𝓵𝓮𝓪 ⋆˚꩜｡

he stood before you. his golden eyes, usually so guarded, now soft, molten with an unspoken hunger. the tie, a silk knot of constraint, seemed to loosen its grip on its own. he looked at you, truly looked at you, and the exhaustion that had etched itself around his features moments before melted away.

"finally," he breathed, the word a soft exhalation of relief. his fingers traced the delicate lace strap of your gown, a feather-light touch that sent a shiver through you. "i thought the night would never end."

you leaned into his touch, your body already craving the warmth of his. "me too," you whispered, your voice coming out a little hoarse from disuse. the silence between you was a balm, a language only you two spoke.

his gaze dropped to your lips, then traveled slowly, deliberately, over your face, down your throat, to the swell of your chest. "you look… breathtaking." the words were a murmur, a private confession. "every man in that room wanted to look at you, wanted to talk to you." a low growl rumbled in his chest, a sound of possessiveness that thrilled you. "i hate every single one of them."

a small laugh bubbled up from deep within you, a genuine sound. "kenma."

"they can't have you though," he continued, his voice dropping to a near whisper. he took a step closer, his body a warm presence against yours. "only i can." his hands moved from your shoulders, down your arms, intertwining his fingers with yours, pulling you gently forward until your bodies brushed. the silk of his suit jacket felt cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the heat radiating from him. "i wanted to leave that damn party the very moment we arrived."

"i could tell," you teased. "your patience was wearing thin."

he chuckled, a low, rumbling sound that vibrated through your chest. "my patience was nonexistent, darling. all i could think about was this." his thumbs stroked the back of your hands, a slow, hypnotic rhythm. "us. alone."

he leaned in, his breath warm against your cheek, smelling faintly of the expensive whiskey he'd nursed all evening. "no cameras. no forced smiles." his lips brushed your ear, sending a jolt through you. "just you and me."

his arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you flush against him. the heavy fabric of your gown became a thin barrier. you could feel the rigid proof of his desire pressing against your stomach, a delicious heat. he buried his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling deeply. "god, you smell incredible." his lips brushed your skin softly.

a soft moan escaped you as his mouth found the sensitive skin beneath your ear. his tongue flickered out, a warm, wet caress that had your knees weakening. "kenma," you breathed, your fingers tangling in the soft hair at the nape of his neck.

he lifted his head, his golden eyes blazing with an intensity that stole your breath. "look at you, sweetheart" he murmured, his gaze sweeping over your face, lingering on your slightly parted lips. "so perfect." he lowered his head, his mouth claiming yours with a fierce hunger that mirrored your own.

his kiss was deep, demanding, a desperate release of pent-up longing. his tongue plunged past your lips, tangling with yours, a sensual dance of exploration and possession. you met his fervor with equal passion, fingers digging into his hair and pulling him closer, if that were even possible. your tongue sucked at his, drawing him deeper, eliciting a low groan from his throat.

he broke the kiss, lips red and swollen, chest heaving. his hands, no longer content to linger at your waist, moved lower, cupping your ass through the layers of your gown. he lifted you effortlessly, your legs instinctively wrapping around his hips. you cried out softly as the hard ridge of his cock pressed firmly against your center.

"you're wet," he whispered, his voice thick with desire, his eyes locked onto yours. "i can feel it." he began to rock his hips, a rhythmic grind that sent shivers of pleasure through your entire body. the silk of your dress chafed gently against your clit, a sweet agony.

"kenma," you gasped, digging your nails into his shoulders. "please.”

"please what, love?" he challenged, eyes sparkling with mischief, though his movements remained steady, relentless. "tell me what you want."

"you," you pleaded, your voice barely audible. "i want you, baby."

he carried you into the living room, a soft lamp casting a warm glow. he didn't break the rhythm as he lowered you onto the plush rug, settling between your thighs. your dress rode up, exposing your bare legs, the fabric bunching around your waist. he pulled at the zipper, his fingers fumbling slightly in his eagerness. the dress slid down, pooling around your hips, revealing your lace thong, already damp and clinging.

he peeled the thong away with a slow, deliberate motion, his eyes never leaving yours. a gasp escaped you as the cool air hit your slick skin, followed immediately by the heat of his gaze. "beautiful," he praised you, his voice reverent. he leaned down, brushing his lips against your inner thigh, sending a jolt through you. "you're absolutely stunning, darling. the most beautiful woman i've ever seen..."

his long fingers found your clit. a soft, teasing touch. you arched into him, a soft whimper escaping your throat. his thumb circled, slow at first, then with more pressure, eliciting a series of soft moans from you. he watched your face, absorbing every flicker of pleasure that crossed your features.

"you like that?" he asked, his voice a low rumble.

"yes," you panted, your hips bucking instinctively. "more."

he smiled. a slow, predatory grin. his middle finger slid into you, slick with your own wetness. one finger, then two, then three, stretching you open. he began to thrust them in and out in a steady, rhythmic motion, while his thumb continued its delicious assault on your clit. the pressure built. a sweet, unbearable tension coiling in your core.

"look at you," he murmured, his eyes still locked on yours. "so eager. so responsive. you were made for this," his fingers worked their magic, pushing deeper, faster. each thrust eliciting a gasp, a moan, a desperate plea from you. "made for me."

"baby, i– i'm gonna–," you choked out, body trembling.

"not yet, sweetheart" he whispered, pulling his fingers out with a soft schlick. he moved his head lower, his warm breath fanning across your pussy. he licked once, a searing trail from your clit to your asshole, and you cried out, back arching. "i wanna taste you first."

his tongue swirled around your clit. a gentle, tantalizing torment. then he sucked hard, drawing your clit into his mouth. his lips creating a vacuum that pulled at you, sending waves of pleasure crashing through your body. you gripped his hair, pulling him closer, desperate for more. he lavished attention on you, tongue flicking, darting, teasing. then sucking again, deep and insistent.

your hips bucked, your body convulsing as the orgasm ripped through you, a scream tearing from your throat, mingling with his satisfied groan. your muscles tightened around his tongue. your legs trembled, body slick with sweat. he continued to suckle, not letting up until the last tremors faded, until you were a panting, quivering mess beneath him.

he lifted his head, his lips glistening, a satisfied smile on his face. "mine," he declared, his voice rough with triumph. he moved up, straddling you, his hard cock pressing against your still-pulsing pussy.

"kenma," you whimpered, your body still humming from the aftershocks.

"wanna be inside you, love," he said while unbuckling his belt and tugging his pants down, voice raw with need. he positioned himself, eyes burning into yours. "need to be inside you."

then he pushed, slow and deliberate, into your slick depths. a sigh escaped him as your body enveloped him, tight and welcoming. you gasped as he filled you completely, stretching you, making you his. he paused, letting you adjust, letting the sensation sink in. golden eyes never leaving yours, a silent communication passing between you.

"so good," he breathed, his voice thick with emotion. "you always feel so good..."

he began to move in slow, deep thrusts that had you arching your back, hips grinding against yours, producing a wet, rhythmic squelch. your bodies slapped together in a symphony of skin on skin. his balls slapped against your ass with each deep thrust. he leaned down, his mouth claiming yours again, tongue tangling with yours, tasting of your own sex and his desperation.

he pulled back, his eyes still locked on yours, his expression a mixture of fierce love and primal hunger. "look at me," he commanded. "look at me while i make you mine." he thrust deeper, harder, his body a relentless piston. your cries mingled with his grunts, a passionate duet in the quiet of your home.

the intensity built, a rising tide of sensation. you could feel him swelling inside you, feel the pressure building, the heat intensifying. his thrusts became more frantic, more desperate. his breath hitched, a guttural groan escaping his throat. your own climax was building again. a familiar, delicious rush.

he moaned your name. a raw, primal sound, as he emptied himself deep inside you. his body shuddering with the force of his orgasm. you cried out with him, your own climax hitting at the same time, body convulsing around his. he collapsed onto you, his weight a comforting pressure, breath ragged against your neck.

he buried his face in your hair, his arms wrapped tightly around you, holding you close. the world outside, the gala, the flashing lights, the forced smiles... it all faded into oblivion. there was only this: the warmth of his body, the scent of him, the steady beat of his heart against your chest. "you're mine, love" he whispered again, his voice thick with contentment. "mine forever."

you simply held him, stroking the soft hair at the back of his head with gentle fingers. your body humming with the afterglow, knowing that in his arms, you were home.

you've got my body, flesh, and bone the sky above, the earth below nothing to say and nowhere to go a taste of the divine

happy birthday kenken! ik it was yesterday but still lol i love you pudding head <3 (kenma is so sleep token coded to me ughhh i love it)

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it was indifference.

volleyball had been good to you, yes, but it had never been the center of your world. and if returning to it required months of meticulous effort for something you only moderately missed, you found you didn’t particularly feel like fighting.

so you let it go.

#1 captain: sis u cant be fr rn ur my best outside hitter u gotta come back when ur fully recovered 😭😭

You: i deaduzz cant be bothered twas a good run 💔💔💔💔

your parents didn’t protest much when the conversation shifted from recovery to relocation. they had been discussing moving back to japan for years, always circling around the idea of giving you the chance to reconnect with your roots, of practical things like work and opportunity and timing.

the conversation about moving back to japan does not happen under dim lighting with tense silence and heavy sighs.

it happens in the middle of your parents arguing over whether coriander belongs in everything.

“it absolutely does,” your father insists, leaning across the kitchen counter like he’s presenting a thesis instead of a herb.

your mother rolls her eyes with theatrical disbelief, reaching up to flick flour from his cheek with unnecessary tenderness. “you only say that because you think it makes you sound cultured.”

“i am cultured.”

“you’re so dramatic, honey.”

you sit at the table watching them like you always do, somewhere between exasperated and deeply fond, because this is how they’ve always been: slightly unbearable, completely inseparable, incapable of finishing a disagreement without drifting back into shared laughter.

it’s in the middle of that nonsense that your father clears his throat in a way that signals a topic shift.

“speaking of cultured,” he begins, grinning at your mother as if this is all part of an elaborate performance, “we’ve been thinking.”

you immediately narrow your eyes.

“that’s never good.”

“that's rude,” your mother says lightly, sliding into the seat across from you and reaching for your hand. “it’s actually a very good thought.”

your father nods with exaggerated seriousness. “a brilliant one, really. groundbreaking.”

you wait.

“what would you think,” your mother says carefully, though her eyes are already bright with anticipation, “about transferring to nekoma in japan? just for the next chapter.”

“ew, mom, don't say chapter— this isn't some freaking wattpad fanfiction,” you cringe, trying to hold back your laugh.

“new country, new school,” your father elaborates, draping an arm around your mother’s shoulders as if they’re about to announce a vacation instead of a life change. “well— old country— but you get my point. plus, you'll be closer to family."

“and closer to proper rice,” your mother adds.

you stare at them both.

they stare back, clearly expecting some dramatic protest that never comes.

you lean back in your chair, considering it. the idea doesn’t feel threatening. it feels… interesting. a shift, yes, but not a loss. you’ve never been particularly attached to staying in one place simply for the sake of familiarity.

“nekoma’s good,” your father continues, softer now but still warm. “and your grandfather’s been pretending not to miss his dear, doting, princess granddaughter.”

your mother laughs. “he absolutely has not been pretending.”

you picture your grandfather squinting at a computer screen, muttering about volleyball and attendance and probably you, and you feel something that isn’t dread so much as curiosity.

“and you two are coming too,” you say, eyeing them suspiciously.

“of course we are,” your mother replies immediately. “did you think we were shipping you off like a parcel?”

“ooh, that's tempting though,” your father muses. "we could just send her off and we could finally have our alone time." he adds, wiggling his eyebrows up and down in an exaggerated rhythm, like he’s personally auditioning for the role of most annoying person alive.

"oh my god?? you guys are so nasty.. now i wanna go to japan alone." you physically recoil, dragging a hand down your face.

your mother elbows him without looking.

the kitchen falls into that familiar comfortable noise, cutlery clinking, your parents bickering about logistics with an ease that suggests they’ve already decided this will work because they’ll make it work together.

you watch them for a moment longer before shrugging lightly.

“okay,” you say.

they both pause.

“okay?” your mother repeats, almost suspicious.

“okay,” you confirm, reaching for your glass. “it’ll be good.”

and good it was, because— nekoma does not swallow you whole the way some new schools threaten to.

it opens instead, slowly and curiously, and you step into it with the kind of confidence that doesn’t demand attention but gathers it anyway. you don’t have to try particularly hard; you’ve always known how to hold eye contact just long enough, how to laugh without sounding rehearsed, how to ask someone about themselves in a way that makes them feel genuinely interesting.

the girls who approach you first are exactly the kind people would stereotype without thinking twice.

they're loud in the hallways, skirts slightly shorter than dresscode allows, lip gloss perpetually fresh. they know who’s dating who before homeroom ends and have opinions about everything from teachers to cafeteria food. they look, at first glance, like the type who would smile sweetly and slice you apart the moment you turn your back.

they do not. they're warm in a way that surprises you.

they ask about your move without prying, about london without romanticizing it, about your old team without turning it into some dramatic loss. they shove their phones into your face to show you pictures, complain openly about tests and boys and life in general. when you laugh, they laugh harder, not because they’re performing but because they genuinely enjoy the sound of it.

within a week, you are walking to class together. within two, they are saving you a seat at lunch without asking.

it isn’t calculated, and it isn’t fragile. there’s no tension humming beneath the surface, no secret resentment about your accent or the way people look twice when you pass. if anything, they seem faintly proud of it, as though your presence has elevated their collective aura.

they text you at night about trivial things and serious things in equal measure. they drag you to convenience stores after school and sit on the curb sharing drinks, talking about futures that feel both distant and uncomfortably close.

it was somewhere during those early weeks that you properly met kuroo.

you had noticed him before, of course. he was difficult not to notice, all sharp grins and lazy confidence. he watched people with an assessing look that suggested he enjoyed understanding the mechanics of social dynamics almost as much as he enjoyed poking at them.

your first real conversation happened by accident, if you could call it that.

you’d been leaning against the railing near the courtyard, half-listening to one of your friends recounting a story, when kuroo approached with the air of someone who had decided something and was now simply following through.

“so you’re the transfer everyone’s talking about,” he’d said, tone light but eyes curious.

“am i?” you replied, matching his ease without missing a beat. “should i be concerned?”

he laughed, and there was something approving in it.

you learned quickly that he enjoyed banter, that he sometimes pushed at people’s reactions to see how they held up. you also learned that he respected resistance, that he liked when someone didn’t fold immediately under his teasing.

you didn’t.

so a kind of understanding formed between you, not constant but steady. you weren’t inseparable, but you moved in overlapping circles, trading comments and glances across classrooms, occasionally finding yourselves side by side at school events without having consciously planned it.

he mentioned volleyball once, casually.

“you used to play, right?” he’d asked, leaning back in his chair.

you had tilted your head, considering how much you wanted to give away. “a little.”

“a little,” he repeated skeptically, as if he already knew that wasn’t the whole story.

you only smiled.

it never occurred to you that this small thread of connection, this shared understanding that you were more capable than you pretended to be, would eventually loop back around and tie you to the very gym you had so easily walked away from.

at the time, nekoma was simply a new setting, a fresh stage on which you could choose whatever role you pleased.

which, unfortunately, included the role of granddaughter.

your grandfather, yasufumi nekomata— or as students call him— coach nekomata, insists you visit his office at least once during your first week, claiming it is for “administrative purposes,” though you strongly suspect he simply wants to look at you in person and confirm you are real and not just a concept his son-in-law keeps mentioning on video calls.

his office is cluttered in a way that suggests he knows exactly where everything is despite appearances. papers stacked in uneven piles, old photos pinned to a corkboard, a half-finished cup of tea going cold near his elbow.

“hm,” he says, his signature smile on his face.

“that’s all i get, old man?” you ask, closing the door behind you. “no dramatic welcome? no tears?”

“you’re late,” he replies calmly.

“by three minutes?”

“unacceptable.”

you narrow your eyes at him before dropping into the chair across his desk without permission.

“my dear granddaughter, you’ve grown,” he continues.

you fight a smile and lose.

“that tends to happen over several years,” you reply, taking the seat across from him without waiting to be offered one.

he hums as if this is groundbreaking information, leaning back in his chair with the air of someone evaluating a long-term investment.

“you’re louder now,” he adds after a moment.

“i was like six back then..” you remind.

he just chuckles and reaches over to ruffle up your hair before he reaches for the cup of tea near his elbow, takes a slow sip, then grimaces faintly at the temperature before setting it back down without comment.

“so,” he says, steepling his fingers together in a way that immediately makes you suspicious, “how is nekoma treating you?”

“it’s fine.”

“fine,” he echoes, unimpressed.

“people are nice. classes are normal. no one’s tried to fight me yet.”

“that’s promising..?”

you tilt your head. “should i be concerned that you phrased it like that?”

he ignores the question entirely, instead pulling open a drawer with deliberate slowness. you watch his movements carefully, already anticipating some form of paperwork.

you are not disappointed.

he slides a single sheet of paper across the desk toward you.

you look down at it.

club registration.

you look back up at him.

no words are exchanged for a full three seconds.

“absolutely not,” you say finally.

he blinks once, calmly. “you didn’t read it.”

“i don’t need to.”

“students are required to join a club.”

“required is a strong word.”

“it is the correct word.”

you lean back in your chair, crossing your legs with exaggerated nonchalance. “i just transferred. i deserve a grace period.”

“you’ve had one.”

“it’s been only 19 days.”

“exactly.”

you stare at him in disbelief.

“what if i’m still adjusting,” you argue.

“you adjusted on day two,” he replies without hesitation. “your teachers already say you participate too much.”

“that’s because they ask easy questions.”

“hm.”

you eye the paper again but make no move to touch it.

“i don’t feel like committing to anything,” you admit, tone lighter than the statement sounds. “i like keeping my afternoons open.”

“for what.”

“existing.”

“you can exist in a club.”

“well— not peacefully.”

he studies you for a moment, and you recognize that look immediately— the one that means he’s two steps ahead of whatever excuse you’re preparing next.

“you’re avoiding effort,” he says, almost lazily.

“i’m conserving energy.”

“for what.”

“social obligations,” you reply promptly.

“you’re popular,” he says bluntly.

you blink at him.

“that was fast.”

“i hear things.”

“that’s mildly invasive.” you exhale through your nose, fighting the urge to smile again.

“just pick something,” he says, nudging the paper closer to you with one finger. “i don’t particularly care what it is. art. literature. chess. as long as you’re not wandering the halls after school pretending you’re above participation.”

you lift your chin slightly. “i am above participation.”

he raises one eyebrow.

you hold his gaze.

“…selectively above participation,” you amend.

his lips twitch.

“end of the week,” he says calmly. “you’ll submit that form.”

“or what.”

“or i will choose for you.”

the audacity.

you stand, snatching the paper from the desk with a dramatic sigh. “you wouldn’t dare, you old fart.”

he smiles— not warmly, not threateningly, but knowingly.

and that is somehow worse.

you pause at the door, glancing back at him once more.

“if you sign me up for something weird,” you warn, “i will hold a grudge.”

“don't say that like i don't know you— you're already holding one,” he smiles.

you narrow your eyes at him again before slipping out of the office, the form folded loosely in your hand. "whatever, see ya' later, love you."

you fully intend to ignore the form.

you do not yet realize that your grandfather has been coaching for decades, and patience is a skill he possesses in terrifying abundance.

but since you're you— you do, in fact, ignore the form.

for three full days, it lives folded in the front pocket of your bag, migrating between notebooks and loose worksheets as if trying to remind you of its existence. every time your hand brushes against it, you pretend you’re looking for something else. a pen. lip gloss. literally anything more urgent than commitment.

you tell yourself you’re weighing options.

in reality, you’re procrastinating with remarkable dedication.

by the fourth afternoon, the topic finally surfaces.

you’re walking out of the school gates with your friends, the late-day sun casting everything in that warm, forgiving glow that makes even concrete look cinematic. someone is complaining about a math quiz. someone else is scrolling through her phone, trying to decide where to stop for snacks.

“wait,” one of them says suddenly, turning to you. “what club are you joining?”

you groan softly.

“don’t.”

“what,” she laughs. “you have to pick one, right?”

“apparently,” you mutter.

“oh my god, join something fun,” another chimes in. “like dance. or drama with us. you’d be so good at drama.”

“i don’t want to rehearse things,” you reply. “that defeats the point of being naturally impressive.”

they laugh, shoving your shoulder lightly.

“what about sports?” someone suggests. “didn’t you used to play something?”

“a little,” you answer automatically, and the phrase feels suspiciously familiar.

“volleyball, right?” she presses.

you wave a hand dismissively. “that was abroad. and also inconvenient.”

“inconvenient,” she repeats, amused. “you make everything sound like it’s optional.”

“it is optional,” you insist. “that’s the beauty of it.”

“not clubs,” she sings.

you open your mouth to argue further when the friend walking slightly ahead of you stops abruptly.

“…no.”

the tone alone makes all of you freeze.

“what,” you ask.

she slowly turns around, eyes wide with dawning horror.

“i left my homework in my desk.”

there’s a collective pause.

“you’re joking.”

“i’m not.”

“it’s due tomorrow.”

“i know.”

you stare at her for a moment, calculating the distance you’ve already walked from the school gates, the effort required to turn around, the sheer injustice of it all.

she grabs your wrist before you can slip away.

“come back with me.”

“why me.”

“moral support.”

“you don’t need moral support to retrieve paper.”

“yes i do.”

you sigh dramatically but allow yourself to be tugged along as the group collectively pivots and begins heading back toward school.

the campus is quieter now, the end-of-day rush having thinned into scattered students and lingering club members. your friends peel off one by one, offering exaggerated condolences as they continue home, until it’s just you and her climbing the stairs toward your classroom.

“you owe me,” you inform her.

“i know,” she replies breathlessly. “i’ll buy you something tomorrow.”

“make it expensive.”

she laughs.

when she finally retrieves the forgotten homework, clutching it triumphantly like a recovered relic, she looks far too pleased with herself.

