overhear whatever half-coherent conversation would inevitably happen on the ride home. You climbed in first, pulling your earmuffs off and shaking out your hair, and Riki followed, immediately reaching for the partition button to close off the driver's compartment.

Then you were on him.

Not in a sexual way, not consciously, but in the way you always were when you'd been apart from him for more than an hour. You pressed yourself against his side, your cheek finding the curve of his shoulder, your fingers walking up the front of his puffer jacket to fiddle with the zipper pull. You pressed a kiss to his jaw, then another to the spot just below his ear, and you could feel the way his pulse jumped under your lips even though his posture remained carefully, deliberately relaxed.

"I missed you," you murmured against his skin. "The event was so, so long, baby. I kept looking over at you."

"Did you?" His arm came up around your shoulders, his thumb rubbing a slow circle against the curve of your arm. The gesture was affectionate, automatic, but there was something in the rhythm of it that felt… off. Like a metronome that was slightly out of time. "I was watching you too."

"Were you?" You smiled against his neck, your nose brushing the collar of his sweater. "Did you like how I handled the Barneys buyer? I think I got them to commit to the spring line—"

"You seemed pretty busy." The words were casual. Too casual. The kind of casual that was constructed, deliberate, a mask placed over something sharper. "With that guy."

"What guy?" You pulled back just enough to look at him, your brow furrowed. Your glasses had slipped down your nose again, and you pushed them up absently. "Oh—you mean the installation designer? He was super sweet, Ki! He helped me fix my clip, and he had really interesting things to say about textile architecture. Did you know he studied under—"

"He was flirting with you."

The car took a turn, and the glow of a streetlight swept across Riki's face, illuminating the hard set of his jaw, the slight furrow between his brows, the way his eyes were fixed on the window instead of on you. You stared at him, blinking.

"He was what?"

"Flirting. With you." Each word was clipped, precise, like he was biting them in half before they could escape. "He touched your hair. Your face. Your shoulder—three times. He was leaning in so close I could practically see his dental work."

"Oh." You sat back slightly, processing this information the way you processed most social cues with a delay long enough to be endearing and a little bit tragic. "He was... flirting? With me? But he was just being nice. He fixed my glasses, Riki. Who fixes someone's glasses if they're not being nice?"

"Someone who wants an excuse to touch your face," Riki said flatly. "Someone who sees an opening and takes it because you're too sweet to notice that he's not being nice, he's being interested, and there's a difference, and you—"

He stopped himself. Exhaled through his nose. His jaw worked, the muscle there jumping, and you watched the tension ride through his frame like a current, shoulders rigid, fingers flexing against your arm, the tendons in his neck taut. He looked like he was physically holding something back, and the realisation hit you like cold water.

"Baby," you said softly, reaching up to touch his face. "Hey. Look at me."

He did. His eyes were dark in the low light of the car, the amber of the passing streetlamps catching in them intermittently, and there was something raw there, something unguarded that made your chest ache. You'd seen Riki walk for ten thousand people. You'd seen him navigate boardrooms and red carpets and interviews with the ease of someone who'd been trained to be likable since he was fourteen. 

But this — this was different. 

This was your Riki, the one who got sulky when you ate the last mochi, the one who practiced his confession in the mirror for three days before actually saying it, the one who was sitting in the back of a black sedan with champagne-warmth in his veins and jealousy sitting heavy and obvious in his chest.

"I'm sorry," you said, and you meant it. You were sorry — not for being friendly, because that was who you were and he'd never ask you to change, but for not noticing, for making him sit through that, for being the kind of person who could have a man practically draw her a map to his intentions and still think he was just being polite. "I didn't realize. I would've—I should have—"

"It's not your fault." He said it quietly, firmly, and his hand came up to cover yours on his cheek, pressing your palm against his skin like he needed the warmth. "I know that's just how you are. I know you don't see it. That's not—you're not the problem, okay? That bitch is the problem. I just—" He exhaled again, sharper this time, and his eyes fluttered shut. "It drove me insane. Standing there, watching him touch you like that, and I couldn't do anything. I couldn't just walk over there without it being a whole thing, and I knew if I said something it'd be everywhere, and—"

"Ki."

"—and he just kept touching you, and you were smiling at him, fuck, and I know you didn't mean anything by it, but you're mine, and—"

"Riki."

He stopped. Opened his eyes. Looked at you with that expression you'd only ever seen in the privacy of your shared spaces, hungry and soft and a little bit desperate, like he was standing at the edge of something and needed permission to fall.

"I'm yours," you said simply. "You know that."

"I know." His voice was rough. The champagne had loosened something in him, stripped away the careful composure, and what was left was raw and wanting. "I know. I just—need to remind myself."

The rest of the drive was quiet, but it wasn't the comfortable kind. 

It was the kind of quiet that hummed with tension, that filled the space between your bodies like static electricity, that made every point of contact, his hand on your thigh, your head on his shoulder, his thumb tracing absent patterns on the inside of your wrist, feel charged and significant. 

You pressed more kisses to his cheek, leaving faint traces of lipstick like signatures, and he let you, his eyes half-closed and his jaw still tight, and the offness you'd sensed earlier crystallised into something you could finally name.

He was jealous. He was jealous, and he was tipsy, and he was holding himself together with the kind of restraint that was fraying at the edges.

The house was warm when you walked in, you'd left the smart thermostat on before you left, and the heat had been cranking for the past four hours, turning the space into a cocoon against the winter chill outside. 

You kicked off your boots in the entryway, your feet finding the hardwood in just your tights, and you were reaching for the zipper of your jacket when Riki's hands found you.

Not your jacket. 

You. 

His arms wrapped around your waist from behind, his face pressing into the curve of your neck, and his entire body folded into yours like a building collapsing in slow motion. 

He was heavy, taller than you by nearly a head, broader across the shoulders, all long limbs and lean muscle, and when he let go, he let go, his weight sagging against your back until you staggered slightly under the pressure.

"Whoa, hey—"

"You're mine." The words were muffled against your neck, damp and warm, and his arms tightened around your waist like he was trying to press you into himself, eliminate any space between your bodies. "You're mine, and he was touching you, and I couldn't—I wanted to—"

"I know, baby. I know." You turned in his arms, your hands coming up to cradle his face, and he looked at you with eyes that were glassy and dark and so painfully honest that it made your heart crack open. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry. I should've noticed, I should've—"

"Don't apologize." He shook his head, his hair falling across his forehead in that way that always made you want to push it back. "Don't. It's not—it's not your fault. You're too good. You're too good and people take advantage of it and it makes me—"

He broke off, his throat working, and something shifted in his expression. 

The whine was still there, the babyish, I-need-complaint pout that he wore when he was feeling small and wanted to be coddled, but underneath it, something else was surfacing. 

Something harder. Hotter. The jealousy that had been simmering all evening was reaching its boiling point, and the warmth from the champagne was fanning the flames.

"Enough." His voice dropped. Not angry, never angry with you, but firm, decided, the kind of firm that brokered no argument. "I've been patient all night. I've been good. I've smiled and shaken hands and let that man put his hands on what's mine without saying a word, and I'm done being patient."

Your breath caught. "Riki—"

"I need to mark you." He said it like a confession, like something he'd been holding behind his teeth all evening and could finally release. "I need to mark you, doll. I need to see my marks on you so that the next time someone thinks they can touch you, they'll see them and know."

He kissed you then, not the soft, reverent kisses from the car but something deeper, harder, his teeth catching your bottom lip and tugging until you gasped into his mouth. 

His hands were everywhere: cupping your jaw, tangling in your hair, sliding down your back to grip your hips and pull you flush against him. You could feel the heat of him even through the layers of your jacket and his puffer, the hard line of his body pressing against yours, and the champagne on his tongue was sweet and sharp and made your head spin.

"Up," he muttered against your lips, and then his hands were under your thighs, lifting you like you weighed nothing, and you wrapped your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck and held on as he carried you down the hallway to your bedroom.

He kicked the door open, not hard enough to damage it, but hard enough that it bounced off the wall, and laid you down on the bed with a care that contradicted the urgency of his movements. You sank into the duvet, your hair fanning out across the pillows, and he stood over you for a moment, chest heaving, eyes dragging down your body like he was committing every detail to memory.

"Keep the tights on," he said, and his voice was hoarse.

You blinked up at him. "What?"

"The tights." He sank to his knees at the edge of the bed, his hands finding your ankles and sliding up reverently over the smooth fabric dotted with tiny white polka dots. "Keep them on, baby. I have... plans."