“see,” she says. “worth it.”

“let's agree to disagree..”

you both head back toward the entrance, but as you reach the gates, you pause.

“hey— your legs stop working or something?,” she says slowly. “are you coming?”

you glance toward the courtyard, then toward the administrative building where you know your grandfather’s office is.

you had overheard earlier that he was holding one of his practices today, something about extended drills and a stubborn team that refused to listen.

you hesitate for only a second.

“i’ll stay a bit,” you say casually. “my grandpa’s here.”

she nods, unsurprised. “text me when you get home.”

“i will.”

she waves once before disappearing down the path toward the gates, leaving you standing in the soft quiet of an almost-empty campus.

you don’t rush. you never rush.

you wander instead, taking the longer route through the courtyard, listening to the distant thud of something rhythmic echoing faintly from the direction of the gym. the sound is familiar, though you haven’t let yourself dwell on it properly since arriving.

the gym doors are propped open slightly when you approach, warm air spilling out along with the muted squeak of shoes against polished floor. you don’t step inside immediately. instead, you lean lightly against the outer wall, peering in just enough to catch the motion of drills unfolding.

your grandfather’s voice carries clearly, sharp but not unkind, correcting posture, calling out adjustments.

you’re still deciding whether to make your presence known when someone exits through the side doors.

you glance over without thinking.

he doesn’t see you.

his head is tilted down, attention fixed on his phone, steps unhurried and slightly distracted in a way that suggests this is a routine rather than a rare lapse.

you recognize him distantly from passing glimpses in hallways, from the way kuroo occasionally refers to a “lazy setter who's actually the brain of all of their operations.” with too much fondness.

he looks entirely unremarkable in this moment.

until his foot catches.

it happens quickly.

too quickly.

one misstep against uneven pavement and suddenly he’s tipping forward, hands shooting out too late to prevent the inevitable. the impact is loud in the quiet courtyard, palms scraping harshly against concrete, knees following with a thud that makes your breath hitch before you can stop it.

for a fraction of a second, you simply stare.

then you’re moving.

“oh my god—” you drop to a crouch beside him without hesitation, reaching for his arm. “are you okay?”

he’s sitting upright, staring down at his hands like they’ve personally offended him.

there’s a shallow scrape along his palm already beginning to redden.

“did you hit your head?” you press, leaning closer. “can you stand? are you dizzy?”

he blinks up at you slowly, as if surfacing from somewhere else entirely.

“my legs feel weird,” he says after a pause, voice quiet but oddly steady.

your stomach drops.

“what do you mean weird.”

he shifts slightly, attempting to push himself up, and there’s just enough instability in the movement to make your concern spike. his hands press against the pavement, fingers flexing once as if testing sensation, and you don’t notice the way his expression flickers— not pain, not quite— but calculation.

practice had run longer than usual.

you hadn’t been there for it, but he had, and the evidence is written in the slight slump of his shoulders, in the way his breathing is heavier than the short walk outside should warrant. coach had made them run extra laps that evening, and kenma had endured it with the quiet resignation of someone who hates cardio but lacks the energy to protest.

he’d come outside under the perfectly reasonable excuse of refilling his water bottle.

fresh air, a brief pause, a moment to delay the inevitable return to drills.

he had not, however, anticipated gravity betraying him.

“okay,” you murmur, already sliding your arm under his before he can protest. “we’re going back inside.”

he considers correcting you.

he considers saying he can manage.

he does neither.

instead, he allows his weight to tip slightly toward you, just enough to make the support necessary rather than optional. his legs do work. they absolutely work. they are simply protesting the idea of further exertion, and if your concern grants him a few extra seconds of reprieve, he sees no reason to decline the offer.

you don’t notice the subtle adjustment, the way he times his steps to seem marginally unsteady without fully collapsing. you’re too busy scanning his face for signs of dizziness, too focused on keeping him upright as you guide him toward the open gym doors.

“did you hit your head?” you ask again, frowning.

“no,” he replies quietly.

“are you sure.”

“yeah.”

he leans a fraction more when you tighten your hold, not dramatically, not enough to alarm you further, but enough that walking suddenly requires less effort on his part.

it’s efficient.

the gym doors swing open with more force than you intend, the sound loud enough to draw a few glances from the court.

practice immediately pauses, everyone's eyes snapping to the entrance.

you’re not entirely unfamiliar with nekoma’s boys’ volleyball team, not really, mostly because kuroo has a habit of orbiting your conversations whenever it suits him and dragging pieces of his team along in passing. you’ve seen them in hallways, heard their names tossed around in jokes, picked up fragments of inside stories that never quite included you.

and kuroo is the first to fully clock the situation.

he’s halfway through saying something to yamamoto when his gaze lands on you— specifically, on the fact that you are half-carrying their setter like he’s just returned from battle.

there’s a beat.

then his eyebrows shoot up so high they practically leave his forehead.

“…what,” he says slowly, dropping the volleyball in his hands without looking.

“he fell,” you reply immediately, tightening your hold instinctively. “his legs feel weird.”

kuroo blinks once.

then twice.

then, to your mild confusion, his expression shifts into something dangerously amused.

he strides over with exaggerated urgency, stopping just in front of you before placing a dramatic hand over his chest.

“thank you,” he says solemnly, voice ringing with mock gravity, “for rescuing our delicate little setter.”

you narrow your eyes at him. “i’m so serious right now.”

“so am i,” he insists, reaching out to take kenma’s other arm. “we nearly lost him.”

kenma, traitor that he is, says nothing.

kuroo smoothly transfers kenma’s weight from you to himself with practiced ease, though he gives you one last grateful nod as if you’ve performed a heroic deed.

“you’re safe now,” he tells kenma in an exaggerated murmur. “she carried you through the battlefield.”

“i walked,” kenma mutters faintly.

“barely,” kuroo replies.

you cross your arms, unconvinced but still watching closely in case he actually collapses.

kuroo straightens, clearing his throat as he shifts into something more formal.

“since this is apparently a life-altering moment,” he says lightly, gesturing between you and kenma, “allow me to introduce you properly. (y/n), this is kenma, our tragically fragile setter.”

kenma glances at you, expression neutral but eyes sharper now that he’s upright.

“hi,” he says.

“yup, hi,” you reply without thinking.

his gaze lingers a second longer than expected.

kuroo’s eyebrows begin doing that shameless, up-and-down waggle like he’s discovered a national secret.

before he can speak again, another voice cuts in.

“what’s all this noise?”

your grandfather approaches at an unhurried pace, towel slung over his shoulder, eyes narrowing slightly as he takes in the scene.

his gaze lands on you first.

then kenma.

then kuroo.

he exhales through his nose in something suspiciously close to laughter.

“you,” he says, pointing mildly at kenma, “couldn’t even make it to the water fountain without incident?”

kenma blinks.

“i tripped.”

“hm.”

your grandfather’s eyes shift to you.

“and you,” he continues, “were escorting him like he’d broken both legs.”

“he said his legs felt weird,” you defend immediately.

kuroo coughs into his fist.

your grandfather looks between the two of you again, amusement growing.

“how ironic,” he murmurs.

you don’t like that tone.

“what.”

he gestures vaguely toward the court.

“you still haven’t joined a club.”

you freeze.

“gulp.”

“manager,” he says simply.

“no.”

“yes.”

“absolutely not.”

“you’re here anyway.”

“that’s different.”

“how.”

“i’m visiting. please don't start, grandpa."

you glare at him.

he smiles faintly.

“we could use a manager,” he continues calmly. “someone attentive. someone who notices when a player is about to collapse.”

you open your mouth to argue, but yamamoto suddenly appears at your side with the energy of someone who has just received divine revelation.

“WAIT,” he blurts, eyes wide. “you’d be our manager?”

you stare at him.

“no.”

“that would be insane,” he continues, already spiraling. “we’d finally have a pretty manager. karasuno wouldn’t be able to flex kiyoko at us anymore.”

“i am standing right here,” you inform yamamoto dryly.

“exactly,” he says earnestly, as if that proves his point.

“we are not recruiting based on aesthetics,” your grandfather interjects, though he does not look particularly opposed to the enthusiasm.

“i don’t even want to be in a club,” you protest. “this is coercion.”

there’s a faint snort from somewhere behind yamamoto, and you catch a glimpse of a tall first-year, who you know as lev, squinting at you both with growing confusion.

“wait,” he says slowly, pointing between you and your grandfather. “why are you talking to coach like that.”

inuoka nods. “yeah. didn't you just transfer?.”

“and you called him grandpa,” yamamoto adds, suspicion finally catching up to his enthusiasm. “who calls the coach 'grandpa.'”

you blink.

your grandfather looks deeply unimpressed.

“students usually call me coach,” coach nekomata says dryly.

“exactly,” yamamoto insists, gesturing wildly. “so why aren’t you?”

kuroo’s eyes light up with interest, clearly enjoying the unfolding mystery.

“oh,” he says slowly, like he’s assembling a puzzle in real time. “oh no.”

you glance at him.

“what.”

he looks between you and your grandfather again, eyebrows beginning to lift— not in the cartoonish waggle yet, but close.

“don’t tell me—”

“tell you what,” you reply flatly.

"(y/n), are you related to coach nekomata or something.." lev questions, earning himself a kick from yaku who questions how lev could be so impossibly clueless.

there’s a collective intake of breath.

you watch the realization spread across their faces in waves, starting with confusion, morphing into horror.

your grandfather exhales once, as if he’s been waiting for someone to catch up.

“yes. she’s my granddaughter,” he says calmly.

the silence that follows is immediate and deafening.

yamamoto’s jaw drops.

“WHAT.”

kuroo physically steps back like the information has force.

“you’re kidding.”

“i don't joke about family,” your grandfather replies.

you fold your arms, mildly amused by the chaos. “surprise.”

“since when,” yamamoto demands.

“since birth,” you answer.

“we’ve been—” he gestures vaguely around the gym. “—acting normal around you.”

“what were you planning on doing instead,” you ask dryly.

kuroo drags a hand down his face, then looks at kenma, who has gone suspiciously quiet.

“you,” he says slowly, “just fake-died in front of the coach’s granddaughter.”

“i did not fake-die,” kenma mutters.

“you said your legs stopped working,” you cut in, narrowing your eyes slightly.

kenma’s gaze flickers to yours for half a second before dropping.

“i said they felt weird,” he corrects.

kuroo makes a strangled noise that sounds very much like disbelief.

“this is insane,” yamamoto declares, running both hands through his hair. “we finally get a manager and she’s royalty.”

“i am not royalty.”

“you are coach royalty.”

“that’s not a thing.”

“it is now.”

your grandfather watches all of this unfold with poorly concealed amusement.

“if you’re done panicking,” he says mildly, “practice is not over.”

the team scrambles back into position, though the energy has shifted noticeably. there are still glances in your direction, still whispers that cut off when you look their way.

you feel none of the awkwardness they seem to expect.

you’ve been someone’s granddaughter your entire life.

it has never once intimidated you.

what does catch your attention, however, is the way kenma avoids looking directly at you now, shoulders slightly tense in a way that wasn’t there before.

you file it away without fully understanding why.

the decision becomes official the next day.

you sign the form with a pen borrowed from kuroo, who watches with open delight as if witnessing history in the making. your grandfather accepts it without ceremony, merely nodding once before announcing to the team that nekoma now has a new manager.

you feel, briefly, like you’ve just volunteered for something irreversible.

there is a moment— a small, dramatic one that exists only in your head— where you consider how easily you could have joined literature club instead.

and yet here you are.

official. responsible. required to show up.

you die a little inside at the thought of effort.

because effort means consistency, and consistency means expectation, and expectation means you can’t simply drift in and out when you feel like it. you now have a role. a title. duties.

you try to tell yourself it won’t be that bad.

it is worse.

managers, it turns out, actually do things.

you start with the obvious tasks first.

water bottles, towels, recording stats, collecting stray balls that roll too far during drills. you keep track of substitutions during practice matches and scribble down rotations with neat precision, telling yourself it’s purely administrative and not at all a sign that you’re invested.

nekoma doesn’t need help with strategy.

that becomes clear quickly.

their plays are deliberate, their formations calculated, and at the center of it all is kenma, who orchestrates everything with the quiet efficiency of someone who sees three steps ahead and finds no reason to explain himself.

you don’t interfere with that.

instead, your attention shifts elsewhere.

conditioning, fatigue, all that stuff.

you notice the way kenma’s shoulders start to slump long before anyone else does, the way he presses his lips together slightly when drills drag on too long. you see how he lingers a second too long near the water cooler, how he tilts his head back as if bracing himself before returning to the court.

he doesn’t complain loudly.

he doesn’t need to.

you begin timing his breaks more carefully, handing him his bottle without asking, refilling it before he can wander off again. you remind him— casually, always casually— to stretch properly instead of halfheartedly reaching for his toes and calling it a day.

“you’ll regret that later,” you tell him once, nudging his knee lightly with the toe of your shoe.

“…i won’t,” he replies, not looking up.

“you will.”

he sighs but stretches properly anyway.

it becomes a pattern.

you don’t hover, not exactly, but you pay attention. when your grandfather pushes them through extra laps, you’re already waiting at the sidelines with a towel in hand before kenma makes it back around. when he drifts toward the exit after practice under the pretense of refilling his bottle, you watch closely enough to ensure he doesn’t collapse again— strategically or otherwise.

“don’t trip,” you jokingly tell him one evening as he passes.

he pauses.

“…i won’t.”

there’s the faintest twitch at the corner of his mouth.

surprisingly, this is where the two of you fit.

not in loud exchanges or dramatic revelations, but in quiet, consistent proximity. you don’t try to fix his game, and he doesn’t try to impress you with it. instead, you exist in the in-between moments— during cooldown stretches, while the rest of the team argues about something trivial, while your grandfather lectures them about focus.

sometimes he’ll stand beside you while you update notes, glancing down at your handwriting.

“you’re writing a lot,” he murmurs once.

“it’s called doing my job.”

“you said you hated effort.”

“i do.”

“then why are you trying.”

you consider that for a second before shrugging.

“i don’t like doing things badly.”

he hums softly, as if that answers more than you intended.

it’s easy, unexpectedly so.

you’re louder with everyone else, sharper with kuroo, more animated with your friends when they visit the gym. with kenma, though, your voice lowers without conscious decision. you sit beside him on the bench without making a spectacle of it. you don’t ask invasive questions. you don’t force conversation.

and in return, he doesn’t retreat.

he lingers. he hands you his empty bottle instead of refilling it himself. he lets you fuss over minor scrapes without protest.

the irony is not lost on you.

you didn’t want responsibility.

now you’re monitoring the physical state of a setter who pretended his legs stopped working just to avoid running extra laps.

and, worse, you don’t entirely mind it.

it becomes noticeable before either of you intend for it to.

kenma has always been selective about what he listens to. when kuroo tells him to stretch properly, he grumbles. when yamamoto reminds him to hydrate, he ignores it entirely. when your grandfather pushes for extra conditioning, he complies with visible reluctance, as though every additional lap is a personal betrayal.

and yet.

“stretch.”

you don’t even look up from your clipboard when you say it one afternoon, watching him attempt to half-commit to a cooldown.

“…i am,” he replies.

“that doesn’t count.”

there’s a pause.

then, without further argument, he bends properly.

kuroo freezes mid-sip of water, lowering the bottle slowly.

“…interesting.”

you glance at him. “what.”

he walks closer, eyes narrowing slightly at kenma, who is very deliberately avoiding eye contact.

“i’ve been telling him to stretch correctly for years,” kuroo says thoughtfully. “years.”

kenma remains bent forward, fingertips actually touching his toes now, as if deeply invested in hamstring integrity.

“and yet,” kuroo continues, “one casual comment from you and suddenly he’s compliant.”

“i am not compliant,” kenma mutters.

“you just folded.”

“did not.”

“did too.”

you roll your eyes lightly. “maybe he just respects proper instruction.”

kuroo’s eyebrows begin their obnoxious up-and-down waggle, enthusiasm radiating from every inch of him.

“ohhh,” he says slowly. “is that what this is.”

kenma straightens, ears faintly pink.

“shut up.”

“no, no, i’m fascinated,” kuroo continues, circling slightly like he’s studying an anomaly. “i, the captain, say stretch and he acts like i’ve personally insulted his bloodline. you say stretch and he listens immediately.”

“that’s because you’re annoying,” kenma replies flatly.

“and she isn’t?”

you blink.

“excuse me.”

kuroo grins. “present company excluded.”

you shake your head, but there’s no real irritation behind it.

“maybe he just doesn’t want to like.. eat shit infront of someone again,” you say mildly.

kenma shoots you a look.

kuroo gasps. “trauma bonding?”

later that week, your friends finally visit during practice.

they’ve been curious, of course. the novelty of you voluntarily committing to something structured has not gone unnoticed.

they lean against the wall near the entrance, whispering commentary that you pretend not to hear while organizing equipment.

“you look busy,” one of them calls lightly.

“i am busy.”

“you look responsible.”

“please don't. this feels like employment. and you know how i desperately love living life unemployed.”

they giggle, watching as the team rotates through drills.

it doesn’t take long for them to pick up on the pattern.

“why do you keep looking at that one,” another asks quietly, nodding toward kenma as he wipes sweat from his forehead.

“i look at everyone.”

“no, you don’t.”

you pause.

you absolutely do.

but perhaps not equally.

“you handed him his bottle first,” she continues, eyes narrowing with amusement. “and you told him to stretch. and you keep hovering near him specifically.”

“i do not hover.”

“you’re hovering.”

“i am monitoring.”

“him.”

“the team.”

“him.”

you sigh.

“he forgets things.”

“like what.”

“hydration.”

“so does everyone else.”

“not like him.”

there’s a beat.

one of them smirks.

“you’re weirdly attentive.”

“i’m doing my job.”

“sure.”

you glance toward the court again without meaning to.

kenma happens to glance back at the same time.

it lasts only a second.

but your friends notice.

“oh,” one breathes dramatically. “oh, this is so embarrassing.”

“nothing is happening,” you insist immediately.

but nothing doesn’t mean much when you’re standing closer to him than you stand to anyone else.

nothing doesn’t mean much when your hand finds his sleeve before your brain catches up, when your eyes track him even during rallies you pretend to watch objectively.

and nothing definitely doesn’t mean much after a match.

the gym is louder than usual during the practice game against karasuno, the kind of loud that settles into your bones. sneakers squeak sharper, serves crack harder against palms, and every rally stretches just slightly longer than comfortable. you stay near the bench, clipboard tucked against your hip, attention split between the scoreboard and the court.

kenma moves differently in a match.

more precise.

more deliberate.

his sets are clean, almost effortless in appearance, but you can see the strain building in subtler places— the way he exhales through his nose a second too long, the way his shoulders round slightly between plays.

you don’t interrupt.

you wait.

when the final whistle blows and the teams separate, energy dissolving into post-match chatter and towel-snatching and exaggerated complaints, kenma drops onto the bench with quiet resignation, leaning forward slightly, elbows resting on his knees. he looks fine to anyone glancing casually.

you step into his space without announcing yourself, fingers brushing lightly against his shoulder before sliding down to his forearm.

“congratulations, pudding hair.” you tell him.

“pudding hair..?” he questions.

you raise an eyebrow.

“…has no one ever told you your hair looks like pudding?”

"no.. trust me, people tell me all the time."

you step closer, close enough that your knees almost brush his. you adjust his hair so it isn't all sticky against his forehead. your fingers steady and practiced. your touch is careful but unhesitating, like you’ve done this a hundred times before.

you tilt kenma’s chin up slightly when he looks like he might brush you off, your thumb grazing just under his jaw for half a second before you let go.

“don't forget to breathe properly, idiot,” you instruct softly.

he does.

without complaint.

and that, more than anything, is what makes kuroo choke on his water across the court.

because nothing might be happening.

but nothing doesn’t usually look like this.

you glance to the side briefly and catch a cluster of orange and black standing a little too close to the net.

karasuno— they’re pretending to be engaged in conversation.

they are not subtle.

hinata is openly staring.

kageyama’s gaze flicks between you and kenma with sharp assessment.

tanaka nudges nishinoya so aggressively he nearly stumbles forward.

“…is that normal?” you hear hinata whisper.

“for nekoma?” nishinoya replies. “no idea.”

kuroo notices them noticing.

and immediately makes it worse.

he strolls over with the air of someone about to provide commentary, resting an elbow casually on kenma’s shoulder.

“don’t mind her,” he calls lightly toward karasuno. “she’s our very dedicated manager.”

“i can hear you?” you inform him.

“good.”

tanaka leans toward daichi, eyes wide.

“since when does nekoma have a manager like that.”

daichi looks faintly exhausted already.

“focus.”

meanwhile, hinata is craning his neck shamelessly.

“she’s really close,” he mutters.

kageyama doesn’t answer immediately.

he watches as you press a bottle into kenma’s hand without being asked, watches the way kenma takes it without complaint, watches the way you say something low and quiet that makes kenma nod once in acknowledgment.

kageyama’s brows knit together.

“…that’s why,” he mutters under his breath.

hinata leans closer. “why what?”

“that’s why he doesn’t drop off in the third set,” kageyama says, tone tightening slightly. “he’s pacing better.”

tanaka blinks. “dude. what are you even talking about.”

kageyama gestures vaguely toward the two of you, though he makes it look like he’s stretching his arm.

“he used to slow down faster,” he continues, half to himself now. “but today he adjusted.”

hinata squints. “he was still annoying to play against..”

“i know that, you dumbass!,” kageyama snaps quietly.

his eyes flick to you again, narrowing. because to kageyama, that’s not romance.

that’s strategy.

noya slowly processes this.

“so you’re saying—”

“if that’s how he’s maintaining consistency,” kageyama interrupts, jaw tightening faintly, “then it’s an advantage.”

hinata’s eyes widen as he jumps to the absolutely wrong conclusion.

“are you jealous...?"

“i’m not jealous.”

“you’re jealous.”

“i’m analyzing.”

kuroo leans down toward kenma with a grin that spells trouble.