His fingers traced the pattern, pressing gently into the sheer fabric, feeling the warmth of your skin beneath. The polka dots were like Braille under his fingertips, tiny raised dots that he read like a language only he knew. 

He pushed your mini-skirt up, baring the expanse of your thighs, and the sound he made, low, guttural, somewhere between a groan and a growl, sent a shiver racing down your spine.

"God, these tights." He pressed his lips to your knee, then to the soft skin above it, the fabric of the tights a whisper-thin barrier between his mouth and your skin. "Do you have any idea what you've done to me tonight? Walking around in these—looking like that—and then letting some other man put his hands on you—"

"I didn't know—"

"I know you didn't, doll. That's what makes it worse." He kissed the inside of your thigh, open-mouthed and hot, and your breath hitched. "You're so trusting. So sweet. You think everyone's just being nice, and meanwhile I'm standing across the room watching some guy memorize the shape of your body through these—" He bit down. Not hard enough to hurt, not yet, but hard enough that you felt the pressure of his teeth through the thin fabric, and you let out a startled, breathy sound that was half gasp and half moan.

"Riki—"

"He touched your shoulder three times." He bit down again, harder this time, and this time there was no mistaking it, he was leaving a mark, his teeth indenting the skin of your inner thigh through the polka dot tights, and the contrast was devastating: the delicate pattern of dots, the dark fabric, and the red bloom of a bruise rising underneath. "Three times. I counted. I counted every single time his hand made contact with your body, and each time I wanted to break his fingers."

"Baby—"

"Three." He bit down again, higher up on your thigh, and you arched off the bed with a cry that you muffled against the back of your hand. The pain was sharp and bright, but it faded almost immediately into something warm and throbbing, and when you looked down, you could see the mark already forming, a dark, mouth-shaped bruise against the polka dot fabric, the white dots like witnesses to the claim.

"Two." Another bite, on the other thigh now, and his tongue swept over the mark after, soothing and wet and obscenely hot through the tights. You were trembling, your fingers twisted in the duvet, your glasses askew on your face, and he hadn't even taken off a single piece of your clothing.

"One." The last bite was the hardest, placed high on your inner thigh where the skin was softest and the tights were stretched thin, and you felt the sting of it all the way down to your toes. He pulled back to admire his work, and the sound he made, low, satisfied, almost predatory, made heat pool in your stomach. Three marks. Three whole ass bites. One for each time that man had touched you, each one a brand that would darken over the next few days into deep, mottled purple.

"Perfect," he breathed. His fingers traced the marks, pressing lightly, watching the way your breath stuttered. "You look so pretty with my marks on you, angel. So pretty. And everyone's gonna know. Not that they'd see these—" He dragged his thumb over the bruise on your inner thigh, and you whimpered. "But I'll know. And you'll know. And every time you move your legs tomorrow, you're going to feel them and remember that you're mine."

"I'm yours," you whispered, and you meant it with every cell in your body.

He smiled at that, not the sharp, possessive smile from before, but something softer, something that cracked through the jealousy like sunlight through clouds. "Yeah," he said, and his voice was gentle even though his hands were still pressing bruises into your thighs. "Yeah, you are."

He reached for the waistband of your tights then, hooking his fingers under the elastic and dragging them down your hips slowly, pressing open-mouthed kisses to every inch of newly exposed skin. The tights peeled off like a second skin, the polka dots sliding away from the bruises he'd left, and he tossed them somewhere over his shoulder without looking. 

Your underwear followed, a scrap of black lace that he pulled down with his teeth, and the visual of it, Riki on his knees, his eyes dark and fixed on your face, his mouth dragging lace down your thighs, was enough to make your breath come in shallow, desperate pants.

"Ki, please—"

"Please what?" He settled between your legs, his breath warm against your inner thighs, his lips ghosting over the marks he'd left. "Tell me what you want, doll. You have a mouth for a reason."

"Your mouth. Please—I need—"

"What do you mean by please?" He pressed a kiss to your inner thigh, dangerously close to where you needed him, and his tongue darted out to taste the mark he'd left. 

The sensation was electric, warm and not nearly enough, and you squirmed beneath him, your hips lifting off the bed in silent pleading.

"I need your mouth on me. Please, Ki. Please, baby."

"Good girl." The words vibrated against your skin, and then his mouth was on you, and you stopped thinking entirely.

He was thorough. 

He was always thorough, Riki had never done anything half-heartedly in his life, and that included this, but tonight there was an edge to it, a hunger that bordered on desperation. His tongue was hot and precise, mapping every fold and curve with the focus of a cartographer charting new territory, and when he found the spot that made your back arch off the mattress, he stayed there, circling and pressing and sucking until you were making sounds you didn't recognise.

"Riki—oh god—Ki—"

He groaned against you, the vibration of it shooting through your body like a shockwave, and his hands gripped your thighs hard enough to leave fingerprint bruises alongside the bite marks. 

He was making noises too, low and guttural sounds that were half-moan and half-growl, the kind of sounds that came from a man who was losing himself in the taste of you, who couldn't stop even if he wanted to, who was drunk on champagne and jealousy and the sweetness of your body on his tongue.

"You taste so good," he murmured against you, his voice wrecked. "So fucking good, angel. My doll. Mine."

"Yours—ah—yours, baby, I'm—"

He didn't let you finish the sentence. His tongue flattened against you, broad and wet and relentless, and he licked into you with a determination that made your vision blur. Your glasses were completely fogged now, the lenses clouded with heat and moisture, and you reached up blindly to pull them off, tossing them somewhere on the nightstand, and the world went soft and dark at the edges. Not that you needed to see. You could feel every stroke of his tongue, every press of his lips, every sharp inhale he took between your legs like he was breathing you in.

The orgasm built slowly, a tightening coil in your lower belly that wound tighter with every stroke of his tongue. You could feel it approaching, cresting, your thighs shaking around his head, your fingers tangled in his hair, pulling him closer even though closer was physically impossible—

And then he stopped.

You made a sound of protest that was embarrassingly close to a sob, your hips chasing his mouth, but he pulled back just out of reach, his hands pressing your thighs down against the mattress. "Not yet," he said, and his voice was steady even though his lips were swollen and glistening and his chest was heaving. "You don't get to come yet."

"What—why—"

"Three." He said it simply, and the meaning crashed over you like cold water. Three. Three edges. Three denials. One for each time that man had touched your shoulder, one for each moment Riki had watched from across the room and done nothing. This was the reckoning.

"Riki, I can't—"

"You can." He pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee, gentle and reassuring. "You can, and you will. Because I asked you to. Because you're mine, and you're going to take what I give you, and you're going to be good for me. Can you do that, doll?"

Your eyes were stinging. Your body was thrumming with unresolved tension, every nerve ending screaming for release, and he was asking you to hold on, to wait, to endure. But the way he was looking at you, soft and dark and so full of love that it made your chest ache, made it impossible to say no.

"Yes," you whispered. "Yes, I can be good for you."

"My good girl." He smiled, and then he was moving, shedding his puffer jacket and pulling his sweater over his head, revealing the lean lines of his torso, broad shoulders tapering to a narrow waist, and the faint definition of his abs. He was beautiful. He was always beautiful, but like this, dishevelled and hungry and looking at you like you were the only thing keeping him tethered to the earth, he was absolutely devastating.

"Come here," you whispered, reaching for him, and he went.

He kissed you as he settled over you, his weight pressing you into the mattress, and you could taste yourself on his tongue, sweet and strange. His hands worked at the remaining pieces of your outfit, the jacket, the scarf, the mini-skirt, until you were bare beneath him, your skin flushed and dotted with the marks he'd already left, and he pulled back to look at you again.

"You're so beautiful," he said, and his voice cracked on the last word. "So fucking beautiful, and you're mine. Say it again."

"I'm yours, Ki."

"Again."

"I'm yours. Only yours. Always yours."

He kissed you harder, his hands roaming your body with a reverence that bordered on worship. He traced the curve of your waist, the swell of your hips, the dip of your collarbone, his touch feather-light and burning. "This body," he murmured against your jaw. "This body is mine. Every inch of it. Every curve. Every mark." 

His lips found your breast, his tongue circling your nipple, and you arched into the wet heat with a broken moan. "He can look all he wants. He can fix your glasses and adjust your clips and touch your shoulder until his fingers fall off. But at the end of the night, this—" He bit down gently on the swell of your breast, and you keened. "—this comes home to me."

"Yes—yes, baby, always—"

"Open your mouth for me, doll."