“congratulations,” he murmurs. “you’ve triggered kageyama’s.. setter rivalry mode.”

kenma follows his gaze lazily, remembering his first encounter with kageyama. hinata was really right. kageyama was exactly like a grumpy, scary sabertooth tiger.

“…why.”

“because,” kuroo says cheerfully, “apparently having a manager who monitors your hydration counts as a power-up.”

you catch only the tail end of that exchange.

“what counts as a power-up,” you ask.

“nothing,” kenma replies quickly.

kuroo snorts.

meanwhile, kageyama is still watching, eyes flicking between kenma’s posture and your proximity.

if this is how kenma maintains stamina—

if this is how he stays sharp—

then it’s something to account for.

and suddenly, what karasuno thought was just you being attentive looks suspiciously like a competitive edge.

you don’t realize you’ve just entered setter politics.

kenma does.

and for once, he doesn’t look particularly bothered by it.

because rivalry is familiar territory. competition makes sense. if kageyama sharpens up, if karasuno recalibrates, if someone across the net starts watching his tempo more closely, that’s predictable. that’s part of the system.

what does bother kenma, though, is when the attention shifts from the court to you.

this time, it was a training camp with other schools, the gym more crowded, air thick with the smell of sweat and polished floors. you’re near the bench again, taking notes, keeping score, doing your job with that quiet efficiency that makes everything around you run smoother.

earlier, though, you hadn’t been inside.

between games, you’d stepped out into the open-air corridor that wraps around the side of the gym, needing a moment where the noise didn’t press against your ears. a few other managers from different schools had gathered there too, clipboards tucked under arms, comparing schedules and complaining about how none of the boys refill their own bottles properly.

it’s easy, standing there.

easy in a way that feels different from inside the gym.

you’re laughing at something one of them says, leaning lightly against the railing, sunlight catching along the edge of your hair. no one’s watching you like you’re responsible for them. no one’s waiting for your signal. you’re just another student, just another girl talking about trivial things.

one of the managers nudges you lightly. “you’re coach nekomata's granddaughter, right?”

you groan softly. “unfortunately.”

they laugh.

it feels normal.

then someone calls them back inside, their team needing something, and one by one they peel away with hurried apologies, leaving you alone by the railing for a moment longer than intended.

you don’t rush back in.

you’re still smiling faintly when you turn toward the entrance.

and that’s when the guy from the opposing team wanders over during a break, water bottle dangling loosely from his hand. he doesn’t hesitate when he approaches you, doesn’t glance at the court to check if anyone’s watching.

“hey. you’re the manager, right?” he asks, leaning slightly against the wall beside you.

you nod, polite but distracted.

“yup, that's me.”

“you’re here every match?”

“well.. usually?”

his eyes flick over you in quick assessment before he smiles, pleased with whatever conclusion he reaches.

“i gotta say— you don’t look like a manager,” he says.

you tilt your head slightly. “what does that mean.”

he shrugs, grin widening. “just seems like you should be on the court instead.”

you let out a soft breath through your nose, amused but unimpressed. “retired early. tragic story.”

he laughs like you’re charming, like this is going somewhere. then, he smiles, easy and confident. “you joined recently? last time i checked, nekoma didn't have a manager.”

“mm.”

“figured. we wouldn't forget faces like yours.”

it’s bold, but not aggressive. practiced.

you offer a neutral smile, more amused than flustered.

“that’s convenient.”

the boy in front of you continues talking, unaware of the shift unfolding behind him.

“you should visit our school sometime,” he says. “we’ll give you a proper tour. might even convince you to switch sides.”

you almost laugh at that.

before you can respond, a familiar presence steps into your peripheral vision.

kenma.

he doesn’t wedge himself between you dramatically. he doesn’t glare. he doesn’t even raise his voice. he simply stops close enough that the space changes.

his gaze lands on you first.

“coach wants you to track the next game more carefully,” he says, tone neutral.

you blink.

“right now?”

he nods once.

there is absolutely no prior instruction from your grandfather about this.

the other boy shifts slightly, glancing between you and kenma.

“we were talking,” he says lightly, not confrontational, just pointed.

kenma finally looks at him then, expression unreadable.

“matches aren't over,” he replies, voice flat in a way that leaves little room for argument.

it isn’t hostile.

it isn’t loud.

it’s simply final.

there’s a brief pause where the air feels heavier than it should for something so small.

then a whistle blows, cutting through whatever tension had started to gather.

the opposing player backs away with a half-smirk, jogging toward the entrance of the gym.

“guess he needs you,” he calls casually over his shoulder.

you turn to kenma slowly once he’s gone, folding your arms.

“did that old geezer actually say that.”

his eyes glance around for a second then his eyes fixed somewhere over your shoulder.

“…no.”

the admission is quiet.

you stare at him for a moment longer than necessary.

“kenma.”

he exhales faintly, like you’re the one making this complicated.

“you were distracted,” he says.

“i was being polite.”

kenma’s jaw shifts slightly, not in anger, not quite in frustration either, but in that subtle way he does when he’s trying to reorganize thoughts he didn’t expect to have.

“you don’t have to be,” he says finally.

you blink at him.

“i don’t have to be polite?”

“not to him.”

there’s something almost defensive in the way he says it, though he’s clearly trying to sound indifferent.

you study him more carefully now. the tips of his ears are faintly pink, his gaze refusing to settle directly on yours for more than a second at a time. he’s not good at disguising physical tells. not when it’s about something he doesn’t fully understand yet.

“why,” you ask, an eyebrow raising.

he hesitates.

this is the moment.

this is where it shifts.

kenma is good with systems, with rotations, with patterns he can predict. this, however, isn’t structured. there’s no clear input-output response to explain why the sight of someone else standing close to you tightened something unfamiliar in his chest.

“he was looking at you,” he says instead, like that’s explanation enough.

“people look at me, a lot, infact.” you reply lightly.

“not like that.”

the words come out before he can filter them.

and now he’s forced to commit.

you don’t say anything right away.

the gym noise feels distant for a second, like it’s happening behind glass. you’re suddenly aware of how close he’s standing.

“and how was he looking at me,” you ask, softer now.

kenma finally meets your eyes.

it’s not confrontational. it’s not dramatic.

it’s honest.

“like he thought he could take up your time.”

the phrasing makes your breath hitch faintly.

“and that bothered you?”

another pause.

he could deflect here. he could say something about efficiency again. about distractions. about focus.

he doesn’t.

“…yeah,” he admits.

it’s quiet.

but it’s real.

something in your chest loosens at the same time something else tightens.

you don’t tease him.

you don’t laugh.

instead, you step just slightly closer, closing the space he tried to control earlier.

“well, you’re already taking up my time,” you say, voice gentle but deliberate. “on purpose.”

he goes still.

completely still.

the gym could be empty for all he notices.

“i am,” he says slowly.

“yeah.”

you tilt your head a little, studying his expression the way he studies plays mid-match.

“so you don’t have to lie about coach next time.”

the faintest flicker of embarrassment crosses his face.

“…okay.”

“you could just say you don’t like it.”

he swallows.

“i don’t like it.”

there it is.

the words land between you, and instead of feeling heavy, they feel strangely obvious— like something that had already been sitting there for weeks, waiting for one of you to finally say it out loud.

you blink at him once.

then twice.

kenma looks mildly horrified at himself, as if the sentence escaped without permission and he’s now watching it float away beyond retrieval.

you can’t help but smile. it's not teasing. not smug. just soft amusement.

“you know,” you say, tilting your head slightly, “most people would’ve just said they were jealous.”

his ears turn pink immediately.

“i wasn’t—” he starts, then stops, clearly realizing that arguing will only make it worse. “…maybe a little.”

the honesty makes you laugh under your breath.

around you, the gym is still loud— someone arguing about serves, a ball rolling across the floor, yaku shouting at lev somewhere in the distance— and somehow that makes this feel less serious, less fragile. just two people talking a little too close during a break.

“for the record,” you add lightly, “i wasn’t interested.”

kenma looks up quickly.

“…you weren’t?”

“no. i was waiting for my setter to stop being weird.”

he exhales a quiet laugh— surprised, relieved— and some of the tension leaves his shoulders all at once.

“i wasn’t being weird,” he mutters.

“you lied about coach.”

“yeah but…strategically.”

you grin.

the moment settles into something lighter, easier, the tension dissolving into quiet amusement instead of awkwardness. kenma looks calmer now, shoulders no longer drawn tight, though the faint pink at his ears hasn’t faded.

you watch him for a second longer than necessary.

then another.

a thought crosses your mind— simple, obvious, impossible to ignore now that it’s there.

“…let me ask you something,” you say.

he nods immediately, cautious but attentive. “yeah.”

you hesitate only briefly, surprising even yourself with how calm you sound.

“do you like me?”

kenma freezes.

completely.

it’s not dramatic— just a full system pause, like his brain has suddenly encountered an unexpected variable.

“…oh,” he says quietly, buying time.

you almost laugh.

“that wasn’t a trick question.”

he looks at the floor, then back at you, clearly running through several possible responses and discarding all of them in real time. there’s no strategic answer here, no optimal play, just honesty waiting uncomfortably at the center.

“…uh— yeah,” he admits finally.

the word comes out soft but certain.

your chest warms instantly.

“yeah?” you repeat.

he nods once, more firmly now, as if committing to the statement makes it easier.

“i think i have for a while,” he adds, voice quieter. “i just didn’t realize it was obvious.”

you smile. “it wasn’t. you’re very subtle.”

“…i thought i was.”

there’s a beat where both of you just stand there, the air suddenly charged in a completely different way — not tense, not heavy, just aware.

you shift a little closer without thinking.

“good,” you murmur.

his brows lift slightly. “good?”

“because,” you say, unable to stop the small smile forming, “i like you too.”

that does it.

kenma’s composure slips in the smallest way— surprise softening his expression, relief following immediately after, like something he didn’t realize he’d been bracing for finally settles.

he lets out a quiet breath that almost sounds like a laugh.

“…okay.”

the space between you feels smaller now, comfortable instead of uncertain.

you reach out without really thinking, brushing a stray damp strand of hair away from his eyes where it’s fallen loose from his last game. it’s an absentminded gesture, the same kind of adjustment you’ve made a dozen times before, but this time your hand lingers a second longer than necessary.

this time, when your hand lingers, neither of you pretends not to notice.

his gaze drops briefly to your lips, then lifts again, silently asking a question he doesn’t quite know how to voice.

you answer by leaning closer.

the kiss is soft, tentative at first, more curious than practiced— warm and quick and unmistakably mutual. he stiffens for half a second in surprise before relaxing, fingers lightly catching at your sleeve like he needs confirmation this is actually happening.

when you pull back, both of you blink at the same time.

kenma looks faintly stunned.

“…oh,” he says again.

you laugh quietly. “you already used that reaction.”

“…i don’t have another one.”

and somehow that makes it even better.

you’re both smiling— small, almost shy smiles— when, just around the corner, out of your sight, absolute chaos is unfolding in complete silence.

karasuno has not moved.

they had originally followed hinata insisting he'd come to look for kenma.

they had not expected to witness emotional development.

“we should not be listening,” daichi murmurs under his breath, voice firm but noticeably quieter than usual.

no one moves.

asahi nods solemnly in agreement while also leaning slightly closer to the wall.

“…we’re not listening,” tanaka whispers.

they are absolutely listening.

hinata is frozen mid-crouch, both hands clamped over his mouth, eyes so wide they look physically painful. he is shaking violently with the effort of not making a sound.

nishinoya grips tanaka’s shoulders like he needs structural support to remain upright.

tanaka, meanwhile, is mouthing something that looks suspiciously like NO WAY over and over again without producing audio.

just behind them, tsukishima has stopped walking entirely, one eyebrow raised as he peers around the corner with open, undisguised curiosity. his expression doesn’t change much, but the slight upward tilt at the corner of his mouth gives him away.

“…wow,” he murmurs under his breath, voice barely above a whisper. “kozume kenma. didn’t think he had it in him.”

yamaguchi, standing beside him, looks like he doesn’t know where to focus— the wall, the floor, the ceiling— anywhere except directly at the scene they are very much witnessing.

“tsukki,” he whispers urgently, tugging at his sleeve, “we shouldn’t be watching—”

tsukishima doesn’t move.

“and yet,” he replies quietly, eyes still fixed forward, “here we are.”

yamaguchi turns faintly red, clearly torn between moral responsibility and overwhelming curiosity, ultimately settling for covering the lower half of his face with his hand while still peeking through his fingers.

behind them, sugawara has both hands pressed over his mouth, shoulders shaking with silent laughter, while asahi looks like he has accidentally witnessed something deeply sacred and isn’t sure where to look out of respect.

daichi, meanwhile, slowly scans the entire group with the exhausted expression of a man realizing he has completely lost control of the situation.

“no one,” he whispers firmly, “makes a sound.”

everyone nods.

another soft murmur from you drifts down the hallway.

karasuno collectively leans forward at the exact same time.

the synchronized movement nearly causes hinata to lose balance, hinata nearly squeaks anyway despite the earlier instruction.

nishinoya slaps a hand over his mouth just in time.

everyone freezes.

luckily, you and kenma remain blissfully unaware.

behind the wall, daichi slowly turns toward the group with the exhausted expression of someone herding extremely emotional children.

“again.” he whispers, voice deadly calm, “be quiet.”

hinata nods aggressively.

too aggressively.

his water bottle slips from his hand.

and their hero, again, nishinoya catches it mid-air with reflexes worthy of nationals.

they stare at each other, silently celebrating.

tanaka wipes imaginary tears from his eyes.

“they kissed,” he mouths dramatically.

sugawara nods solemnly, like confirming a prophecy fulfilled.

kageyama crosses his arms, expression serious.

“…that explains his focus lately.”

daichi stares at him.

“that's your takeaway?”

meanwhile, just a few steps away, you laugh softly at something kenma says, the sound drifting toward them again.

hinata nearly ascends.

daichi physically pushes the entire group backward from the corner before anyone combusts.

they retreat in tiny, frantic steps, still refusing to break the sacred rule of silence until they’re far enough away—

and then—

silent screaming.

arms flailing.

pure chaos.

completely unaware, you and kenma remain standing in the hallway, the moment still warm and new, neither realizing that seven volleyball players have just collectively witnessed the beginning of your relationship.

LMAOOO I JS HAD TO ADD KARASUNO TO THE SCENE OF THE CRIME

I LOVE MY BABY KENMA SO BADD HES SO CUTE

And you didn’t speak to him after this time, except when absolutely necessary. And that resulted in Erwin sighing heavily at both of your stubbornness to not get along. Even Hange could not dodge the subject with something else.

And you also didn’t know that Levi didn’t really sleep that night. Nor many nights when you were on missions without him. Having nightmares that you would be next. The person from his past whom he respects the most, the one who makes him break his walls, hammering into them each time you challenged him or dismantled his arguments that, at times, his punishments and his brutal discipline shouldn’t be the only option for others to learn.

And the worst part—you proved to him how profoundly he had been mistaken when it was his fault that something happened to you. At least, that is what he told himself.

When Eren surprised all of you and called you to provide backup in Marley, Levi’s plan functioned flawlessly until, in the distance, he saw your body collapsing, thrown against a wall that was stained with your blood.

It was the only moment when Levi ceased to be Levi. His heart pounded relentlessly, and luck—if it could even be called luck, as Levi did not believe in such things nor did he experience it in this life—was that he trusted the soldiers whom both of you had helped train. Differently, yet somehow complementarily.

He took you into his arms immediately, your head resting against his chest while two fingers checked your pulse. Faint, but it was there. Barely.

“It is my fault. You were right. I am the one who failed. I was supposed to prevent this from happening. It is all my fault. Live. Please, live.”

And for Levi, the many nights that followed, with you confined to a bed, were without rest.

“I am certain she would not want you to not even eat, Levi.”

Hange attempted to speak after checking your vital functions once again—at Levi’s insistence, multiple times that day.

Levi did not say anything; his mind was completely shattered into fragments as his eyes were reddened. From the lack of sleep? Perhaps. But that was not the only reason.

His training sessions became harsher than before. And he was a man who could handle it all? What a fucking joke. He heard your voice in his mind every time he lashed out at others. Even Erwin was surprised by his depressive demeanor.

When you awoke, seeing him as the first presence after being in a coma, Levi almost left the room. He did not feel he deserved it to be here.

“Do not you dare leave the room or I will never forgive you.”

Your eyes tingled with the violent feelings you felt flooding your veins as you wait for any hint of an answer. Levi’s shoulder dropped, eyes hidden between his bands as his head leaned toward the floor in a shameful greediness he shouldn’t be allowed to feel as he finally comes back next to your bed. He gave you a quick glance as he sit down on the chair. Only one because he avoid looking directly at you, afraid to don’t see your sad soul, broken by his careless actions. He couldn’t fathom the fact you were on a completely different spectrum: He waited for me here. He was always here. I misjudged his poorly attempts of showing he is still here.

You rested your hand at the edge of the bed, the movement made his eyes trace it until he saw how you impatiently ask for his one.

“Levi.” Hesitantly like it will burn his skin, only one of his finger touched yours until you grab it firmly. “Can you look at me? Please?” Levi gulped slowly before he did so. He is not a cowards. He should face his own mistakes. But, when he locked his eyes on yours, they widened. Filled with only softness, the little smile only accentuated your real thoughts of all of that happened. “Thank you.”

He scoffed, turning his head to look in a random spot in the hospital room, too little to give enough oxygen for him to don’t feel suffocating.

“For what? For the failure I was the one to—“

“No. No, Levi.” Making him to bit his tongue by your sudden words, he looked back at you as you add. “For not being a coward and turn your heart to stone.”

He didn’t say anything. Shouldn’t he? What’s the point in not doing so? The silence in the room was filled a couple of minutes later by you again.

“I knew you care about me, asshole. I didn’t knew I should almost die for you to show me that.”

The sight of a flustered Levi was something you never believed you’ll ever see, making your heart tremble.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t b—“

You felt his hand squeezed yours while he forced the subtle confession to escape between his lips.

“And I do. I really do.”

His gaze was so intense that it took you seconds to react, giving him a sight he also didn’t think he will ever see, provoked by him. A happy, wide smile, the redness in your cheeks making you more beautiful than he already saw you.

i. in his office

he sat in his office chair, filling out documents like usual when you'd barged in.

he knew it was you because no one else would ever have the courage to walk into his office like that unannounced.

he didn't exactly hear much that you said when you came in, but he knew it had you heated. you were pacing his office as you spoke passionately, clearly you had been wanting to get this off your chest for a while. but he wasn't paying attention to that. he was paying attention to you.

he watched your face silently as it glowed in the dim lights of his office.

god were you beautiful.

"levi, you're not even listening." you said, stopping in front of him.

"¡ am. you just began to repeat yourself."

"because you weren't listening."

"i'm sorry. finish what you were saying." he said, gently taking ahold of your wrist.

you took that opportunity to slip into his lap, letting him wrap an arm around your waist as you continued talking again.

and he let you, let your voice fill his office once more as he silently studied your features. the way your eyes squint as you furrowed your eyebrows, or the slight pout your lips had when you spoke about something that upset you, or-

"levi!"

he blinks slowly. "hm?"

"what's up with you?"

"you look pretty." was all he said, catching you off guard.

his compliment brought a smile to your face, taking that opportunity to lean in and press a gentle kiss to his lips.

“thank you.”

he'd grunted in response, acknowledging your words.

a comfortable silence surrounded the both of you, one that was familiar. it was nice, familiar.

maybe he should do it now.

levi pulled you closer to him, looking at you deeply which caused you to tilt your head slightly in question as his free hand slowly gravitates toward his pocket.

"what is it?" you asked, messing with a bit of his hair.

deep breaths.

"i wan-"

he couldn't even start his sentence before someone barged into his office panting, catching you both of guard.

"captain lev-oh."

it was jean. the annoying brat.

"i'm so sorry captain." he apologised quickly, bowing his head.

you took this chance to get off levi's lap, straightening yourself up.

levi let a small noise of disapproval, the sudden lack of warmth not welcome.

"you're being requested urgently by higher ups, sir. i didn't mean to-"

"that enough." he grunts, standing from his chair. “let’s go then.”

he glanced at you as he walked toward the door, silently apologising for the interruption. you didn’t say anything, just nodding in response. you knew it wasn’t his fault.

ii. your bedroom.

rays of sunlight shone through the gaps in the curtains, casting a warm glow onto your boyfriend’s chest.

he was up, of course he was.

the fact he’d slept last night was a miracle but you were forever grateful he did because it meant you had his chest to sleep on.

you turned over to be met with levi, seated upright on the bed with some documents in hand.

he heard your movement, placing them down on the bedside table, giving you his full attention.

“good morning.”

“good morning, handsome.” you greet, leaning up to giving him a soft kiss.

levi liked mornings like these.

though they were rare because you never seemed to be up on time, he cherished them deeply.

you rested your head on his shoulder, closing your eyes again, and levi took this opportunity to look at you.

really look at you.

his gaze lingered, taking in every small detail he’d already committed to memory. he often found himself wondering how he had gotten so lucky.

he wasn’t one that was used to expressing his emotions and for whatever reason, you understood that.

you let him take his time as he tried to get comfortable with it.

and even now, though he may not be there yet, he was definitely getting better at it.

his eyes flickered briefly to the bedside table. the top drawer to be more exact. where the ring sat in its box, waiting for him to open, waiting for him to ask you. where he’d placed it there earlier without much thought.

but now it felt impossible to ignore.

this could be it.

it was quiet.

you were here.

there was nothing to interrupt him, no one to get in the way.

just the two of you.

“..levi?” you mumbled quietly, your voice thick with sleep.

“hm.”

“come back to bed.” you murmur, shifting closer to him, your hand resting against his side.

he removed himself from his thoughts, looking down at you. at the way you were barely awake, completely relaxed against him.

and suddenly it felt wrong to do it now, not when you were half asleep.

so he pushed down the thought, sinking back into bed and wrapping an arm around you to pull you close.

iii. campsite

it’d been four days since that morning.

it was dark out, the sky clear with occasional bright white dot visible in the sky.

you’d insisted on sitting out in the dark for a while and who was levi to deny his girlfriend?

you both sat outside your tent, your head resting on his lap as you looked up at the sky. pointing at the occasional star or constellation you would spot in between idle chatter.

levi didn’t say much.

not that he really did.

he much preferred listening to your voice as spoke, his hand resting on your waist, thumb absentmindedly moving back and forth.

“that one.” you say, raising your arm to point.

“which one?”

you nudge levi’s leg, raising your arm again. “there, the really bright one.”

he follows your finger this time, looking up.

“i see it now.”

you smiled to yourself before getting yourself comfortable as familiar silence fell between you both again.

your eyes remain fixed on the sky, watching the stars flicker faintly above you.

“wait,” you gasped, sitting up suddenly.

levi’s hand naturally reached out to steady you. “what?”

“look.” you say quickly, pointing at the sky again.

he follows your gaze just in time to see a bright streak of light cut through the night sky.

a shooting star.

“make a wish!” you say, immediately closing your eyes.

levi watches you for a moment.

“that’s not how it works.” he huffs, earning a nudge from you.

“just do it.” you insist.

he sighs in defeat, but he doesn’t close his eyes. just watches you quietly.

your soft expression, the small smile on your lips.

he didn’t need to close his eyes to make his wish.

he already knew.

you open your eyes and look up again, as if expecting the star to still be there and then turning to look at levi.

“what did you wish for?”

your question earned a scoff from him. “you’re not meant to say.”

“i know,” you smiled. “i’m going to tell you anyway.

he doesn’t reply. just looks at you, waiting for you to continue.

“i wished for things to stay like this. just us. for as long as possible.

if you looked closely you could see the smallest shift in levi’s expression.

“what about you?”

his face remained unreadable, stiff. but his hand reached for yours, holding it in his gently.

this was it.

the perfect opportunity to tell you just how he felt, no–

“captain!” a distant voice called, followed with the heavy sound of footsteps.

really? levi thought.

he slowly closed his eyes, composing himself before rising to his feet, holding his hand out to help you up next.

the scout was stood before you now, drawing deep breaths.

“captain, you’re both needed urgently. some movement has been detected at the left wing.”

and just like that the both of you were sucked back into work, your previous moment forgotten.

iv. on a walk

the spring breeze felt nice on your skin, cooling you down as the hot sun continued to beat down on you.

for the first time in a while, you had some time to yourself before training. but that wasn’t even the most shocking part. the most shocking part was the fact levi also had that same period of time off. so what better way to spend it than basking in the late afternoon sun whilst taking a quiet stroll through the grounds.

this was a rarity you both enjoyed whenever you had the chance.

the two of you walked a familiar path, hand in hand, taking in the stillness around you. it was quiet, peaceful in a way your lives rarely allowed, and for once there was nothing pressing waiting for either of you. no orders, no responsibilities.

this was perfect.

“we should think of heading back soon. i’m sure training will begin shortly,” levi said, glancing ahead.

you sighed softly, turning to face him. “come on, levi, don’t be like that.”

he frowned slightly, not understanding what he’d said wrong. he was right, you both had to head back soon.

“don’t you want to spend time with me?” you asked, stepping in front of him and wrapping your arms around his neck.

his hands found your waist easily, like they always did, holding you without thought. he liked when you touched him, even if he’d never say it out loud. there was something grounding about it, something he’d grown used to without realising.

“i am,” he said simply.

you smiled at that, studying his face for a second before leaning in. he met you halfway, your lips moving together in a way that felt second nature now.

he definitely liked this.

you let out a quiet hum against him as his grip tightened slightly, pulling you just a little closer as the kiss deepened. for a moment, everything else faded away.

levi knew.

this was it.

he’d planned it this time. waited for the right moment, made sure no one would be around, no one to interrupt or pull you away. everything was exactly how it should be.

slowly, his hand slipped from your waist, moving toward his pocket. his fingers closed around the small box, steady but deliberate as he pulled back from the kiss just slightly.

you followed instinctively, your forehead resting against his, your breath still warm against his lips.

“…what?” you murmured.

he hesitated for only a second before pulling the box out, holding it low between you. his thumb brushed against the lid, heart steady in his chest even as the weight of the moment settled around him.

this was it.

“…i—”

a drop of water hit your cheek.

you blinked.

then another.

and another.

you both glanced up at the sky just as the clouds that hadn’t been there moments ago seemed to roll in all at once.

“you’ve got to be kidding me,” you muttered.

within seconds, the light drizzle turned heavier, rain falling fast and sudden, soaking through your clothes before either of you could properly react.

you laughed, grabbing onto him as the rain came down harder. “okay, maybe we should go.”

levi stood there for a second longer, the box still in his hand, the moment slipping away in real time.

then he exhaled sharply, snapping it shut and shoving it back into his pocket.

“come on.”

he grabbed your hand, pulling you along as the two of you rushed back toward shelter, your laughter mixing with the sound of the rain hitting the ground.

by the time you made it inside, you were both soaked.

you pushed wet hair from your face, still smiling. “that was fun.”

“…you’ll catch a cold,” he muttered, clearly not happy with the rain.

“loosen up, grumpy,” you teased.

he didn’t respond.

just watched you for a second, taking in the way you looked; soaked and laughing.

the moment had been perfect.

everything had gone right.

and somehow, it still hadn’t happened.

v. at dinner

it was a special night tonight.

it was date night, which meant one of you cooked while the other stayed out of the way, and then you both sat down and ate together like nothing else mattered. it was a tradition you kept every month or so. something simple, but something you always found yourselves looking forward to. though tonight felt slightly different.

“wow, levi.” you smiled, taking a seat across from him.

he didn’t say much, just adjusted your chair slightly before sitting down himself. everything was neat, organised, exactly how he liked it. the food was still warm, the table set properly, not a single thing out of place.

levi had one rule on nights like these; no one was allowed to disturb. and everyone knew better. tonight, he had made sure of it.

because tonight, he was going to propose.

you picked up your fork, glancing at him again. “you went all out.”

“…it’s nothing.”

you smiled slightly, shaking your head. “it’s not nothing. this is really nice.”

he hummed quietly, his attention on you more than the food. he’d planned this. every detail, every moment, making sure nothing would go wrong. for once, everything was exactly how it should be.

the box sat in his pocket, heavier than usual.

this was it.

the conversation stayed easy between you, light and familiar, the kind that didn’t need effort. you spoke about nothing important; training, small things, whatever came to mind, and he let it happen, waiting for the right moment to shift it into something more.

when you finished, you leaned back slightly, letting out a soft breath. “i enjoyed that.”

“yeah.”

you smiled at him, softer now. “i like this. just us.”

his gaze lingered on you for a moment longer than usual. “so do i.”

silence followed, calm and steady, the kind that usually didn’t need filling. this was the moment.

levi felt it.

his hand moved slightly, brushing against his pocket where the box sat, waiting.

say it.

just say it.

“there’s something i want to say,” he said.

you looked up at him, curious but relaxed. “okay.”

his chest felt tight, not in fear, but in the weight of it. of what it meant. of how much it mattered. you watched him patiently, like you always did, and for some reason that made it harder.

his fingers curled slightly against his leg. the words were there, he could feel them. all he had to do was say them.

“…we should do this more often,” he said instead.

you blinked, then smiled faintly. “i was just thinking that.”

he nodded once, like that had been what he meant all along, like that had been the question. the moment shifted, just like that.

you kept talking, completely oblivious to what had almost been said.

and levi sat there, listening, responding when needed, like nothing had happened.

like he hadn’t just failed again.

this time, there was no interruption. no bad timing. no one to blame but himself.

just him.

and the words he couldn’t seem to say.

iv.

the room was warm, lit softly by the lamp in the corner, the glow low and golden as the record player spun lazily in the background. the music wasn’t loud, just enough to fill the space, paired with the faint crackle of the vinyl.

you were already halfway through the song when levi walked in.

bare feet against the floor, hair still damp from your shower, wearing one of levi’s shirts that hung loose on you. you hummed quietly to yourself, moving around the room without much care.

he stood near the door for a moment longer than necessary, watching you move around. it wasn’t anything new. he’d seen you like this before. but for some reason, tonight it felt different.

“if you fall and hurt yourself i won’t help.

you turned immediately, grin already forming. “don’t lie.”

“i won’t.” he lied, he knew if anything were to happen he’d be by your side in an instant.

“liar.”

he didn’t bother responding to that, but his eyes followed you as you walked toward him, like you’d expected him to just… join in.

which he wouldn’t.

“come here,” you said, holding your hand out.

“…no.”

“levi.”

“i said no.”

you pulled him forward before he could finish, laughing softly as he stumbled the slightest bit, more from surprise than anything else.

“you’re no fun,” you murmured, placing his hands on your waist yourself before resting yours loosely around his shoulders.

he looked down at you, unimpressed on the surface, but he didn’t move them away.

“i’m not dancing,” he muttered again.

“you don’t have to dance,” you said, already placing his hands on your waist. “just stand there and look pretty.”

“i don’t do that either.” he scoffs in disbelief.

“you’re doing it right now.”

he gave you a look for that.

you smiled wider.

and then you started swaying again, slow and easy, guiding him without asking, like you always did.

it didn’t take long before he stopped pretending to resist.

“see?” you murmured. “not so bad.”

he doesn’t respond to that, just grunting at your words.

you laughed, leaning in slightly, your forehead brushing his for a second before you pulled back just enough to look at him properly.

“you’d be miserable without me.”

“i’d be able to get more done.”

“exactly. miserable.”

he never said anything, but something in his expression softened just slightly.

enough for you to notice.

“do you like being with me?”

the question came out of nowhere and it caused you to look at him with confusion.

“of course i do.” you said like it were obvious.

“why..?”

you let out a small breath, almost a laugh. “what do you mean why?”

“why?” he repeated.

the tone in his voice told you he wasn’t joking with you and it made you frown a bit. to you it was obvious why you were with him but levi was failing to see the same.

because.. you’re always there when i need you, even if you pretend it inconveniences you. you care for me and you’re honest. you make me feel safe.”

levi’s eyes never left your face, even when he finished speaking. instead he ket silence consume the both of you as he thought of what to say.

“i know i don’t talk a lot about how i feel.”

you huffed quietly, a small smile tugging at your lips. “you could say that.”

“i don’t.. but i think about it. i think about it way more than i say it.” he speaks slowly.

your smile faded slightly, your attention fully on him.

“i’ve lost a lot of people growing up. people i thought would see grow old alongside me. and i constantly think of all the things i never said to them.”

his words made you chest tighten. he didn’t talk about his past often and you knew there were scars there, scars that would most likely never fully heal. but whenever he spoke of it to you, you couldn’t help but feel grateful that he trusted you enough to open up to you.

“i know that nothing in this lifetime is promised, especially with our line of work but also know i wouldn’t be able to live with myself if anything were to happen to you. i can’t let it happen again, not with you.”

your expression changed, your hands resting on his shoulders.

“i don’t want this to end because of something i should’ve said. i don’t want to lose you knowing i could’ve prevented it.”

you shook your head in response. “you’re not going to lose me.”

“you don’t know that.”

“i do.” you said, stepping closer, your hands tangling in his hair. “i’m not going anywhere.”

he looked at you properly, like he found it hard to believe.

“..then marry me.”

you couldn’t believe the words that’d left his mouth, you breath caught in your chest.

“what?” you questioned in disbelief.

his voice remained firm as he repeated his words.

“marry me,” he repeated, just as steady. “so i don’t have to keep wondering if you know how much i love you.”

your chest tightened at that, something warm and overwhelming settling in all at once.

“levi..”

you knew your answer and you also knew the fact that you hadn’t given him a proper answer yet was eating at him so you decided to mess with him a bit.

“there’s no ring.” you huffed in fake annoyance.

he paused, mentally cursing himself for being so unorganised.

“right..” was all he said before pulling away.

before you could react, he’d already crossed the room, opening the top drawer beside his side of the bed. you watched him, confusion settling in for a moment before he turned back around, the small black box now visible in his hand.

“…no way.”

he walked back over to you, slower this time. when he stopped in front of you, there was a brief second where he just looked at you before lowering himself onto one knee.

“will you marry me?”

you couldn’t believe this was actually happening. you just stared at him for a second, pure disbelief written all over your face before you nodded quickly, almost stumbling over your words.

“yes–of course i will.”

he slid the ring onto your finger carefully, his touch steady despite everything. when he stood, you didn’t even give him a second to say anything before you were pulling him into you, wrapping your arms tightly around him.

“i can’t believe you,” you murmured, your voice slightly shaky against him.

“do you like the ring?” he asked, his arms settling firmly around your waist.

you pulled back just enough to look at it again, a small smile breaking across your face. “of course i do.”

your gaze lifted back to his.

“i love you, levi.”

and for the first time in a while, you were met with a small smile.

“i love you too.”

you barely had a second to react before he pulled you back in, one hand coming up to your jaw, holding you there as he kissed you firmly, pouring all his emotions into the kiss.

when you pulled back, you let out a quiet laugh, still a little breathless. you shakily placed your hand on his chest, staring in pure shock as you get a proper look at the ring.

you stared at it properly this time, like it had only just sunk in.

“…oh my god.”

your voice was softer now, almost disbelieving, your thumb brushing over it like you needed to make sure it was real.

levi didn’t say anything.

he just watched you.

you glanced back up at him after a second, a small smile slowly forming. “did you plan this?”

he scoffed at the question, shaking his head.

“no.” he started. “i tried five times before this.”

that caught your attention immediately, laughter bubbling up in your chest.

“what? you’re kidding.”

levi shook his head, completely serious.

“i’m not.”

you pulled back slightly just to look at him properly, eyes narrowing a little like you were trying to figure out if he was messing with you. “…you’re lying.”

“…i’m not.”

“levi,” you laughed, shaking your head. “there’s no way you tried five times and i didn’t notice.”

“you didn’t.”

“that’s actually embarrassing for you.”

he gave you a look, unimpressed. “…it wasn’t my fault.”

“oh, so now it’s my fault?” you shot back, smiling.

“things kept getting in the way.”

you tilted your head, clearly entertained now. “you have to tell me about each time. in detail.”

he sighed quietly, like he already regretted saying anything.

the music from the record player continued to spin softly in the background, the faint crackle filling the space between you, playing a familiar tune.

you stepped a little closer, your arms settling comfortably around him as the two of you began to sway gently to the music.

“fine,” he muttered after a moment.

you smiled against him, resting your head on his shoulder as he started, reluctantly, to tell you about each failed attempt.

and as he spoke, quiet and low, you listened, that same warm feeling settling deep in your chest.

because every almost, every failed moment.

it had still led him here.

to you.

you smiled to yourself, eyes closing briefly as you held onto him just a little tighter.

yeah.

The way he looked at you—like you were something beneath his boot.

Levi was harsh with everyone; that much was true. But you weren’t blind—you saw it. He did care to a certain degree. Like the way his eyes tracked his squad during missions, always counting.

He did care.

Just not about you.

With you, there was no restraint. No quiet understanding. Just cold scrutiny—sharp and unrelenting.

And that made your blood burn. Because you knew what you were worth. You were strong—strong enough to stand beside the best of them. Mikasa included.

You didn’t ever break formation out of panic.

You did it because you refused to stand there and watch someone die when you could do something about it.

And every time—

he made you pay for it.

He would call you reckless. Airheaded. Or a dipshit.

Once, he’d even snatched you by the front of your cloak, yanking you close, his voice lethal as he tore into you for breaking ranks—publicly.

For “endangering the squad.”

For being selfish.

Selfish.

The word still made your head hurt.

You’d snapped back sometimes—chin high, refusing to be spoken to like you were dirt when you were only doing your job. It was your life to throw away. Not his. And still, he looked you dead in the eye and told you that you weren’t saving people for them.

You were doing it for yourself, he said.

So here you stood during morning muster, shoulder to shoulder between Connie and Jean, boots planted firm despite the tension coiling tight in your chest. Levi stood at the front, going over assignments.

It would be a dull day with no missions lined up.

Levi moved down the line, inspecting.

Then—he stopped.

Right in front of you.

Of course.

You felt it before you looked—his scrutiny, heavy and suffocating. Your stomach jumped, but you forced yourself to stay still. His eyes dragged from your head to your boots.

“Next time,” he said flatly, “try starching your uniform.”

He paused, eyeballing you from head to toe.

“It looks like shit.”

It shouldn’t have bothered you, but of course it did. Because as much as you hated to admit it, you wanted his approval.

“Yes, sir.”

You kept your gaze forward, refusing to give him the satisfaction.

Still, you felt his gaze linger a second too long before he moved on. When he was out of earshot, you exhaled, glancing at Jean.

“I swear,” you muttered, “he catches one whiff of my ass and comes crawling out of nowhere.”

Jean snorted. Connie barely held it together.

“I’m serious,” you pressed. “He’s always looking for something...”

“Maybe he likes you,” Connie said.

You shot him a look. “Yeah. I can just feel the affection.”

When they broke formation, Jean fell into step beside you, close as usual. You didn’t mind. He was easy to talk to, and you didn’t have to brace yourself around him.

“So,” Jean started casually, “we’ve got liberty tonight.”

You glanced at him with a half smile. "Yeah?"

“Thought maybe I could take you out again. For another drink, play some cards, take a walk...whatever you like.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Yeah… I’d like that.”

Then there came that feeling. Like something pressing into your back, and creeping up your neck. You didn’t have to guess.

Levi was standing still, across the way. Watching, but not casually or passively. His burning gaze was fixed on you and Jean, smoldering.

And then he moved—straight toward you.

“Oh, great,” you muttered. “Don’t react,” you warned Jean, who was visibly confused. Levi was on top of the two of you before you could elaborate.

“Jean.” he shot, his tone flat and controlled. “I have you going out on a supply run.”

Jean straightened immediately. “Yes, sir.” His eyes met yours, saying a silent goodbye.

"Then go." Levi spat.

And just like that, Jean turned and was gone. Leaving you alone with him. You turned your attention to the ledger, pretending to read. But he was still there, standing far too close.

You glanced up—

What a mistake.

He was just looking at you, as if he didn't know what to make of you. You began to squirm under his gaze, heat rushed through you—sharp, and unwarranted, but not unwanted. At least not to your body.

What the fuck…

You began to internally panic, not knowing the right thing to say, the right thing to do. Why did he have this affect on you?

“It’s… cold out here,” you muttered.

“Then you should dress like it.” he lowered his gaze to your chest, where you noticed a button had fallen loose, and your chest was slightly exposed

His eyes moved slowly over you.

Your throat tightened.

Don’t react.

Don’t—

His gaze lifted and met yours, making your chest tighten in all the wrong ways. He stepped back, just like it never happened.

“Get your assignment and move.” He said, deadpan.

“Yes, sir.”

The armory smelled like oil, metal, and worn leather. You sat cross-legged on the bench, ODM gear spread in pieces in front of you. Your fingers worked methodically, tightening bolts—only for them to slip out of place again.

You sighed.

“I’ve always hated putting these things back together,” you muttered.

Across from you, Mikasa adjusted her gear.

“Mm.”

For a while, neither of you spoke.

Then—

“…Levi cornered me earlier.”

“Mmm. Shocker.”

You frowned slightly. “He was… weird.”

That got her attention.

“Weird how?” She puzzled.

“He wasn’t griping. Not even really bitching.” You hesitated. “Just… looking at me...like in my eyes, and lingering around.”

Click.

“…He obviously likes you.”

You blinked. “What?”

“He watches you. Like all the time.”

“That’s because he thinks I’m a liability.”

“He doesn’t watch liabilities like that.” A pause. “He lets them die of their own stupidity.”

You opened your mouth then closed it.

“…Well,” you muttered, wiping your blade harder than necessary, “even if he did—hypothetically—that doesn’t mean anything.”

Mikasa tilted her head.

“…You like him too.”

You froze.

“I do not.”

“You do.”

“I don’t—he’s just—” you gestured vaguely, “objectively attractive. And stoic. And strong—”

Mikasa raised an eyebrow.

“…and brave,” you finished weaker.

Silence ensued.

“And those are all qualities you’re attracted to.”

You groaned. “Oh my God.”

“But Jean is different,” you said quickly.

Mikasa waited.

“He’s… soft. Kind. He actually talks to me like I’m a person.”

Mikasa nodded once.

“That’s nice.”

A pause.

“But that’s not what you want.”

You stared at her blankly before going back to your work, but internally you cursed yourself, because you feared she could be right.

You were alone while getting ready in the barracks that night. Most people had someone to go home to—family, partners. Those who didn’t, like Mikasa, Eren, and Armin, had already gone ahead to the tavern.

You hesitated.

You wanted to be excited. Jean was using one of his few liberty nights to spend it with you—even though he had family he could’ve seen.

But Levi kept creeping into your thoughts...those stormy gray eyes...

You tossed your shirt onto the bed, arms crossing tightly.

“I’m not going,” you muttered.

It wasn’t fair.

One look from him—and suddenly everything you’d been building with Jean felt… shaky. It wasn’t fair to Jean either. You didn’t want to let him down.

But the heart wants what it wants.

He’d understand that.

“…Like hell,” you muttered, grabbing your blouse again. You undid the top two buttons, adjusted it slightly, and headed for the door.

The tavern was loud.

Laughter spilled over itself, glasses clinked, chairs scraped—heat and noise wrapped themselves around you like a blanket, dulling everything else.

And for once—

you let yourself relax.

Jean sat beside you, shoulder brushing yours as he laughed with Connie and Armin. His sleeves were rolled, hair slightly messier than usual, drink loose in his hand.

He looked… good.

After a while, he led you to a quieter corner. A small round table sat tucked near the wall. Instead of sitting across from you, he pulled out the chair beside his—and you took it. Now you were angled toward each other, knees interlocked underneath the table. Close enough to feel his warmth.

It made it harder to think.