You did, without hesitation, without question, because you trusted him with every fibre of your being and because the look in his eyes right now, the raw and naked need, made it impossible to do anything but surrender. 

He shifted, his knees bracketing your shoulders, and you watched through half-lidded eyes as he freed himself from his jeans, the hard length of him bobbing heavily against his stomach.

He was big. 

You'd never gotten used to it — the first time you'd been together, you'd actually laughed, because what else were you supposed to do when confronted with something that looked like it belonged in a textbook? He'd been mortified until you'd explained, and then he'd been insufferably smug about it for approximately five weeks. Now, though, there was no laughter — only hunger, only want, only the desperate need to feel him in whatever way he'd give you.

"Tap my thigh if it's too much," he said, and his voice was gentle even though his hand was shaking where it gripped the headboard. "Okay?"

"Okay."

He pressed the head of his cock against your lips, and you opened wider, your tongue darting out to taste the salt of him, and the sound he made, a sharp, bitten-off groan that he tried to swallow and failed, sent a pulse of heat straight to your core. 

He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, giving you time to adjust, and you felt the stretch of him, the weight, the girth, the way he filled your mouth until your jaw ached with the effort of accommodating him.

"Fuck," he breathed. His head fell back, the long line of his throat exposed, his Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. "Fuck, doll, your mouth—"

You hummed around him, and his hips jerked forward, pushing himself deeper, and you fought your gag reflex bravely, your throat fluttering around the intrusion. He noticed, he always noticed, and his hand came down to cup your jaw, his thumb stroking your cheek in a gesture that was so tender it made your eyes water.

"You're doing so good," he said, and the praise washed over you like warm honey. "So good for me, angel. Taking me so well. My perfect girl."

He started to move then, shallow thrusts at first, letting you set the pace, but gradually deeper, faster, his hips rocking into your mouth with a rhythm that was steadily losing its restraint. 

The sounds he was making were obscene: low, rumbling moans that came from somewhere deep in his chest, punctuated by breathless curses and fragments of your name. He was vocal always, had been since the very beginning, the first time you'd been together he'd been so loud that his neighbour had pounded on the wall and he'd just laughed, breathless and unashamed, but tonight, with the champagne stripping away his inhibitions, he was practically singing.

"Ah—fuck, yes—just like that, doll—your mouth feels so—god—"

His hand fisted in your hair, not pulling, just holding, and his thrusts grew more erratic, his breathing more ragged, and you could feel him getting close, the way his muscles tensed, the way his moans pitched higher, the way his thighs trembled against your shoulders. 

But he pulled back before he could finish, his cock slipping from your lips with a wet sound that made you both groan, and he was breathing hard, his chest heaving, his eyes squeezed shut like he was physically holding himself together.

"Not yet," he said, more to himself than to you. "Not like that. I need—I need to be inside you when I come. Need to feel you."

He moved down your body, settling between your legs again, and this time when he kissed you, it was slow and deep and tasted like the two of you mixed together. 

You could feel him hot and hard against your stomach, the slick of him smearing across your skin, and you reached down to wrap your hand around him, but he caught your wrist and pinned it above your head.

"Patience," he murmured against your lips, and you whimpered because patience was the absolute last thing you had right now.

"I've been patient," you protested, and your voice came out wrecked, raw and hoarse from his cock in your throat and the moans you couldn't stop making. "Please, Ki—I've been so good—"

"You have," he agreed, and his free hand was sliding down your body, over the curve of your hip, between your legs, and his fingers found you dripping and swollen and so achingly sensitive that even the lightest touch made you jerk. "You've been so good for me, baby. My perfect, perfect girl. You deserve a reward, don't you?"

"Yes—please—"

He entered you in one long, slow thrust, and the sound you both made was identical, a broken, desperate moan that harmonised in the quiet of the bedroom. 

He filled you completely, the stretch of him bordering on too much and then settling into something that made your eyes roll back in your head, and he held himself there, buried to the hilt, his forehead pressed against yours, his breath coming in ragged pants.

"Feel that?" He rolled his hips, a slow grind that pressed against every sensitive spot inside you, and you sobbed. "That's mine. You're mine. Say it."