You held your cards low in your lap. Jean mirrored you, leaning back, one arm draped over his chair, the other holding his cards near his thigh.

“Trying to peek?” he murmured.

You scoffed, tilting your cards closer. “Please. Your hand can't be that interesting.”

“Mm,” he hummed, glancing sideways.

Heat crept up your neck—but you only shifted slightly, making your knee rub the inside of his thigh as if it were unintentional.

“Funny,” he replied, leaning in just a little closer, voice lower, “I was thinking the same thing.”

You shuffled your cards.

“You’re losing.”

“I’m winning.”

“You keep saying that.”

“And I’ve been right.”

You reached across him to steal a card—his hand caught your wrist mid-motion.

You froze, then looked up. He was already watching you.

“…You always cheat?” he asked.

“Only when I’m losing.”

“That’s most of the time.”

“Wow,” you breathed, mock offended. “You’re bold tonight.”

“Maybe I’ve had enough to drink that I just don't care."

Your pulse picked up. You pulled your hand back slowly, but his fingers lingered a second too long before letting go.

The noise around you faded.

“…Hey,” he said softly.

You turned toward him.

“Yeah?”

His gaze dropped briefly to your lips, then lifted again.

“You know I—” He stopped, exhaling. “I’ve been meaning to—”

“You don’t have to say it,” you murmured.

He studied you.

“Yeah?”

You nodded. That was all it took.

He leaned in—slow enough to stop him if you wanted. You didn’t. His lips met yours, soft at first—testing. Then you kissed him back. Your head spun as you sank into it.

Maybe it was the alcohol—

but he was a good kisser.

The kiss broke slightly as you both shifted, turning heads to kiss one another more deeply—And your heart jumped into your throat.

Because over Jean’s shoulder...you saw him.

Levi.

He was watching, unmoving. His gaze locked on yours. Not angry--no something worse.

Searing.

Why the hell is he even here…?

He should’ve been with the officers—not here with enlisted soldiers. He lifted his drink slowly, eyes never leaving you, then set it down harder than necessary. His jaw tightened.

He almost looked amused. Like he wanted to laugh.

Your stomach twisted.

Jean pulled back, noticing the shift.

“Something wrong? Are you okay?”

“Yes,” you said quickly. “I just… maybe we should go outside. I’d rather be alone with you.”

Jean lit up instantly.

“Yeah—of course.”

He stood, taking your hand, leaving the cards behind. You walked wide around the tables—avoiding Levi entirely. Jean didn’t notice anything wrong, eager to lead you outside.

But you couldn't shake Levi's stare as you let Jean lead you out the door. His gaze was set on your back the whole way out.

As Jean walked you back to the barracks that night you felt defeated. He left you at the steps, giving you a small smile before turning and disappearing into the night. You stepped inside letting out a frustrated breath, then—

“FUCK!” you hissed, dragging a hand down your face.

You stood leaning against the door still, unwillingly remembering what had just taken place: The night air. The tree at your back. Jean’s mouth on yours—warm, and insistent—his hands had been needy, touching all over your body. The way you’d melted into it, let yourself get pulled under.

And still—

You hadn’t been there. Perhaps physically, yes, but in your mind...

Levi had lived inside of your thoughts. You imagined that Jean was him.

His voice. His presence. The way he groped you.

Levi's gaze had followed you both outside, clinging to you, threading through every touch until you couldn’t tell who you were feeling anymore.

You remembered pulling away, your breath uneven, and your thoughts all tangled up. And the look on Jean’s face when you told him you couldn’t do it. That you didn’t trust what you were feeling. That it wasn’t fair to him.

He’d taken it better than he should have.

That almost made it worse for you.

"Ugh! WHAT the FUCK am I doing?!" You shouted, believing you were alone.

“Making it harder than it needs to be.”

Mikasa’s voice cut cleanly through the room. You jumped slightly, turning toward her. She was sitting on her bunk, book resting in her lap, eyes already on you like she’d been watching the whole time.

“When did you get here? Care to announce yourself, I mean GOD?” you groaned.

“I've been here a while,” she said, turning a page in her novel. "Technically, you're the intruder here."

Of course she had.

You dropped onto your bunk with a frustrated exhale, staring at the ceiling.

“Well...I messed that up. Like...bad.”

Mikasa turned a page.

“Mhm.”

Silence.

Then—

“…So,” she added casually, not even looking at you, “you stopped because of Levi.”

You turned your head sharply. “I did not—”

She finally glanced up, completely unimpressed.

“You did.”

“I didn’t.”

“You were thinking about him while kissing Jean, weren't you?”

Your mouth opened—

Closed.

“…I hate you. Stay out of my head.”

“Mm...Right. I'll do that.”

A beat passed between you.

Then, with the faintest hint of dry humor:

“I told you so...”

You groaned, dragging your blanket over your face.

“Oh my GOD do you ever shut up?.”

Mikasa laughed, her eyes lingering on you.

"Sometimes I wonder the same thing about you." She snarked playfully. "In all seriousness, just take some time for yourself. You're obviously all tied up."

"Right." you shot back.

But she was right. You needed space. No Jean, no Levi, just room to breathe.

The next week—after you started taking a little space from Jean—was made worse by the fact that Levi had somehow grown even more impossible. He assigned Jean every unwanted job. And wherever Jean ended up, you were placed on the complete opposite side of the world.

You couldn’t even be upset about the distance—you needed it.

But you knew exactly why Levi was doing it--you were convinced:

It was because he wanted to punish you for being happy.

And yet—

Everywhere you were, he was near. Close enough to feel his presence, which made your heart race. Watching him train, his muscles rippling, leaning over maps and plans with Erwin, those sexy arms with his sleeves rolled up... But he was never close enough to acknowledge you.

It drove you insane.

Did I just ruin something good with Jean for a man who won’t even acknowledge my existence?

You refused to say it out loud—to admit it—even to yourself. But it was impossible to ignore the attraction to him. To stop the thoughts of you, paired with him. To imagine him fucking you in the captain's quarters with his tongue deep in your mouth, catching every single moan.

Ugh...What's wrong with me?!

Besides… how were you even supposed to know if he was interested when he acted like he couldn’t stand you?

The tension between you grew thicker by the day. He became more critical. More overbearing. He’d approach without warning, pointing out flaws that didn’t exist—adjusting your gear like you were a cadet fresh out of training. His fingers were quick and efficient… lingering just long enough to make you tingle, dragging over the skin above your neckline as he walked around you, tightening straps, his breath brushing softly over your shoulder...

Followed by some sharp, unnecessary correction. You always considered yourself a reasonable person, but by the time the squad's weekly sparring session had arrived, you were ready to snap.

You were paired with Sasha.

One by one, you had put down every opponent before her, but Sasha made you work for it. The two of you tangled, struggled—limbs locking, slipping, and striking—until finally, with a desperate burst of effort, you slammed her into the dirt.

Silence.

You stood over her, chest heaving, sweat dripping, and blood running from your busted nose, dripping down onto her uniform. Your hands braced against your knees. You’d been out there since early afternoon. Now the sun was beginning to set. You were exhausted. You offered her a hand, which she took, and you pulled her to her feet.

“Again.”

Levi’s voice cut through the field. A collective groan rippled through the group.

“Or you can all run,” he added flatly. The groan died instantly, and everyone began to fall back into formation, ready to pair with a new partner.

Heat prickled across your scalp, but not from exertion.

From sheer anger.

Fuck that.

“Then I guess that’s what we’re doing,” you shot back, straightening despite the way your body screamed in protest. Your hands planted firmly on your hips. “Because I’m not sparring again. Enough is enough.”

Silence pierced through the air like an arrow. Levi stopped dead in his tracks and turned slowly, his head tilted slightly, as if he couldn't believe it.

“Excuse you?” His voice was low and deadly.

You stepped forward, unrelenting.

“Excuse yourself. But before you do, how many miles do you want from me, Captain?” You gestured sharply toward the field. "We’ve been out here for hours—with no rest, and no food. I am beyond done with this shit.”

Connie choked on his water.

Armin shifted uncomfortably.

Reiner muttered something under his breath.

No one else moved. Levi’s eyes narrowed.

Then he moved. Fast—closing the distance. One second, he was across the field, and the next, he was right in front of you. Close enough that his breath stirred the loose strands of hair clinging to your face. You straightened instinctively, chest puffing—unwilling to back down.

Even as your pulse spiked.

He smelled clean.

Like tea and expensive soap.

It was distracting.

“I don’t care who you take down,” he said quietly. “If you don’t know the technique, then you’re dead weight to me.”

You scoffed.

“You're so right. I’m sure the titans are going to be real impressed by my vertical suplex.”

Your voice was sharp, your glare unwavering. You were dangerously close to putting him on his back just to prove a point. Your palms sweated as you prepared to make your move. Your heel shifted upward. A hand landed on your shoulder just as you were about to lunge, holding you firmly.

Jean stepped in.

“That’s enough, y/n. Captain, please. She's just dysregulated...tired.”

His other hand settled around your upper arm, grounding, steady. Ensuring he could pull you back if need be. You didn’t move.

Levi’s gaze flicked to him.

Then back to you.

A quiet, humorless scoff left him.

“Tch.”

His eyes dragged over you—slow, deliberate.

Judging you.

“Of course,” he muttered. “Running to her rescue.”

Jean’s jaw tightened, and he lowered his gaze.

Levi leaned in just slightly—Not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough that you felt it in your chest.

“He can't save you from me,” he said under his breath.

Your stomach dropped. Your blood was boiling hot again.

“Look at you,” he added, straightening. “Covered in sweat, acting like you’ve done something impressive.” His lip curled faintly.

“You’re filthy.”

Your body reacted before your brain could catch up.

Heat.

Sharp and sudden, it traveled directly to your core. It was an electric feeling.

You hated it. But your body loved it.

Really? He calls you filthy, and it does this to you?

You clenched your jaw at him, trying to hide the arousal in your eyes.

“Get cleaned up,” he said, voice dropping just for you. “Then come to my office.”

A moment passed. You wanted to hit him.

Kiss him.

Fuck his stupid brains out.

“I’ll deal with you there.”

He turned away like it was nothing.

“The rest of you are dismissed. Bunk inspection. 0500,” he yelled.

The formation broke quickly, murmurs spreading like wildfire.

You caught pieces—

“…she really said that to him…” “…we’re all screwed…” “…he’s gonna kill her…”

Eren stepped into your space almost immediately. “What were you thinking?” he snapped. “You can’t talk to him like that! You really think that's gonna fly?”

You shot him a look.

“That’s rich. Coming from you.”

He opened his mouth— then closed it, giving you an annoyed look before turning towards the barracks. You didn’t care. You were coming undone.

You were tired of the constant pressure. And with how infuriatingly he affected you. You hated how much you wanted him—and he hated you. That much was obvious. So why couldn’t you stop thinking about him? Why did every glance feel like something more? Why did you want him to fuck you through the wall?

You cut the thought off.

Hard.

No, no, no.

You weren’t doing that. Not here. Tensions were too high, you needed a cold shower to gather your composure and thoughts.

You’d cleaned up as best you could. The cold shower hadn't helped cool your irritated skin—or your troubled mind. The busted nose was still giving you issues, so you kept a handkerchief tucked in your pocket just in case it gushed again. Your mind raced about what to say to Levi.

He’s going to rip me apart for this.

The walk to his office felt longer than it should have. Your half-laced boots echoed against the stone, each step a reminder of just how sore you were. Your muscles were aching, shin splints throbbing, and your body was worn down to the bone.

Good.

You thought.

Let him see exactly what he’s done.

The halls were quiet at this hour; most had already turned in. Lantern light flickered along the walls, shadows stretching ahead of you.

You tried—once—to gather your thoughts. An apology or an explanation, but nothing stuck. Every time your mind circled back, it landed on the same thing—

his voice his proximity the way he looked at you

And the anger came rushing back.

Good.

You’d rather feel that than the other feelings that kept coming to the surface.

You stopped in front of his door.

For a second, you hesitated, your hand hovered.

knock. knock.

You straightened slightly, jaw crunched into a firm line, already bracing yourself for impact.

Levi

The knock came right on time.

Of course it did.

He hadn’t been looking at the clock—but he didn’t need to. Levi sat behind his desk, one hand resting loosely against the surface, the other wrapped around a cup of tea that had long since gone cold.

He hadn't noticed or cared. His eyes flicked once toward the door, then back down.

"Tch..."

He should’ve handled it out there. Shut you down in front of everyone, and ended it. But no, you just had to push. He’d let it go too far. It needed to be addressed one-on-one.

An image flashed uninvited—

You, earlier. sweat-soaked, and breathing hard, defiant looking up at him like that…

He cut the thought off immediately.

Irrelevant.

He set the cup down with a quiet click, shaking his head. He walked around the desk, propping himself up on the corner, and grabbed a sheet of paper, pretending to be observing the writing scrawled there.

“Enter.”

He kept his voice flat and controlled, not allowing any emotion underneath it. The door creaked open and you slipped in.,

For half a second, he didn’t look up, deliberately. He let you stand there, and let the silence set in steadily. He was in control here.

Not you.

Then, his gaze lifted and froze involuntarily. Because you didn’t look like you usually did. You weren't carefully composed, sharp, or even halfway prepared to defend yourself against him.

You looked—

tired.

But...disarming.

Your hair was still slightly damp and loosely combed, your shirt was thrown on without much care, and your collar was open more than enough to be noticeable. The fabric was thin and hung more softly on your frame than your uniform ever did; it looked loose and unstructured.

And underneath—

You wore nothing.

No support, and no effort to hide it. Just you.

Your posture was held together by will alone. You smelled clean. It was a faint, subtle scent—he recognized it now, a light hint of lavender. It wasn't too heavy; he could just hardly smell it as your presence filled the room, making him curious. He wished he hadn’t, because it immediately went to his groin. He wanted more of it.

He quickly composed himself.

"You’re late.”

You weren’t. But he didn’t care.

“No, I’m not.”

God he wanted to fix that mouth of yours.

“Shut the door” he demanded coolly.

You did as he said. He didn’t offer you anything. He just looked at you with a cold expression while assessing you.

“You’ve been getting careless,” he said, sitting on the edge of the desk, with his hands crossed.

Your brows pulled. “Careless?”

“You're defiant,” he corrected. “You think because you can hold your own, you get to ignore orders.”

“I didn’t ignore anything,” you shot back at him. “I defended myself, I pushed back for once because you are constantly on me, no matter how hard I try, or how well I do," you shot back, throwing your hands up at your sides.

He couldn't miss the way your breasts moved under that loose-fitted, thin shirt...He sharpened his resolve.

“You don’t push back.” He said plainly, leaning off of the edge of the desk and stepping a bit closer. “You follow orders. That’s it.”

Your jaw tensed until you felt like your teeth would crack. “Not when they don’t make a lick of sense.”

Tch.

“There it is.” His eyes narrowed slightly. “Have you even stopped to consider that titans are not our only enemies?”

That hit you; he could see it in the way that your eyebrows knitted together. There was hesitation as you swallowed hard.

“Doesn’t matter,” you said, steadier than you felt. “Not if I’m too beat down to train properly.”

Excuses, excuses.

He knew how strong you were--he needed you to be stronger. On his level. He needed you to be able to protect yourself when he couldn't be there.

And he knew for a fact 'Jean boy' couldn't keep you safe.

“Or maybe,” he said, quieter now, “you've just been too distracted lately.”

Your eyes sharpened. “By what?" You laughed at him. "If there's something you want to say, don't be coy. Just spit it out, Captain."

He didn’t answer right away, because he didn't know how to go about it. He didn't know how to pry without seeming as if he cared too much.

“You and Kirstein putting on your little show in front of everyone.”

Your expression shifted, just barely.

“You made a spectacle,” he continued. “Both of you did.”

“That’s not what that was—He was just trying to stop me from escalating the situation because you—"

“It looked like it,” he interrupted flatly. “And it’s enough to make the rest of the squad think they can fall out of line whenever they feel like it.” Silence hung in the air as he eyed you, studying your expression. You swallowed hard, and your breathing was faster.

“And whatever you think it is that you have with him… It’s going to cost you in the end. I've seen it many times. He can't keep you safe out there—he's just a distraction.”

Your eyes flashed with anger.

“You don’t have the faintest clue what you’re talking about.”

“No?”

“No,” you snapped, not even caring to explain that you had distanced yourself from Jean romantically. “I get it. You fucking hate me, Levi. You think me obnoxious and reckless, and now you're insinuating I'm a careless whore, so you know what? Just—kick me from the squad and get it over with.”

Silence fell between you.

He didn’t even know what to say.

You looked as if you would burst into tears; your watery eyes were swimming with defeat and shame.

His heart dropped at the sight of it.

He could admit he hadn’t been the warmest—hell, he never was with anyone—but he couldn’t figure out where he’d gone so wrong that you thought he felt all of that toward you…

When, in reality, he’d only ever wanted to be closer to you.

All the times he placed you near him on missions. The way he adjusted your gear without asking. He wouldn’t admit it—he had too much pride for that—but he hadn’t done any of it without reason. And he sure as hell didn’t want you walking around with the wrong idea about where you stood with him.

“Exactly." You quipped. "Nothing to say."

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” you said, your voice choking; he could tell you were on the verge of tears. “Give you something to brag about—how you finally put me in my place, kicked me back to the cadets, or had me disbarred.”

You scoffed softly, already turning away.

“I’ll save you the trouble. I’m done.” You took a breath, hoping it would stifle the tears. “I’ll transfer. Find another section—or go to the MPs. I’ll talk to Erwin in the morning.”

You swallowed hard, forcing the words out.

“I won’t be a burden to you anymore.”

Your voice cracked anyway. You turned before he could see the pain in your expression, moving for the door.

He let you take one step.

Two...

Then his hand shot out, gripping your arm firmly. Stopping you cold in your tracks.

“You’re not going anywhere.” His voice lowered. “Stop talking like that.”

You turned sharply, trying to pull free—but he didn't let you. Instead, he pulled you in closely. So close that your forearms rested on his chest, you were gazing up at him with those big, y/e/c eyes. They were swimming with tears, as if you were going to burst at the seams at any moment. Your breath hitched in your throat as you fought to hold back the raw emotion, the sadness, and the desire that were mixing and bubbling up all at once.

He had never wanted you more than right now—right in this moment.

He wanted to fuck you until you cried for completely different reasons.

His grip tightened just enough to hold you there against him; his voice was low and measured, but no longer clean. He was cracking, but he didn't even care anymore. Stubbornness be damned. And the opinions of the other people on his squad. And certainly Jean.

“He’s not the man for you—he can't protect you like..."

The words fell just short. His pride was still trying to stand in the way of his feelings for you.

Fuck, she's killing me...

His jaw tightened up, and he breathed heavily out of his nose, his grip still tight around your wrist. He brought up his other hand now, holding the opposite wrist gently. There was so much tension that he was afraid he would explode. Your eyebrows furrowed, as if you were thrown off, but you weren't pulling away. A sign that you wanted him to keep going.

“Like what?” you breathed, barely above a whisper.

His eyes locked onto yours; something in them had shifted now. They were calm and doleful, as if you were anticipating him. Hanging on his every word like a prayer.

He just had to say it.

To let go.

“He can't protect you like I will.”

The room went still. That was it. That was the line. Now there was no taking it back. Your lips parted— and that was enough of a sign for him. He closed what little distance was left between you, and kissed you.

Y/n

He kissed you.

What in the fuck...

Your mind raced. This couldn't actually be happening. His lips were soft. He smelled like Jasmine tea. Like clean linen. Just like you had imagined he would.

You were curious. How could you possibly help yourself? You moved your mouth against his, in rhythm with him. He brushed his tongue against your lips, begging to deepen the kiss.

Finally.

You were getting to taste him—to taste his tongue as it coiled with yours, exploring you deeper. He tasted so sweet, like honey. You were aching for more. His hands moved from your wrists to your waist, holding you there for a moment before turning you towards the desk. He lifted you up effortlessly as if you weighed nothing, momentarily breaking the kiss while he sat you down on the desktop.

"He can't make you feel the way I will..."

"Yeah?" you sighed, lips crashing back into his as his hands felt up the hem of your shirt, reaching underneath and caressing firmly, making sure to stop over your soft nipples and pinch slightly--teasing you.

You exhaled sharply through your teeth, the intense sensation shot straight to your womanhood, wetness began quickly pooling there. He lifted the shirt over your head entirely, taking in your bare breasts. His tongue traveled down your neck, sending shivers all over your spine and goosebumps rising over your whole body. He smirked at how easily your body reacted to him.

He moved his mouth over one of your nipples while his hand moved to the other—massaging and toying lightly with his slender, expert fingers. At the same time, his lips worked softly, pulling you into his mouth and swirling his tongue around the soft bud, which was already tightening under his touch. Soft whimpers left your lips shamelessly. Levi's pants were stretching tightly around his waist as your moans brought him closer to his full length.

"He can't make you moan like this either..."

He continued the assault with his tongue, sliding his hand lower, tracing down your defined stomach all the way to your center, where you wanted him to caress most of all. His hand slid shamelessly into your loose-fitted pants; you hadn't bothered to completely button them. His fingers hooked into your panties, sliding them gently from out of his way.

He softly fingered your pussy, his digits sliding in and out slowly with ease. You couldn't help it now—you moaned loudly, helpless against his brutal assault as he quickened his pace, using his middle and ring fingers, curling them upwards inside of you, hooking into that most sensitive spot, drawing loud noises from deep inside of your throat.

"He definitely can't make you this wet...can he?” He paused slightly, his voice dropping low, dripping with malice, only for a split second—

“Has he…?”

You didn't answer—partially because you couldn't find a break in the pleasure long enough to breathe—your eyes were screwed shut, and your head thrown back, fighting not to get too turned on too quickly.

Too late…

You also didn’t answer partly because you didn't know what Jean was capable of. You hadn't had the chance to tell Levi that Jean had never done anything more than kiss or grope you.

"Answer me," he demanded, pushing his fingers deeper and circling them inside of you, bringing you back to reality—here with him, his fingers stuffed deep inside of your pussy, causing you to shudder.