"I'm yours—fuck—I'm yours, Ki—"

He started to move then, really move, and the pace he set was punishing. Deep, hard thrusts that drove you up the mattress, each one punctuated by the slap of skin against skin and the wet sound of your bodies moving together. He was relentless, his hips snapping forward with a precision that spoke of barely contained control, and each thrust hit something inside you that made your vision go blank.

"This is mine," he gritted out, his hand sliding down to grip your hip hard enough to bruise. "This body—this pussy—all of it. Mine. Not his. Not anyone else's. Mine."

"Yours—only yours—baby, please—"

"Please what?" He shifted the angle, hitching your leg up over his hip, and the new position let him sink even deeper, and you heard yourself make a sound that was barely human, high and thin and desperate. "Please let you come? Is that what you want, doll?"

"Yes—yes, please, I need—"

"You need to wait." He thrust into you hard, and you screamed, and he swallowed the sound with his mouth, his tongue sweeping past your lips in a kiss that was all teeth and desperation. "Three, remember? You've had one. You need two more."

"I can't—I can't take it—"

"You can. You will." He pressed his forehead to yours, his eyes dark and molten, and his voice dropped to a whisper. "You're so strong, doll. So perfect. So beautiful. You can take anything I give you, and you'll thank me for it. Won't you?"

"Yes—yes, I'll thank you—thank you, Ki—"

"Good girl."

He kept moving, and you kept climbing, and just as the coil in your belly was about to snap for the second time, he pulled out. Stopped out of nowhere. 

The emptiness was unbearable, your body clenching around nothing, your hips chasing the friction that had been so cruelly denied, and the sound you made was a full-bodied sob that echoed off the walls.

"I know," he said, and his voice was gentle even though his hands were shaking. "I know, baby. I know it's hard. You're doing so well. Just one more."

"One more," you repeated, like a prayer. "One more. I can do one more."

"My good girl."

He pushed back in, and this time the thrusts were slower, not gentler, not by a long shot, but more deliberate, more controlled, each one a calculated assault on your senses. His hand found the spot between your legs, his thumb pressing in tight circles, and the sensation of him inside you and his fingers on you was too much. You were shaking, tears streaming down your temples into your hair, your hands fisted in the sheets so tightly that your knuckles were white.

"You're so beautiful like this," he said, and his voice was reverent, worshipful, like he was looking at something holy. "All teary and desperate and mine. Nobody else gets to see you like this. Nobody. Not the designers, not the buyers, not the men who think they can put their hands on you at events. This—" He thrust deep, grinding against you, and you keened. "—this shit is mine."

"Yours—only yours—Ki, please—"

"Please what?"

"Please let me come—I can't—I'm going to—I need—"

"Not yet." But his voice was strained, his own control fraying, and you could see it in the way his jaw clenched, the way his thrusts were becoming more erratic, the way his moans were pitching higher and more desperate. 

He was close too, you could feel it in the tension of his body, the way he was fighting his own release alongside yours, and the realization that he was denying himself as much as he was denying you made something hot and tight twist in your chest.

"Ki—"

"One more, doll. Give me one more. You can do it. I know you can."

He changed the angle again, deeper now, impossibly deep, the head of his cock pressing against your cervix with each thrust, and the pleasure was so intense it bordered on pain. You were beyond words now, beyond coherent thought, reduced to a creature of pure sensation, every nerve ending firing, every muscle trembling, your entire being focused on the point where his body met yours.

He pulled out again.

The third denial was the worst. Or the best. You couldn't tell anymore. You were sobbing openly, your body wracked with tremors, your thighs shaking around his hips, and when you reached for him, your hands were so weak that you could barely grip his shoulders. The orgasm that had been building for what felt like hours was hovering just out of reach, a wave that had crested but hadn't yet broken, and the frustration was so acute it was almost its own kind of pleasure.

"I can't—" you wept. "Ki, baby, please—I can't take another one—please, I need to come—I need—"

"I know," he said, and this time his voice broke on the words. "I know, doll. You've been so good. So perfect. So patient. You took all three so beautifully. My good girl. My perfect, perfect girl."

He thrust back in, and this time there was no stopping. No pulling out. No denial. Just the relentless, punishing rhythm of his hips and the pressure of his thumb on your clit and the sound of his voice in your ear, low and rough and so full of love that it made your chest hurt.

"Come for me," he said, and it was a command and a plea and a prayer all at once. "Come for me, doll. Let go. I've got you. I've always got you."

You came.

It hit you like a wall of light, blinding, all-consuming, every muscle in your body seizing at once as the orgasm that had been denied three times finally, finally crashed over you. 

You were aware of screaming his name, of your nails raking down his back, of your body arching off the bed so violently that he had to pin you down with his weight, and the pleasure was so intense that for a long, terrifying moment, you couldn't see or hear or think, you could only feel, every cell in your body exploding and reforming and exploding again.

He followed you over the edge a moment later, his hips stuttering, his breath catching, and then he was spilling into you with a groan that seemed to come from the very marrow of his bones. 

You felt the warmth of it, the pulse of him inside you, the way his body shuddered with each wave, the raw, animal sound of his release, and it triggered another smaller orgasm in you, your walls clenching around him in aftershocks that made you both gasp.

He didn't pull out. He couldn't. His body had given out the moment the orgasm hit, and he collapsed on top of you with his full weight, his face buried in the crook of your neck, his breath coming in ragged, shuddering gasps that you could feel against your sweat-damp skin. 

You held him, your arms wrapping around his back, your fingers tracing the scratch marks you'd left, thin red lines that would be visible tomorrow if he took his shirt off, and you pressed kisses to whatever part of him you could reach: his temple, his hairline, the shell of his ear.

"I love you," you whispered, and your voice was wrecked—raw and hoarse and barely audible. "I love you so much, Ki."

"I love you too." His voice was muffled against your neck, thick and slow and sleepy, the champagne and the orgasm hitting him all at once. "I love you more than anything. You know that, right?"

"I know."

"Good." He pressed a lazy kiss to your pulse point, and you felt him smile against your skin. "Mine."

"Yours."

The silence that followed was warm and comfortable, the kind of silence that could only exist between two people who had just dismantled each other completely and were now lying in the wreckage, too spent to move but too content to care. The heater hummed in the corner. The snow was falling outside the window, visible in the glow of the streetlight, and somewhere in the distance, a car alarm went off and was ignored.

Eventually, Riki shifted, just enough to lift his head and look at you, his eyes heavy-lidded and soft and so full of affection that it made your heart do something embarrassing in your chest. 

"Hey," he said.

"Hello to you too."

"Are you okay?"

"Mm." You stretched, wincing at the soreness that was already settling into your muscles, and you shifted your legs experimentally, and that was when you saw them.

The marks.

What the fuck.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, looking down at your body, and the sight that greeted you made your breath catch. 

Your inner thighs were a patchwork of bruises, the bite marks from earlier, already darkening into deep purple and blue, overlapping and intersecting like some kind of abstract painting. 

Your hips were fingerprinted, ten small crescents where his hands had gripped you. 

Your breasts bore the faint impression of his teeth, and your collarbone — well. It looked like you'd been attacked by a very determined vampire.

"Oh my god," you breathed.

Riki followed your gaze, and the satisfied smile that spread across his face was entirely unapologetic. "Oh my god?" he repeated, his tone incredulous. "That's all you have to say?"

"Riki, there are—there are marks everywhere."

"That was kind of the point, doll."

"I know, but—" You shifted again, wincing as the bruises on your thighs pressed against the mattress, and then a thought struck you that was equal parts mortified and relieved. "Oh, thank god it's winter."

Riki raised an eyebrow. "Thank god it's winter?"

"So I don't have to head out in shorts twenty-four-seven," you explained, gesturing at the constellation of bruises decorating your thighs. "I mean, can you imagine? I'd walk into the office and my team would think I'd been attacked by a wild animal."

"A very handsome wild animal," Riki corrected, and you laughed.

"A very handsome wild animal who can't control his teeth," you amended.

"I control them just fine. I placed every single one of those marks with intent." He pressed a kiss to your shoulder, then another to the mark on your collarbone, his lips warm and lingering. "And besides, baby, you won't need to worry about shorts. I just washed and prepared your maxi skirts, especially the denim one your mom reworked, so thank me later."

You stared at him. "You did what?"

"Washed your maxi skirts." He said it casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world, like he hadn't just confessed to doing your laundry — which he never did, not because he was unwilling but because you were particular about the way your garments were handled and he'd once shrunk a cashmere sweater and you'd made a face so tragic that he'd sworn off laundry duty entirely. "The denim one is hanging on the back of the bathroom door. I air-dried it like you showed me. And the grey wool one is in the closet, third hanger from the left."