You moaned helplessly.

"N--no.." you offered. “He never touched me…”

You were shocked at his forwardness, it was amusing to you. “Why, are you jealous?” You teased.

He pulled away from you slightly to look at your face—his eyes were dark.

“Jealous…” he repeated, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

“Do I need to be jealous…?”

His hand slipped away from between your thighs, slowly—only to bring his fingers up to your mouth.

You barely had time to breathe before he pressed them past your lips. You didn’t hesitate. Your tongue curled around them instinctively, tasting yourself, your eyes fluttering as you sucked them clean—soft, and needy. His gaze darkened at the sight. He exhaled quietly through his nose, something almost amused flickering beneath the surface of his gaze.

“…when I can do that to you?”

He didn’t give you the chance to answer—his hand coming up to tilt your chin as he took your mouth again, slowly consuming you. Your arousal still lingered on your lips as he swirled his tongue, mixing with his own unique, sweet taste…It was dizzying and intoxicating. He suddenly pulled back, leaving you yearning, and looked at you.

And just…looked at you

Really looked.

His gaze dragged over your body slowly, deliberately, like he was saving the moment in his memory for later use. It made your stomach tighten. You watched him in return, your pulse hammering as he pushed his pants down his hips, never breaking eye contact. The outline beneath the fabric alone made your heart beat faster.

You weren’t inexperienced—but it had been years.

Then he finished stripping. Your eyes widened before you could stop them.

…Fuck.

He was bigger than you expected. A lot bigger.

Your breath shook, chest rising a little too fast as you stared. Of course he noticed, he seemed to notice everything about you.

Levi’s mouth tilted—just slightly into a small smile.

“Tch,” he muttered, acting unimpressed by your reaction on the surface… but his eyes gave him away, they were brimming with satisfaction and pride. A faint smirk tugged at his mouth.

“Scared of it?”

His voice dropped, quieter now as he closed the distance between you.

“…Relax.” He paused for a moment, nestling between your thighs as your knuckles gripped the desk, you shifted your weight, knocking a pen that rolled onto the floor as you made room for him between your thighs.

“I won’t break you.” He brushed your lip carefully, ever so gently—as if he wanted to comfort you.

His length brushed along the inside of your thighs as he kissed you one last time. When he pulled back, his gaze dipped, his hand wrapping around himself, giving a few slow strokes before guiding himself into place.

Then his eyes lifted to yours, locked in.

He dragged the tip along your labia—slowly teasing—up and down your slick heat, watching the way your breath caught sharply, the way your body reacted to every movement. He was testing you. He was enjoying how easily he could unravel you. He didn’t look away, not for a second.

“Levi…” you gasped, grabbing his strong arm, and looking in his eyes. “It’s been a long time…”

His eyes didn’t waver.

“I can tell.”

He brushed your bottom lip softly with his thumb.

“Breathe.” He whispered.

You took a sharp breath inward...

Then—slowly—he pushed into you.

You gasped, your hand flying up to grip his shoulder, fingers tightening as your head tipped back. A shudder ran through you at the almost unbearable stretch, your breath shifted hard, and your head lulled back as he filled that space inch by inch.

His lips found your neck, hot and sloppy—unlike the Levi you knew previously who was precise and neat—a low groan rumbled against your skin as he pressed closer—until there was nowhere left to go.

The feeling hit all at once—so intense and raw.

“…fuck,” you whimpered, barely holding onto the word as you screwed your eyes shut.

“That’s excessive…” you laughed breathily, like it personally offended you.

Levi pulled back just enough to look at you, one hand sliding firm around your lower back, dragging you flush against him again—holding you there, making sure you felt every inch of him, every second of it.

“Your body says otherwise… you’re not exactly pushing me away…quite the opposite."

Heat rushed to your face—he was right. Your body betrayed you, your pussy was tightening around him without mercy. That sharp, pulsing ache settled deep as he touched your cervix.

You moaned deeply.

“I guess that means you like it?” he murmured, voice low—too calm for what he was doing to you.

“You have no idea…” you breathed.

He didn’t say anything further, just started moving.

Slow at first, allowing you to adjust to his impossible size. Each motion was calculated, like he was testing how much you could take before you broke. You felt every shift, and every pull, your grip tightened on him as your body reacted without permission.

A soft sound slipped from your lips when he pulled back.

Another when he pressed forward again.

Then he found a rhythm.

Which was relentless.

The desk trembled beneath you with the force of it, his breathing growing heavier. His gaze locked onto yours, sharply, holding you there so you didn’t have the option to look away.

And when his hands shifted—spreading your legs wider, and pulling you closer, you thought you would fall completely back onto the desk.

He was most intentional, as if he had already decided exactly how this would go down. You chuckled as he fucked you senseless. His hand quickly shot up in response, gripping your chin.

“Something amusing here?” He grunted, his voice a deep warning. He wouldn’t be taken lightly.

“Already had this figured out, didn’t you?” you murmured, eyes flicking up to his. “Been planning it? Exactly how and where you were going to fuck me?"

His next movement was swift as he hauled you across the room and dropped you onto the love seat tucked in the corner. You fell back, instinctively drawing your knees together, arms crossing over your chest—but that smirk was still there as you looked up at him. He towered over you, one hand braced on either side, caging you in—his presence was consuming and overwhelming in the best way.

“You’re exactly right,” he said quietly.

His voice was calm.

“And the next thing I had planned…” he continued, leaning in slightly, eyes dark, “is to make you cum right here on this love seat.”

Your breath hitched

"Uncover yourself.” he commanded, low and controlled, planting a small kiss on your bent knee. “Don’t hide from me.”

A pause.

His hands slid to your knees.

“Open your legs..." He said sharply, pushing them apart with steady, unhurried pressure, "And don’t close them again until I’m finished.”

His gaze locked onto yours.

“Understood?”

There was no room to argue, so you simply swallowed hard and nodded.

"Good...Just like that."

He settled between your legs, weight pressing you back into the cushions, his presence heavy. He entered you again and immediately started fucking you wildly. You moaned—long and languid as he hit the right spot with every single thrust.

He slid one hand between you, finding your clit as he drove you into the cushions. Your legs hung helplessly at his hips as his fingers moved in slow circles. You could feel yourself getting close—a sensation no one had pulled from you in years. Something you had only ever given yourself for so long.

And now here you were.

Letting him force it out of you.

“Levi… I—I think I’m about to—” your words came out broken, your voice pitching higher with each violent thrust. You could barely keep up with the feeling building inside you as he kept that same relentless pace.

“I know…” he breathed, voice rougher now, his control slipping away from him. “Do it now… fuck…” he muttered under his breath. His grip tightened slightly, holding you there while he pounded mercilessly into you.

And you did just that, as if he controlled your body— commanding it to do exactly as he willed it to. You quivered around him, nails digging into the small of his back as you rode out waves of pleasure. Each stroke started back up the orgasm all over again. The only thing you wanted him to do was fuck you as hard as he possibly could—

You must have said so out loud because his thrusts became intolerable, he rutted inside of you violently as he cussed and groaned under his breath.

Then the heat faded, leaving you with a raw, satisfied feeling. You zoned out as your high faded—you floated away in your mind, eyes clamped shut tightly.

He said something you didn’t catch, until he grabbed you by the hips and flipped you over onto your belly—jolting you back to reality again. He dragged your hips up towards his pelvis, bringing you to your knees, and pushing your head downward into the cushion.

“Do what I say when I say it…” he warned. “We’re not finished just because you are.” He bit, gathering your hair into one hand before driving back inside of you.

You yelped.

Your aching core was so sensitive you didn’t know how much more you could possibly stand to take. You babbled and whimpered as he used you—taking every single wave. His name left your lips over and over, as if it were the only thing left that you could possibly remember how to say.

“That’s right…not Jean, not anyone else. Just me…Now keep saying it…”

His hips began to stutter, his breathing was turning uneven. He was losing that perfect control he always carried.

He was so close.

“Levi… It’s all yours…” your voice broke, tears threatening to spill as everything overwhelmed you at once. He gripped your hair at the nape of your neck, pulling you up—firm but not rough this time—guiding you onto your palms, and pressing you firmly into that position. Your body trembled, and your back arched deeply, completely spent. Any rational thought left was slipping through your fingers. Emotion was taking over. And maybe that was why it came out so easily.

“I’ve thought about you every day… for months…” you panted.

You felt him shift closer, his breath hot against your ear.

“That right…?” he murmured—low and dangerous, but quieter than before.

“Yes!” you cried, tears spilling freely now. “I’ve always felt this way about you… There’s no one else for me… It’s only you.”

Your words broke apart as you spoke them, emotion finally spilling over as your body followed right behind, once again letting go around him. The tears fell freely, soaking into the couch beneath you as he drove into you unforgiving, like he was trying to force something out of himself just as much as he was forcing it out of you.

“…Don’t say things like that unless you mean them,” he muttered, voice rougher than before, control slipping. “… I’m not letting you take it back.”

“I never want to take it back…I only want you…fuck—please!”

Your voice—spent and needy— sent him over the edge. You could feel him pulsing inside of you as he filled you completely with cum in hot bursts. He wrapped his arm around your chest, holding you to him as he came inside, planting soft kisses on your shoulders and panting softly into your neck.

He slowly eased out, watching his seed drop from your swollen pussy—something that belonged only to him now. Your legs were shaking, and your hair was falling along your back and shoulders.

You slumped onto your side, body still trembling, as he pulled away and stood. He moved quickly, scanning the room before grabbing something to clean you with.

“Uhh… this’ll have to do for now.” He handed you a small towelette. “Clean up. Then get dressed.”

You frowned immediately, your brows knitting together.

“Oh… alright then…” you trailed off, your heart sinking as you instinctively covered yourself, suddenly aware of how exposed you were.

Maybe that was all this had been.

A plan,

Then a moment.

And now, he would be done with you.

“Tch… don’t look so upset.” His voice cut directly through your thoughts. “You don’t plan on walking to my bedroom like that, do you?”

You blinked, the tension in your chest eased up just slightly.

“Oh… okay…” You let out a small breath, something like a quiet, relieved laugh slipping out. He clicked his tongue softly, like your reaction annoyed him more than anything else. "For a second I thought—"

"I’m not that kind of man,” he said flatly, cutting you off before you could finish. “Don’t start making assumptions.”

His gaze flicked over you briefly, taking in your naked body, as if he was satisfied with his hard work.

“I’m not going anywhere…so get used to it." He said, pulling on his clothes. "You’re sleeping in my bed tonight.”

You caught traces of a faint smile on his lips as he finished dressing, and though you knew he’d never admit it, you could tell he was smugly happy that he got his way.

He made it a point to not interact with you outside of training, missions, or briefings. Nonetheless, that didn’t mean he didn’t feed into his curiosity. As subtly as he could. 

He watched you a lot. Enough to know that you were always late for breakfast, trained yourself to the bones even on your off days, volunteered to help around with anything you could, and were particularly good at mending clothes. He knew you liked eating with Hange almost every night, and it was the part of your day he enjoyed the most. On each of those nights he followed the two of you into the mess hall, sitting far enough that Hange wouldn’t get the idea of asking him to join, but still giving himself the appropriate distance to observe you. To commit to memory every little detail he could, how you ate, how you sat, what you talked about, if your nose also scrunched up at the disgusting taste of the tea everyone but him was subjected to; any information he could gather before the sound of your laugh warmed his chest enough to make him leave.

Truthfully, he could have kept that stalker-ish routine going for ages, and he fully intended to; being able to keep his distance while still getting the smallest doses of you seemed like an ideal arrangement in his mind.

It wasn’t until one damning night that he decided this restrictive mindset had to change. He saw you walking with another recruit, late, and alone. He couldn’t properly hear whatever wildly amusing conversation you were having from where he stood; regardless of that, he could still clearly make out the faint sound of your laugh accompanying it. 

The small scene was enough to break him from his ridiculous self-imposed prison. Levi didn’t want to allow himself to indulge in his desires for you. He didn’t feel he deserved to be with you in any capacity further than working alongside each other. Despite that, the idea that someone else could come in and take from him the possibility of a chance with you was much more mortifying than his own insecurities and concerns.

From that alone, he made the decision to allow himself a sliver of your time. And so, the very next day you were graced with your first private conversation with the captain, if you could even call it that.

He approached you after you were done with training, standing against a wooden beam trying to steady your breathing, hair messy, and sweat coating your forehead. 

“Your stance was horrible today.” The abruptness of his presence and his comment caught you off guard.

“What?” You looked at him with a puzzled look, processing whether he was actually addressing you or not.

“During training. You were terrible.” He explained, his tone maintaining its harshness despite your confusion.

“Oh. Yeah, I guess so, I’m out of my element today.” You explained plainly, a half-smile tugging on your lips both at the bluntness, and the fact this was probably the first time he came up to you alone.

“And yesterday as well.” 

“Right.”

“You’re not sleeping well.” More of a statement than a question, the dark circles you've been sporting this week probably gave it away.

“I've been having a hard time with it, yes.”

He gave you a firm nod, pursing his lips together in thought. 

“I’ll come find you tonight, I have a tea for that.” He turned around the moment he finished without a second look, not giving you an actual chance to accept or refuse.

Since then, the two of you started a small routine. He’d look for you after dinner and guide you on a brief walk to the top floor of the main building. A teapot and two cups already placed on the window ledge in the back of the room, with a singular candle lit close by; he hoped that the minimal amount of light would make his intense gaze less noticeable. 

It was supposed to last only for however long you were struggling to sleep but continued far past those days. Most times he wouldn’t talk, only listened; he’d let you rattle on about the day if you pleased, indulging you by participating in idle gossip.

“I can reprimand them for that. I trust you’re aware.” He’d slip in when you shared a little too much about the escapades of some recruits, forgetting for a moment he had recently become your superior. 

“Well, this is all alleged. Maybe I didn’t hear it right. This tea is great by the way; is it a different kind?" A blush creeping up your cheeks while you attempted to change the subject, looking at him with a sheepish smile that begged him to forget your prior information.

It took a few weeks, but he started contributing with topics of his own little by little. An opinion, a small anecdote, a complaint. Slowly chipping away at the facade of mystery and harshness that used to be all you got from him before. A part of Levi worried that the more you learnt about him, the less interested you’ll be, but the enjoyment he got from your small interactions vastly outweighed that concern.

A year into meeting you, Levi had grown accustomed to having you near him, even if for brief moments. He enjoyed your company and physically couldn't continue hiding it from you. He still kept enough distance to make his ever-growing feelings unknown to everyone else, and didn’t properly confess anything to you, but his advances grew slightly bolder. 

Your nightly routine changed a lot from how it originally started. Moving from ten minutes of sipping tea in a semipublic space to secluded meetings in the dead of night. Going as far as sneaking you in his private quarters when he came back from travels you were not part of. 

Being away from you became the key that pushed your connection forward. Every time he came back, he wanted to have you around for the night, and he needed the certainty that you wouldn’t be interrupted; the reassurance of it enabled him to make these encounters last for hours.

He sat in a wooden chair next to his desk, beckoning you closer with a simple command. “Show me what happened.”

“You can’t see the bruise with my uniform on.” You argued with a stifled laugh; you had complained to him about a minor injury you sustained recently, something insignificant that happened while he was gone.

“Then change.”

You stared at him bewildered.

“Do I have to do it for you?” His stern tone didn’t falter; it would’ve seemed like an order more than playful teasing, if it wasn’t for how relaxed he looked.

“You returned as tactful as ever, I see.” You laughed, amused at his actions. You made your way to the bedroom, missing the smirk on his face.

You returned to the room in a thin nightgown that made Levi tense at the sight, hands tucking into fists on his lap before relaxing again. His hand sprawled on the back of your right thigh without question once you stood in front of him, pulling it closer to properly view the wide bruise on the outer side of it; purplish hues going from your mid-thigh to the bottom of your glute. 

“This is nothing to you?” It came out softer than he intended. Thinking of you being hurt when he wasn’t around, no matter how little, lowered his guard. 

“It looks worse than it is.”

His hand carefully grazed the bruise, hiking up the edge of your gown in the process. You shivered at the touch. Goosebumps covered your skin, and it did not go unnoticed by him. “Does it hurt?”

“No. I think this helps.” You humored, not bothering to hide your enjoyment of his treatment. 

“I’m sure it does, brat.” He smiled, small, but enough for you to notice. His hand still caressing your leg despite his response.

It took Levi five years to make his feelings for you properly known. But it’s not like you, or others, hadn’t suspected them before that. Despite keeping the matter private, much like most things about him, sometimes he struggled to adequately hide that he had a soft spot for you.

He never outright said he cared about you, never properly held you, but all the things he did do, they proved to be more intimate and sweeter than any regular courting could ever be.

For your first birthday after joining the Corps he went out of his way to gift you a treat from a bakery in your home district. It became a tradition that he fulfilled every year since; he’d go as far as getting it for you in advance if an expedition took place around the date, just in case one of you didn't make it back after.

In your second year, after an expedition where two members of your graduating class were tragically lost, he sneaked you into his quarters every night for a week—Both Erwin and Hange knew but they didn’t say word of it—he’d lay you down next to him, let you cry out your grieve for as long as you needed to, and patiently waited until you grew tired enough to sleep to get some shut-eye of his own.

“I’ll never get used to it, will I?” Your voice was barely above a whisper. 

“No.” While your eyes were glued to the ceiling, Levi’s gaze was fixed on you. His expression was unreadable as usual, but he was completely tormented, wishing he could take this hurt away from you.

“Am I being weak?”

“You’re being human.”

“That’s a yes.” You smiled, attempting to joke, yet the humor in your voice didn’t reach your eyes. Tears fell down in a stream, and Levi had to try his hardest not to reach out and wipe them off your cheeks. “I just—” Your voice broke. To him, the sound evoked a feeling adjacent to being stabbed. “I feel I should be stronger than this. I shouldn’t be surprised over what I signed up for.”

“You’re not surprised; you’re hurt.” Levi chastised, shifting his position to look at you properly. “You did your job, you don’t have to be strong now. Now stop this nonsense of acting like it's shameful to grieve. At least don't do it with me.” 

You didn’t say anything—instead looking back at the ceiling while your hand found his arm, curling up to his side when the tears started burning your eyes once again.

He didn’t try to hold you, but he didn’t pull away. Even after you fell asleep. 

In your third year, when Erwin told him he’d be pulling you out of his team to make you a squad leader, he became sick almost immediately. The notion that you would no longer be under his supervision, that even if you went on the same expeditions as he did, he’d have to wait until the very end before he could know if you were still alive. It circled his head all morning and gave him a headache so outstanding he had to dismiss himself from training that afternoon. 

“What do you think?” Erwin ended the silence that persisted since he broke the news. 

Levi stared absentmindedly. “I think she’ll be a fantastic leader.”

“Is that it?”

“Are you asking for my permission?”

“No, I simply respect you enough to ask for your opinion.” 

“Unless you’re willing to put my preferences above what’s best for humanity, don't ask for my opinion on what you should do with her.”

“Because your preference would be to retire her immediately?” Erwin prodded, with no real expectation for Levi to speak up. It wasn’t the first time he brought you up, and it wouldn’t be the last if Levi kept refusing to trust him with this information. “You don’t have to answer that. I understand you want to avoid telling me what I already know.”

Following your change in rank, the order of retreating met Levi with a wave of asphyxiating dread rather than relief, one that didn’t dissipate until he was able to spot you on your horse, still breathing and in one piece. These concerns were never brought up to you or anyone else for that matter—despite Erwin being aware and willing to speak with him about it if he could just be honest—even if his fear of losing you and not being able to do anything about it grew stronger with every expedition, he kept his worries regarding your well-being private. You always returned; he had no reason to discuss anything he felt. If you were alive and well, he’d be able to mask his love for you for a while longer.

It wasn’t until your fifth year as a member of the Survey Corps when his ‘while longer’ ended. When he had to come to terms with his fears, and his feelings.

He kept his composure as best as he could while going through the list of those dead and missing with Erwin, while watching other scouts load bodies into carriages, though he’s sure it did not go unnoticed how tightly he was gripping his gear while he waited for every name to be read. Even then, after all bodies were loaded, the trek to the walls started, and confirmation that you were not one of those lost received; his heartbeat did not return to a healthy rhythm. He needed to see you.

This was the most stressed he ever felt trying to find you after an expedition. Deep down, he could feel something about today was different, as if you not being okay was something he could physically feel. And it didn’t help the fact that it took him so long to spot you; carriages and horses already on the move to safety without him being able to catch a single glimpse of you. 

Every second that passed he could feel his body tense further, cold sweat reaching his palms, a knot tight in his throat that only got tighter the moment he saw you. That sickening feeling of dread he thought he had grown used to crashed down on him and threatened to finish him right then and there. He spotted you being carried by Miche when he made it past the wall. Your body limp in his hold, your inability to even keep your head up made Levi assume the worst and had him rush in your direction before he even realized it.

He got off the horse calm and collected, as if his heart wasn’t threatening to rip itself out of his chest. His relief upon seeing you were still breathing was immediate, yet short-lived as he paid more attention to your injuries. Your left thigh and arm were bandaged. There was blood all over you, dripping from your nose, your mouth, and the seams of the binds on your wounded limbs; you must’ve been hurt close before the order to retreat was given.

It made him sick and brought a vile sting to his eyes, a sensation he had long forgotten.

“She’s okay.” Miche assured him, smiling lightly at how Levi was frowning at you as though telepathically reprimanding you for getting to this state. “Nothing’s broken, but she’s weak. She couldn’t keep riding.”

Levi nodded firmly, not trusting himself to speak right away. He reached under your body, taking you in his arms with little protest from the other man. “I’ll take her. I don’t want her in a carriage.”

“She’d be laying down.” Miche pointed out yet still took a step back once Levi had a solid hold on you, not really wanting to interfere. 

“She’d be alone.” 

Miche nodded, holding back his reaction at what the captain was displaying, and promptly retreating to his horse; more than ready to get back and tell Erwin about this little interaction. 