"You, Nishimura Riki, washed my skirts. By hand. And air-dried them."

"Yes." He blinked at you, all innocent and earnest, like he wasn't lying there with love bites covering his throat and your lipstick still smudged on his jaw. "Is that... is that weird?"

"No." Your voice came out thick, and you realised with a start that you were getting emotional, over laundry, of all things, but it wasn't really about the laundry, was it? 

It was about the fact that this man, the same man who had marked you like a territorial wolf not fifteen minutes ago, had also spent time carefully hand-washing your skirts because he knew, somehow, that you'd need them. That he'd thought ahead. That he'd taken care of you in ways that were quiet and domestic and so fundamentally him that it made your eyes sting again. 

"It's not weird," you said again, softer this time, and you cupped his face in your hands and kissed him, slow and deep and full of a love so enormous that you couldn't possibly contain it. "It's the opposite of weird. It's the most thoughtful thing anyone has ever done for me."

"Now who's being dramatic," he murmured against your lips, but he was smiling, and you could feel the way his chest expanded with the kind of quiet pride that he'd never admit to out loud.

"Thank you, Ki."

"You're welcome, baby." He shifted, pulling out of you with a wince that matched yours, and the absence of him left you feeling empty and cold and aching in ways that were both physical and emotional. 

He reached for the duvet, pulling it over both of you, and gathered you against his chest like you were something precious and breakable and infinitely worth protecting.

"Hey," you said, your voice muffled against his skin.

"Hm?"

"Next time someone flirts with me at an event and I don't notice, you have my full permission to come over and be insane about it."

He laughed, the kind that shook his whole body and made the bed creak. "You're going to regret saying that."

"Probably." You smiled against his chest, your fingers tracing lazy patterns on his skin. "But at least I'll have the maxi skirts to cover the evidence."

"The denim one especially," he said, and you could hear the grin in his voice. "Your mom did a great job on it. The hem is perfect."

"You’re so weird."

"You love it."

"Yeah." You pressed a kiss to the centre of his chest, right over his heart, and felt it beat steady and strong against your lips. "Yeah, I really do."

Outside, the snow kept falling, blanketing the city in white, and inside, under the warmth of the duvet and the weight of each other, you fell asleep to the sound of his breathing and the knowledge that tomorrow, when you pulled on that reworked denim maxi skirt, the marks on your thighs would press against the fabric like a secret — yours and his and nobody else's.

When Riki handed you your glasses from the nightstand the next morning, his fingers lingering on the frames just a moment too long, you thought about the way he'd looked at you when you'd put them on the night before, like you were the only person in the room, in the city, in the world, and you smiled, and you didn't bother wondering whether the man from the event would reach out, because it didn't matter. 

None of it mattered. 

The only hands that would ever touch you like that, the only hands that had the right, were the ones currently reaching for the coffee maker, still clumsy with sleep, still wearing the scratch marks on his back like a badge of honour.

"Hey, baby?" Riki called from the kitchen, his voice rough with morning and fondness.

"Yes?"

"The tights—are they hand-wash only? Because I may have like… thrown them on the floor last night, and I want to make sure I don't ruin them when I pick them up."

You laughed, bright and so full of love it hurt, and you padded barefoot into the kitchen, your bruises hidden under the oversized sweater you'd stolen from his closet, and you kissed him until the coffee went cold and the snow outside melted into slush and the whole world narrowed down to this: his mouth on yours, his hands on your waist, his heart beating against your palms.

"Hand-wash only," you murmured. "Cold water. Lay flat to dry."

"I'll add it to the list," he said, and he smiled, the one that was just for you, and you thought, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, that you were the luckiest woman alive.

And the polka dot tights, when you finally retrieved them from the bedroom floor, were perfectly fine, ready for the next event, the next outfit, the next time Riki would look at you across a crowded room and know, with absolute certainty, that you were his.

Just as he was yours.

⭐ ⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

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💿 ࿐ . . moonlight by kali uchis

✷ NOTE : thank you all so, so much for reading ! i hope you enjoyed this little world for a while ♡ all of this is purely a work of fiction & doesn’t reflect reality at all . . likes, reblogs, and feedback are deeply cherished and very, very appreciated on here !