You were conscious enough to hear the conversation, although far too drained to register the worry behind Levi’s tone let alone comment on it. You had half a mind to realize he carried you back to his horse, helping you on it before getting behind you. He took a hold of the handle and took off in a slow ride, while his left arm went around your waist, keeping you tucked back against him.

One of your hands went to his forearm, giving it a small squeeze to show your acknowledgement before relaxing again.

“Are you okay?” He questioned quietly. As if anyone would be able to hear him past the sound of hooves against the ground and the many murmurs of all civilians watching them pass by. 

You turned your head enough to look at him out of the corner of your eye. The concern written all over his face almost made you forget the waves of pain crashing through you. You nodded, small, before letting the back of your head rest on his shoulder; the tiny action having wasted the remainder of your energy.

“Liar.” He murmured against your hair, the touch of his lips against your scalp so fleeting you could only assume you imagined it. 

That night Levi had been more consumed in his own thoughts than he would have appreciated. You were out most of the ride back to the base; the only thing keeping you upright was his firm hold on you that didn’t falter once. He spent that time wondering what happened, how did you injure yourself, did somebody help you, did you have to drag yourself all the way to your horse and pretend you didn’t feel so bad until it was inevitable?

He imagined every single heartbreaking scenario his brain could come up with, images of you crying out while you bled in the woods flashed through his mind, torturing himself with the idea that maybe you had been near him, maybe you even called out for him and he didn’t hear it, trying to find ways to blame himself for your poor state.

He woke you gently once you made it to the base, helping you off the horse and onto your feet, guiding you to wrap an arm over his shoulder to steady yourself when you were unable to suppress your limping. Everything was a blur for you, every step you took forgotten when the next one happened. You could remember briefly smiling at Hange when she approached the two of you, catching some of their conversation, and Levi whisking you away promptly after.

“You really busted yourself out there.” You chuckled at her comment and winced immediately after, a stabbing pain reaching your ribs, the mixed noise making her laugh. “You’re okay?”

You nodded, not getting the time to answer before Levi interjected. “She is.” He stated, adjusting his grasp on your hip when you clutched your side.

“Okay, I’ll get one of the scouts to take her to the infirmary. Erwin wants to talk to us.” 

“No.” Levi spoke up before Hange could even attempt turning on her heel. “I will take care of it, and I’ll go to his office after. Tell him I’ll only be a moment.” He kept walking without another word, not giving her any time to make a comment on his behavior.

He took you to his quarters, helping you out of your stained cloak and muddied boots before starting to undo the soaked bandages on your limbs. He seemed unaffected by the sight he was met with, the gashes and lacerations covered in dried blood were nothing he hadn’t seen before; but the fact that they were on your body, it brought a shake to his hands he was completely unfamiliar with and he thanked the heavens you were too busy scrunching your eyes together at the stinging feel of him cleaning the open wounds to notice it.

You don’t know if you talked, if he asked you anything, you don’t think so. The only thing you committed to memory was the feel of hardened hands touching you in the softest ways imaginable, guiding you to his bed when he was done and easing you into laying down. He caressed your face before he moved away; the way he looked at you carried a mixture of longing and restraint. 

He left promptly after, knowing that if you said anything, if you made even the slightest sound, he’d discard his meeting altogether to lay next to you. 

Levi came back less than an hour after with a thick bag under his arm, having raided your room before coming for anything you might need. He was being exceedingly obvious today; he knew more than well his friends no longer needed a heartfelt confession to know exactly why he had been so special to you in the past five years with how he's behaved, but for once he couldn’t care less about that matter. 

He found you just as he had left you, now asleep with your mouth slightly agape. Your messy hair tussled all around was the only indication that you moved while he was gone. He pulled a chair next to the bed, not wanting to risk waking you up; ready to patiently wait until he could get you out of your filthy, blood-stained uniform. Your change of clothes and a clean set of sheets awaiting next to him already.

He doesn’t know how long you were asleep for, but it continued through enough hours for him to follow suit at some point.

He vaulted out of the chair when you woke up with a loud cry; the sound was completely gut-wrenching. 

“What happened? What’s wrong?!” He grabbed you by the shoulders with a desperate pull, his eyes searching for yours. The sting of tears threatening to break free he felt earlier returned with a vengeance when you coughed up blood, tears streaming down your face. 

“Talk to me, angel. Please.” He begged, hands reaching for your face, wiping your tears. You didn’t speak, didn’t explain what was ailing you, instead your cries became louder, deafening. 

Levi could feel his heartbeat hammering in his chest, and before he could do anything, more blood came out of your mouth, then your nose, then from your wounds, white bandages drowned in the crimson red liquid. He couldn’t find the words; he didn’t even know what to do. He frantically moved around the room, searching for anything to wipe the blood with, to apply pressure and stop this someway.

Before he knew it, his own eyes were welled up with tears as he desperately tried to stop you from bleeding out, the sound of your crying overwhelming him completely. 

“You’re going to be okay. You’re okay.” He repeated like a mantra, the room spinning around him when he looked at the pool of blood under you. He wiped his tears with his forearm. His heartbeat grew louder, and the sound of it seemed to echo through the room.

You wouldn’t stop crying, and God, you wouldn’t stop bleeding, it was futile to try. Your hands went to his shoulders, bringing him closer to you while you sobbed hysterically. 

“I’m sorry. I don’t know what to do.” He wrapped his arms around you tightly, crying onto your hair, hopelessly clinging to you. “I can’t do anything. Please forgive me, angel. Please.” He wept, his grip tightening the quieter your cries became; your energy depleted the longer you kept bleeding. 

“Don’t leave me.” It became uncontrollable; he felt completely out of himself, the sound of his thunderous heartbeat, the feel of your blood on his hands, the pain in his chest crushing him further and further. “Please don’t leave me.”

“Levi?... Levi.” He woke up with a jolt to see you standing above him, mind completely fogged by the images his brain came up with. His eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness of the room, looking around the now empty bed then back to your fragile frame. 

The glow of the moon coming from the window was the only source of light, but it was enough to see you properly; not in tears, and not bleeding out. Instead, you were looking at him with a confused gaze, an arm cradling your midsection as you tried your best to stand upright.

“Are you okay? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“I’m—” He closed his mouth before continuing, rubbing his eyes before he looked at you again, a slight wet feeling coating his fingertips—was he crying?—it was just a dream. “Don’t worry. Is something wrong?” 

“I wanted to get out of all this blood and stuff. But I could barely make it a few steps past the bed.”

He hummed, burying his face in his hands for a moment, trying to regain his composure. “I’ll help you.” His eyes found you again, narrowed. Going over every inch of your body to make sure nothing was out of the ordinary, to prove to himself that you wouldn’t randomly start bleeding out in front of him. He debated telling you about his dream, telling you about how worried he was earlier and how the stress of his concerns was swallowing him whole right now, but that would mean delving into a conversation he’s unsure he’d be good at. Maybe he’ll need to practice it.

He walked you to the bathroom, arm stretched out for you to hold onto through every step. “You look terrible.” He murmured, helping you stand in front of the small tub. 

“Aren’t you sweet.” You laughed dryly, slowly loosening your grip on his forearm to let him stand back.

You and Levi stared at each other willfully, both waiting for the other to take the next step. 

“Can you do it alone?” He asked while reaching for the top button of your shirt, undoing it slowly before you could even reply, groggy and restless voice adding something new to his usual stoic tone. 

You wanted to object, tell him he didn’t need to continue. But you were sure you’d end up falling face first on the floor at some point if he wasn’t holding onto you. “Maybe I could.”

“Sure.” He muttered, gaze focused on where his hands undid the rest of your shirt, a deep frown covering his features at the side of fresh red bruises covering your left side. 

He carefully undid the bandages on your arm to slowly slide off the shirt. You didn’t care to watch his movements; you couldn’t look away from his face, how concentrated he was, how troubled he seemed over your wounds. It made you smile, both that and the pink tint of his cheeks when he exposed you further. 

If you knew him less, you would’ve asked him to kiss you right then and there, but by now you knew well his only answer to that would be questioning if you were concussed.

Levi also kept himself from speaking. Too focused on the crushing weight in his heart over the sight of your bruised and battered frame that grew more draining the more of your clothes he got rid off. 

His mind also trotted over the idea of kissing you. He thought about it every single day, but now more than ever he wished he had done so before. That way he could pepper every single inch of your body with small soothing kisses now and it wouldn’t be strange, there wouldn’t be a possibility of you freaking out, because by now you would’ve been used to his affections. 

If only he had been braver about it before. 

He desperately wished to hold you tenderly in his arms, to caress your skin and kiss you senselessly, trusting that every bit of his devotion would help you forget about the pain you must be feeling.

“What happened?” He helped you stand above the drain, squeezing your hand before letting you stand on your own. He soaked a cloth before he started carefully scrubbing your arms, trying his best to not pressure the slash on your left arm into bleeding again.

“It was my stupidity. One of my scouts was kicked off his horse, and a titan was going to grab him, and I— It was impulsive. I threw myself at them and I didn’t realize another titan was coming. It was a big mess and I wasn’t thinking clearly.” You yawned between your sentences, watching him with tired eyes, following his hands whenever he bent to dampen the cloth and settling back on his face when he returned; his eyebrows furrowed at your anecdote. “I couldn’t tell you exactly what happened, I just know I flew through more trees than I would like, and when I finally got my cables to stick to something I was hanging two inches from the floor and looked like this.”

Levi stayed silent for a moment, trying to picture the situation, as if that helped him in any way. “How did you get on your horse?” 

“Miche found me. I would have only been able to drag myself until I found someone. It’s hard to lift this leg.” His grip on your waist tightened at the notion, his eyes now meeting yours to avoid staring at where he scrubbed on your chest, ever-present frown adorning his features.

Levi saw the images of your explanation vividly in his mind; he could clearly see you dragging yourself out of the woods in fear that you wouldn’t make it, as if it actually happened, as if he had been present. It was completely nauseating. “I’m sorry.” His hands stopped, both settled firmly on your hips, indifferent to his proximity and your bare skin.

“For what?”

“I could’ve been there.” 

One of your hands reached his bicep, tentatively caressing him. “Don’t do that.”

He pursed his lips together; he knew it was ridiculous to upset himself over something he had no control over, and yet he couldn’t stop. He stayed silent, instead opting to watch you get closer, your hands rubbing up and down his arms to ease him. The delicate body he’s grown to yearn for standing less than an inch away from him, laid bare for his eyes only.

“I’m supposed to be taking care of you.” He murmured, tense muscles taut under your touch as it rose up to his shoulders then back down to the front of his chest. 

“I know, but you seem to be more troubled than I am. I may need help getting up, but you’re looking at me like I’m dying.”

“I don’t know what to do with myself.” Levi let himself get closer, his hands hesitantly moving to your back. “Seeing you like this.”

“I’ve been hurt before.” Your tone was confused, and he hated that it urged him to continue.

“Not like this. Not when I’m not around.”

“I thought you didn’t care if I was not by your side.”

“I lied.”

You couldn’t help the weak laugh that left your lips, looking away from him as you tried to retrieve your composure. 

“Are my worries amusing to you?” His gaze narrowed, not in his usual scowl—in dismay.

You shook your head, a hand coming up to caress his face, looking at him with nothing but utter reverence. “I’m more than appreciative of your worries. But I do find it humorous that I have to come back like this for you to say these things.” 

The time seemed to stand still between you. Patient, as always, you waited; letting him find the words he’s been struggling to muster. He hated how difficult this was; to expose feelings he has been certain of for years. “Sit, we need to wash your hair.”

You sighed, hands dropping from him with a small nod. He helped you sit in the middle of the tub, kneeling down on the floor next to you, holding onto a small water pitcher with trembling hands. 

You closed your eyes at the feeling of water slowly dripping onto your scalp, finally relishing in a soothing feeling. “Don’t look at me when I say this." His voice was low, unusually unsteady, despite being completely certain of his words. "I’m terrified of losing you.”

Your lips pursed together, trying your best to keep yourself from turning your head; wanting to indulge him if it meant being able to hear what he had to confess. “Why is that?” You asked quietly, eyes stuck to the water falling from your shoulders, bloody and muddy dark streaks slowly disappearing, becoming clearer the more his fingers helped brush water through the thick locks of hair.

Silence lingered for a moment. The only sound being the slow rush of water, and Levi’s deep breaths. He could do this, if there’s someone he could say anything to, it was you. So why did his chest ache this much?

“I’ve belonged to you from the moment I met you.” Levi’s voice came out ragged, broken. His hands softly brushed through your hair, moving back the strands that fell on your face. He cleared his throat, trying to regain some semblance of control. “And I don’t know what will be of me if the one reason I hold any hope for the future is no longer with me.”

You couldn’t help meeting his gaze, lips parting and closing with suppressed praises. To hear something that gentle, romantic, out of the very lips you’ve wished had graced yours long before today; it could’ve been enough to push you through every day of your life from now on. 

Levi watched you uneasy, his throat running dry, unsure of what he was even waiting for. “Please say something.”

The way you were looking at him was his undoing, a softness he did not deserve, and that he could only ever receive from you. 

Words evaded you completely, too stuck on repeating that sweet confession over and over again in your head. Instead of coming up with some clever poetry of your equal feelings, you did the one thing you knew no amount of prodding would make him do. 

Your hands slowly reached for him, cupping his face to bring him closer to you. And you waited, for a moment; not wanting to miss how he relaxed, how he gave in. Only then did your lips meet his with a tenderness that made Levi’s stomach flutter. 

One of his hands went to the back of your neck, long fingers twisting into your hair, keeping your lips flush against his while he inched closer to you. His free hand gripped the back edge of the tub, his body looming above yours, completely trapping you under him. 

The kiss was searing and all consuming. As if you were trying to pour into him every unsaid word; as if Levi was trying to make up for every single moment he wished your lips had been on his since he met you. It grew desperate within seconds, teeth clashing and noses bumping while both of you tried to absorb each other’s oxygen. It’s only when you tried to wrap your arms around his neck to drag him down did you break away, wincing at the sting from a gash on your bicep.

“I’m sorry.” Levi’s voice was breathless, a small whisper followed by him pulling back, softened gaze raking over you to make sure he didn’t hurt you. 

“It’s my fault, I should’ve waited until we were laying down.” You quipped, instinctively reaching out for his arm to keep him somewhat close. 

He laughed, openly, warm. “That might’ve ended worse.”

A comfortable silence fell in the room after your chuckles died down. Both staring at each other with the sweetness of two madly in love idiots. All flushed lips, red cheeks, and stupid smiles.

lil bonus

—

“And then what happened?” Erwin asked while flipping through pages of planning, the words he had written already mixing together from how long he had been staring at them, and how late it already was.

Miche stood by the window, looking out to the empty grounds below them. “I told him she’d be lying down in the carriage, probably more comfortable.”

“Mhm.”

“And he argued she’d be alone, very solemnly.”

“He did not.” Erwin dropped the papers, turning on his chair to meet Miche’s gaze, the other man already snickering to himself.

“He did, and then he just took her away. And I’m completely certain he kissed her hair when they got on the horse.” Miche whispered the last part, as if he was sharing the most confidential work information he could ever manage to get his hands on.

You have a dirty secret.

Well… maybe dirty isn’t the right word. 

Lucrative.

Thrilling.

Deeply, and I mean deeply embarrassing if anyone you knew in real life ever found out.

You make premium content.

Sex content.

It started after so many failed job searches; it’s so hard to find work in this day and age as a young adult with zero experience. You also attend college, and you know the moment you do actually get a boring, shitty job as a cashier or some shit, you’d want to shoot yourself in the head due to all the stress that’ll come with it.

You saw other girls on TikTok, flaunting their gaming set-ups from DMing creeps on Discord, going on calls with them, masturbating or pretending to, and they get the biggest paycheck of their life.

You’d do that if you didn’t have to go on call with them and hear their gross, disgusting voice.

So you chose the other option, chose to sell your body online, even though, compared to how girls on Discord make money, they don’t have to sell their nudes, just talk on call, you’d rather just record yourself doing lucrative acts.

I mean, why not? You were already broke, stressed beyond any comprehension, already spending too much money on lingerie that no one ever saw.

Now someone sees it, thousands of someones, actually.

It’s practically a job at this point, your real job if you’re being honest.

You lie to your parents, tell them you work at a cafe near campus, and they’re so proud of you. Their hardworking daughter, juggling school and work and still managing to keep her grades up.

If only they knew.

You don’t just do it for the money, even though that’s how it started. Like, yeah, the money is actually insane, more than you’d ever even expect, so much that you've had to open separate bank accounts just to hide it from your parents. But that's still not why you keep doing it.

You do it because it's fun.

You do it because it feels good.

I mean, why wouldn’t it?

It’s fun dressing up all cute, bringing your aesthetic in your videos because the fans love it. Soft pinks, light pastels, lace, ribbons, and so many bows.

You show your face in your videos.

But you wouldn’t ever get caught. Why? Because you wear wigs, cute ones that actually look good and not shitty party city ones, you do your makeup in a way that people on TikTok and Pinterest would call ‘dollmaxxer,’ eyelashes, glossy lips, aegyo sal shimmer forever and always.

You cosplay sometimes, characters from games and anime that your subscribers request.

That’s the thing that sets you apart from a lot of creators, most of them crop their faces out, wear masks, keep the camera angled just so. You’re lucky you don’t have any distinctive birthmarks, tattoos, or anything tying you to the girl who goes to college and buys coffee from the campus Starbucks.

It didn’t take long before you moved out of your college dorm. Roommates are a liability when your job involves moaning loudly on camera three times a week. 

Now you have your own apartment, expensive but worth it, a pink sanctuary where you can film without worrying about anyone walking in.

Your content is... specific.

You goon, that’s the word for it, that’s what people call it on the internet.

You slap your face with dildos, letting them bounce off your cheeks, you grind on pillows and plushies, soaking the fabric while you whimper and moan. Sometimes you even sell the pillows you grind on, subscribers love it all. 

You drool excessively, letting spit drip down your chin while you suck on a dildo attached to your wall, your eyes rolled back, your tongue out too far. 

You make yourself look stupid, brainless, like a toy that exists only for pleasure.

It's fun. 

It feels good. 

And the sponsors love it.

Sex toy brands send you free products constantly. Vibrators, dildos, plugs, things you didn't even know existed before you started this job. All you have to do is use them on camera, tag the company, and they keep sending more.

What you hate is your subscribers.

Obviously, your content caters to the male gaze. That's the market. That's where the money is. 

But god, the men are disgusting. 

The comments they leave, the DMs they send, the way they talk to you like you're not a person, just a thing they can say whatever they want to.

You have some subscribers who are women, followers, and mutuals who found you through the aesthetic side of things. They're the sweetest. They leave nice comments, send supportive messages, and actually treat you like a human being.

The men are the problem.

You also profit off being a virgin.

It’s not a lie, you know, some creators fake it, like Sophie Rain. But you’re genuinely untouched.

Never had a boyfriend. Never had sex, never even been kissed before.

The dildos you use on yourself don't change that. Toys aren't real dicks.

It's your biggest money maker, honestly. The virgin thing. Men lose their minds over it. They DM you constantly, begging to be the one to take it, offering obscene amounts of money to fuck you on camera.

You always deny.

Always.

Because even so, even after everything you've done on camera, you want to wait for the right person. You want it to mean something. You want...

You don't know what you want.

But you know it's not some random subscriber with a dick pic in his DMs.

Tonight, you're exhausted.

You just finished filming a two-hour session, one of those marathon streams where you edge yourself over and over until your thighs are shaking and your brain goes blank. Your subscribers loved it. You made more money in those two hours than most people make in years.

And now all you want to do is lie in bed and doom-scroll until you pass out.

You're on your stomach, still wearing the sheer babydoll lingerie from your stream, lacey underwear clinging to you. You’re on your phone, Twitter open, scrolling mindlessly through your feed. 

Your algorithm feeds you content from girls like you, with similar aesthetics, similar content. Some of them are your mutuals, creators you’ve befriended through the weird little community you’ve stumbled into. You leave sweet comments on their posts, the kind of supportive girl-to-girl energy that balances out the gross male comments. 

You're not really paying attention, just scrolling. 

And then something new comes up.

It's a video, a boy, this time, which is unusual for your feed. The algorithm is probably experimenting, testing your preferences.

The boy is skinny, pale, really pale, like porcelain skin. He’s on a bed with white sheets, his face is cropped out of the frame, but you can see his body, lean and so pretty, looming over a girl who lies beneath him.

He's holding her arms above her head.

And he's fucking into her mouth.

You don't scroll past. You don't mindlessly like and move on. Instead, you tap the video to turn up the volume just a little.

The sounds are obscene.

Wet, throat gagging sounds, the girls' muffled whimpers mixing with his soft grunts of pleasure. He fucks into her mouth, slow, at first, almost lazy, then faster, harder.

The girl taps his thigh. The universal signal for "I need to breathe." You've done it yourself, with the dildos attached to your wall, practicing for videos, it’s basic human instinct, you think.

He laughs.

That laugh.

It's mean and amused and condescending, and something about it makes you clench around absolutely nothing. 

He doesn't stop. If anything, he goes faster, ignoring her desperate taps, using her mouth like it belongs to him.

Only at the last second does he pull back. She gasps, choking, saliva dripping down her chin, and before she can recover, he's pushing back in.

Your pussy clenches again.

The video is in Japanese, which was obvious mainly because of the body parts being censored and the words coming from his mouth. You don't understand a single word from it, but something about him, about the way he moves, the way he sounds, the casual cruelty of his body language...

You click on his profile.

scaramouche

His profile picture is a boy's pale, slender hand gripping a girl's face. His bio is in Japanese characters you can't read, so you copy it into a translator.

"i'll fucking digest you, one kiss at a time."

That's it. That's all he has to say about himself.

He’s following zero people, fucking dickhead you think, and he has over 500k followers.

Holy shit…

More than you.

You scroll down, his age is listed, 20. He’s 2 years older than you. 

Obviously, as any normal person who's about to stalk a stranger's content, you click on the media tab.

Your heart drops.

He shows his face.

Not everyone does; most people don’t want others to recognize them in real life. You didn’t expect to see his face because in the other video, the camera was angled down. 

This guy, this scaramouche, he doesn't seem to care.

He's hot.

No… hot isn’t the right word to describe him, actually. He’s pretty, beautiful, even, in a way that doesn’t even seem real.

Dark indigo hair, which could almost be blue or even purple in certain lighting, eyes the same color. 

A face that definitely shouldn’t be used on making porn.

The first video with his face in it is him on a couch with a girl. His house is expensive, the kind of expensive that screams old money or nepo baby or both. The girl's face is blurred, but his isn't. He's looking directly at the camera, completely unbothered.

Nepo baby, you decide. Has to be. Some rich kid who hates his mom and spends her money on whatever he wants, not caring about his image or his future or anything.

He probably gets away with it because he's a man.

The video is in Japanese as figured. You watch it anyway, picking up on body language instead of words. The girl looks nervous, shaking slightly, and he sits close to her, petting her hair, touching her thigh. He leans in but doesn't kiss her. Just hovers there, making her wait.

You get bored and translate the description instead.

He calls her shy. Says she just broke up with her boyfriend, saw his content online, and wanted to be one of the girls in his videos. He talks about how he's going to ruin her. Turn her into a perfect little doll.

You don't feel disgusted by it; you don’t even know what you feel.

You keep scrolling.

Ten minutes later, you've gone through most of his content.

He's always in control, always cruel, always making the girls in his videos fall apart in ways that look almost painful. But he also... takes care of them. In his own way. Kisses them while he fucks them. Leaves hickeys all over their skin. Holds them down but also holds them close.

It's confusing.

Probably more confusing for the girls.

It makes you feel things you don't want to examine.

Somewhere around the fifteen-minute mark, you give up pretending you're just curious.

You grab the vibrator from your nightstand, the one you just used on stream, and press it between your legs.

You cum to the sound of his voice.

His moans, the way he laughs at the girls when they beg, the way he laughs even harder when they start shaking from being overstimulated. The things he says in Japanese that you don't understand but somehow feel in your core anyway.

You cum again.

And again.

You're on your third orgasm, trembling and oversensitive, when your phone buzzes with a notification.

A DM.

From him.

Your heart stops.

You stare at the notification, certain you're hallucinating. You followed him earlier, when you first clicked on his profile. You didn't think anything of it; you follow lots of people.

But he followed you back.

And now he's messaging you.

You tap on the notification with shaking fingers, fully expecting to see a wall of Japanese characters you won't understand.

It's in English.

You stare at the message for a full minute in shock. Your brain is refusing to process this, because what the fuck type of coincidence is this? 

He looked at your profile, saw your content, your bio, your everything while you were cumming to his own content.

And in your bio, the first fucking line is:

horny virgin 

Fuck.

scaramouche: hello? i know youre online i saw you like one of my videos 3 minutes ago and twitter also shows when people read your texts

Shit.

You forget how annoying this app is, how it automatically shows ‘seen’, when you click on someone’s DM, and there doesn’t seem to be a way to turn it off.

Twitter needs to fucking change that.

Embarrassing.

you: um… hi?

scaramouche: there she is thought you were gonna leave me on read

you: sorry i was just surprised i guess

scaramouche: surprised that i messaged you?

you: yeah lol you kinda dont really seem like the type to just dm ppl

scaramouche: im not girls usually come to me

You roll your eyes hard in real life. He sounds so egotistical.

you: okayyy.. so why r u dming me then?

scaramouche: bcuz i wanted to is that a problem

you: no i mean… IDK… i guess not?

scaramouche: relax holy shit im not gonna bite you unless… unless you want me to

You read that last message three times at the least. Your face is burning, you're still wet from earlier, still sensitive, and this conversation is not helping. You squirm in your bed, sitting back against a pillow and pulling your sheets over you so that you’re more comfortable.

The vibrator, the toy you used on yourself to his videos stares back at you, the stare feels harder than how it felt when your plushies would look at you while you shot videos.

You turn your body away from it and lie on your side.

you: how did you even find my account i know you aren’t just scrolling thru your notifications, looking at any any girls profile that follows u

scaramouche: algorithm duh you came up on my feed some video of you drooling on a dildo

In real life, you shove your face into your pillow, embarrassed, before glancing up, thumbs typing.

you: oh god

scaramouche: it was cute very pathetic mostly but cute i liked it

you: i don’t know if that’s a compliment or not

scaramouche: it is trust me

You don't know what to say. You're typing and deleting, typing and deleting, too shy to keep up this conversation.

Thankfully, he talks first, again.

scaramouche: you know what actually make me interested in you, though

you: what?

scaramouche: your bio the first thing it says, horny virgin thats real right? not some marketing bullshit like the other girls on here

you: it’s real

scaramouche: fuck thats hot

You stare at your screen, wide eyed, trying to ignore the feeling of your cunt, aching, clenching around nothing…

Because of him.

you: …

scaramouche: i mean it the virgin thing drives me insane but you already know that from stalking my account

you: uh, no i wasn’t

scaramouche: mhm… yeah sure tell that to my inbox stalker tip: try not to like every single post of mine that you scroll past, even though i always get a shit ton of likes, i can see when a mutual likes my post

You didn’t think about it till now that you’re mutuals with him on here, you followed him, and he followed you.

He continues typing.

scaramouche: its hot thinking about some cute girl who’s never been touched for real who only knows what it feels like from toys and whos been practicing on dildos for years without having the real thing

you: i haven’t been practicing for years i’ve only been doing this for like… a year tops

scaramouche: even better a year of making content a year of showing off that pretty little body and nobody gets to actually have it thats so fucked up dont you think?

you: i guess when you put it that way

scaramouche: and then i look at the shit you post "soft girl with soft moans & a tight grip" "wanna b ur brainless toy" "force me to take it" you srsly write all that and youre still a virgin?

you: those r just marketing it’s what subscribers want to hear you should know this

scaramouche: is it though? because i watched ur videos and you dont look like youre faking it you look like you mean every dirty word

You don’t have a response for that, because he is actually right. You do mean it, every filthy caption, every desperate moan, every time you beg the camera to use you, you mean it.

You just never thought you'd actually get to experience it.

scaramouche: so here what i wanna know with all the subscribers you have all the men in your comments, begging, offering to fly you out and fuck you on camera why are you still untouched

you: because they’re all disgusting dont u see half or most of them are like 40 yr olds with wives?? plus i dont want my first time to be with some random guy who just wants content

scaramouche: what do you want then

you: i dont know something real ig someone who actually gives a shit about me

scaramouche: thats cute naive but cute

you: whats that supposed to mean

scaramouche: it means you’re in the wrong industry for romance sweetheart but i respect it it’s rare nowadays

You're blushing so hard your cheeks could probably boil an egg. 

He called you sweetheart.

Sweetheart.

It shouldn't affect you this much. It's probably something he says to all the girls.

But still.

you: so why r u messaging me if you’re not trying to fly me out or whatever

scaramouche: maybe i am

you: oh

scaramouche: would that be so bad?

you: i mean yes? i dont know you

scaramouche: you know what i do you know what i look like you know how i treat the girls in my videos you also know that im more age appropriate than the creeps in your dm’s thats more than what most people know about each other before they fuck

you: thats different

scaramouche: how

you: it just is

scaramouche: youre scared arent you

you: im not scared im just cautious

scaramouche: same thing but whatever i get it tho random guy on the internet wants to meet up thats serial killer energy i know

you: it is a little bit

scaramouche: fair but for what it’s worth i dont live in japan so i wouldn’t have to fly u there if you change your mind i just go to japan sometimes for vids, i actually live in [insert city/town/whereever you live name]

Your heart stops.

That’s where you live. The same area your apartment is in, the same place where your campus is in.

He’s so much closer than you thought.

you: wait srsly??

scaramouche: yeah, why? r u from there too?

you: …maybe

scaramouche: holy shit small world or maybe the algorithm knows more than we thought

you: that’s kinda creepy

scaramouche: it’s extremely creepy but also very convenient if you ever wanted to meet up

you: i don’t know about that

scaramouche: no pressure just saying the options here

You've spent the last hour watching his videos, cumming to his voice, imagining yourself as one of the girls he ruins on camera. And now he's in your DMs, telling you he lives in your city, offering to meet up.

This is insane. And also dangerous.

And also everything you've fantasized about.

scaramouche: you dont have to decide rn im not going anywhere just think ab it

you: okay ill think about it

scaramouche: good girl

You’re too fucking easy, because those two small words makes your entire body feel hot, and you have to press your thighs together to relieve some of the pressure

scaramouche: you liked that didn’t you

you: what

scaramouche: being called a good girl i can practically feel you squirming through the screen

you: get over urself im not squirming

scaramouche: liar

you: shut up

scaramouche: make me

You’re going to die, literally, actually going to combust right here in your bed, and they’ll find your body in the morning, still holding onto your phone, still blushing.

You need to end this conversation before it spirals into you giving in.

you: i need to go to sleep

scaramouche: running away already?

you: im not running away im just tired i had a superrr long stream tonight

scaramouche: yeah i watched a little of it u looked all cute all fucked out and desperate you wish you had someone there to actually take care of you after, don't you?

Oh fuck do you. So bad…

You wish he was that someone.

you: maybe

scaramouche: think ab that too while you’re “sleeping”

you: you’re insufferable

scaramouche: really now? and yet… you haven’t blocked me

you: goodnight scaramouche

scaramouche: scara

you: what?

scaramouche: call me scara only people i like get to use the full name

you: okay goodnight, scara

scaramouche: night virgin dream about me

You close the app before you can say anything else stupid.

Your heart is pounding, head spinning, and you’re still so wet, still needy, and now you have a name, and a face to attach to all of your desperate fantasies.

You're not going to sleep tonight. 

You know that already.

You're going to lie here in the dark and think about him. About his voice that you can only imagine in Japanese because that’s all you’ve heard. About his hands… About all the things he does to those girls in his videos and how badly you want him to do them to you.

But you can't. 

You won't.

Because if you meet him, if you let him take your virginity, he'll just add you to his collection. Another video, another conquest. Another girl who fell for his pretty face and annoying pretty and cruel hands.

And then he'll move on to the next one.

And you'll be left with nothing but a video and a broken heart.

You want him. You know that now, with painful clarity.

But you want him to stay.

And you don't know if he's capable of that.

Two weeks.

It’s been two weeks since Scara slid into your DMs, and somehow, against all logic and reason, he’s still there.

You expected him to ghost you. 

That's what guys like him do, right? 

They message a girl, realize she's not going to put out immediately, and move on to someone easier. You were prepared for the silence, had already started bracing yourself for the inevitable.

It never came.

He’d send you videos, porn videos he found on twitter.

scaramouche: [video attachment] this is what id do to u btw just so yk

you: oh my god scara wtf u can’t just send me stuff like that at 2pm

scaramouche: um why the fuck not? r u at school or something

you: yes actually im literally in the middle of a lecture

scaramouche: boringgggg watch the video

you: im not watching porn in class scara

scaramouche: coward

It wasn’t always porn that you’d both talk about though, he’d send you other things…

scaramouche: [image attachment]

you: lol is that build a bear

scaramouche: it’s a fucking sanrio build a bear it’s YOUR fault my algorithm is ruined now i see this dumb shit constantly

you: aww that’s so cute though??

scaramouche: it’s not cute it’s annoying i used to get porn content now i get plushies and dumb pastel room tours

you: sounds like an improvement tbh

scaramouche: i hate you

He was also still in the subject of wanting to meet with you, in real life.

scaramouche: [video attachment] notice how she taps out at the end?

you: yeah

scaramouche: i wouldn’t let u tap out

you: …

scaramouche: just saying for when we meet

you: IF we meet

scaramouche: when

You clicked on his profile one night, just to check. Just to see if he's posted anything new.

He hasn't. 

No new videos. 

No new photos. Nothing in the same amount of time he’s been chatting with you.

That's... unusual. He used to post constantly. New girls every few days, new content every week. Now there's nothing.

You're not sure what that means.

But then you notice something else.

His following count. The little number that shows how many accounts he follows.

1

Just one.

You tap on it, expecting it to be private, and it is. But you already know.

It's you.

Out of everyone on this app, all the girls in his DMs, all the creators he could be following... he only follows you.

Your heart does something complicated in your chest that you don’t understand.

You don't mention it to him.

At some point, you both exchanged numbers.

scaramouche: hey y/n we should exchange numbers

you: why…

scaramouche: bcuz twitter dms r annoying and i wanna text u without the app crashing every 5 minutes

you: idk…

scaramouche: im not asking for nudes well even though you have it all posted already i just want ur number so we can talk easier

you: ughh okay fineee [number]

scaramouche: finally check ur texts

You check your texts and there's a message from an unknown number.

3058291193: hey virgin

You save his contact with a little purple heart emoji next to his name.

You both start texting more now that you both don't have to open Twitter just to message each other. It's nice, fun... but you also want to know more about him.

So one day, you ask.

you: we’ve known eachother for like almost 2 weeks now and i barely know anything about u tell me something ab u

scara: uhhh like what

you: why do u do this content i mean… you clearly don’t need the money

scara: the fuck how do u know that

you: your house in the vids ur clothes everything about u screams rich

scara: observant now? yeah okay my mom is super loaded shes some corporate bitch who cares more ab her company than her own son she barely knows i exist so i spend her money however i want and she doesn’t gaf

you: that sounds so lonely

scara: dont psychoanalyze me or im blocking u

you: sorry

scara: it’s fine ur not wrong it’s just annoying when ppl are right about me

After that conversation, he started talking more about himself.

scara: i have a cat btw

you: wait… rly? i didn’t expect that

scara: black fur, golden eyes her name is kuroneko it means black cat in japanese yes i know thats basic shut up

you: aww thats so cute can i see her??

scara: [image attachment]

you: OH MY GOD SHES SO PRETTY

scara: shes a bitch actually hates everyone but only tolerates me

you: sounds like someone i know…

scara: fuck off

You find out more and more about Scara. How he speaks Japanese fluently because his mom sent him to international schools growing up. How he lived in Tokyo for three years before moving back here. How he absolutely hates sweets, can’t stand anything too sugary…

except for you…

Tonight, you’re in your bed after a long day of school, you skip filming to talk with Scara like you normally do.

scara: yk what i dont get

you: what…

scara: why u wont let me meet u

you: ughhh scara we’ve been over this

scara: have we though? because everytime i bring it up you change the subject or you say you’re not ready or you make some shitty excuse

you: scara…

scara: im srs two weeks we’ve been talking i message you everyday i havent posted shit because im too busy thinking ab u and u still wont tell me why you’re so scared im not a stranger to u anymore, y/n

You stare at your phone for a long time.

You’ve been making excuses, not wanting to give the real answer everytime he’s too close to it.

But tonight, for some reason, you're tired of pretending.

you: okay fine u wanna know why im scared?

scara: duh it’s what ive been asking this whole time

you: because you’re going to leave

scara: what

you: after you take my virginity and film the video you’re going to leave and go back to making content with other girls and im just going to be another video in your collection, another girl you fucked and moved on from

He doesn’t respond, and you keep going.

you: and i dont know if i can handle that scara because i actually like you, and i like talking to you all night and then that’ll all just be over once we meet up

The typing indicator appears, disappears, appears again.

You wait.

And finally…

scara: you’re so fucking pathetic

you: wow thanks

scara: no i mean it thats the most pathetic thing ive read two weeks of bullshit when you could’ve just said that from the beginning

you: so what? r u going to make fun of me now?

scara: no im gonna tell u something and you’re going to listen, okay?

you: okay

scara: i havent posted in 2 weeks because everytime i think about filming with some girl whos offering in my DM’s, all i can think about is you and how it should be you and how everyone else would just be a waste of time and im the one who reached out to you first when i normally dont do u understand what im saying?

you: i think so

scara: good bcuz thats all your getting my pride can only take so much

You read his message, over and over, trying to convince yourself that they're real, trying to convince yourself that he likes you just as much as you like him.

you: okay

scara: okay what

you: okay ill meet u tmr after school u can come by my place

scara: are you serious

you: yes im serious i want to i’ve wanted to this whole time i was just scared

scara: and now?

you: still scared but more scared of never knowing what this could be

scara: …send me your address

you: [address]

scara: ur fucking kidding me you’re 5 miles away from me

you: wow really

scara: i could’ve been fucking you for 2 weeks

you: scara

scara: im kidding kind of.. ill be there tmrw what time specifically

you: my last class ends at 3… so maybe 5? gives me time to get ready

scara: k ill bring my camera equipment in case yours is shit

you: it’s not shit

scara: we’ll see goodnight virgin sleep tight, because tmr you’re going to be ruined

you: goodnight scara

You don't sleep.

I mean, who would in a situation like this?

You drift in and out, feeling both anxiety and anticipation.

Tomorrow.

It’s happening tomorrow.

After two weeks of texting, flirting, you’re finally going to meet him.

And he's going to take your virginity.

And film it.

And maybe, possibly, hopefully, not disappear afterward.

The next day is absolute torture.

Every class drags on forever. 

Every lecture feels like it's being delivered through molasses. 

You check your phone constantly, rereading your conversation with Scara, making sure it really happened. Making sure you didn't imagine it.

You didn't.

Your last class ends at 3:07. You're out the door by 3:08, practically running to your apartment.

You do that stupid Cassie routine in Euphoria. Shower, shave, exfoliate everywhere. Everywhere. Moisterize every inch of your body with the expensive lotion that makes your skin feel like silk and look insanely good for the cameras. You do your makeup, lighter than usual, the kind of look that you wear in class, soft and pretty.

Because you asked him over text to blur your face out in the video, that you didn’t want to dress up too much because you dont wanna be in makeup and a wig getting your virginity taken.

He didn’t care, if anything, he loved it, how he gets to see the real you the fans don’t get to see.

You take forever finding the right clothes to wear. You don’t want to wear anything revealing, you dont want to be standing there with your tits out when he walks in. You want… something in between. Cute but not too desperate, sexy but not aggressive.

You settle on a pink bra, lacey, with a little bow between the cups. Matching panties, obviously. A sheer babydoll top over it, soft pink that makes your skin glow.

You look at yourself in the mirror.

And realize something that makes your stomach drop.

Not only have you never been fucked before.

You've never been kissed.

You're getting all your firsts taken tonight.

scara: omw

And in exactly 20 minutes, you hear a knock at your door.

Your heart is pounding so hard you can hear it in your ears. You walk to the door on shaky legs, peering through the peephole.

He's there.

Real, solid. Not just a face on a screen anymore.

He's wearing a dark hoodie, oversized, with baggy black jeans and chunky boots. His hair is messy, falling into his eyes. He looks grunge, maybe? Alternative definitely. Like someone you'd see at a concert, not someone who makes porn for a living.

He’s also short, taller that you, definitely, but not by much. Somehow that makes him less intimidating.

Somehow, that makes him more real.

You open the door.

His eyes scan you immediately. Up and down, taking in your bare feet, your babydoll top, your face without the usual layers of camera-ready makeup.

"You look different," he says.

His voice, god, his voice. You’ve only ever heard him speak Japenese. You honestly expected him to have an accent or something, but he doesn’t have one, just this tone that makes your knees weak.

You narrow your eyes, crossing your arms. "Good different or bad different?"

"Good." He tilts his head, looking at the top of yours, before looking back down at your eyes and smiling, almost mocking. "You're much shorter than I thought."

You roll your eyes at him, "Says you."

He snorts, shrugging. "Fair enough."

For a moment, you just stand there, both of you, staring at each other. Two people who've shared every filthy thought in their heads, who've seen each other at their most vulnerable, meeting for the first time.

"Are you going to let me in?" he asks, breaking the silence. "Or are we doing this in the hallway?"

"Oh, right. Sorry. Come in."

You step aside, and he walks past you, and he smells good, expensive cologne probably. 

You shut and lock your door as his eyes scan your apartment, moving through it.

He sees the pink walls, the LED strip lights set to white because hot pink looks disgusting to you, he sees the collection of plushies on your couch.

"Jesus Christ," he mutters. "It's like a Sanrio store exploded in here."

"Shut up."

"I'm not judging. It's very you." He picks up a Hello Kitty plush from your couch, examining it with mock seriousness. "Does she watch while you film?"

"Sometimes."

"Kinky."

You lead him to your bedroom, and he takes it all in with the same amused expression. It’s even worse than the pink shit outside your room. A huge bed with pink sheets and a duvet with brown teddy bears, plushies everywhere on the bed, fluffy rug on the floor, but what he mainly focuses on is the ring light set up in the corner, the camera equipment you use for your streams.

"Your setup isn't shit," he admits, examining your camera. "Better than I expected."

"I told you."

"You did." He sets the camera down and turns to face you. "Okay. Get on the bed."

Your eyebrows knit, glancing at the bed, and back at him. "Already?"

"Relax." He rolls his eyes. "I'm not fucking you yet. We need to talk first."

"Talk?" You tilt your head, confused.

"Yeah. You've seen my videos, right? The ones where I'm just... talking to the girl before anything happens?"

Well yes and no… you have seen them, but they’re all in Japanese. You never understood a single word he was saying.

He doesn’t wait for a response. "That's the pre-talk. I do it with everyone. Go over boundaries, safe words, what they're comfortable with." He sits on the edge of your bed, patting the space next to him. "Come here. Stop looking at me like I'm going to eat you."

"You might."

"Later,” he says with a wink.

You sit down next to him, leaving a careful gap between your bodies. He immediately closes it, shifting until your thighs are touching. You don’t move away.

"Okay," he says. "I’m not recording this one because most of my fans don’t understand english, so you can say whatever you want. First things first. Safe word?"

"Um... pink?"

"Pink." He nods. "Good choice, the one’s that are easy to remember are always the best. If you say it, everything stops. No questions. No arguments. You say pink, I stop. Got it?"

"Got it,” You say with a nod.

"Second thing. What are you okay with?"

"I... I don't know. Everything? I've never done any of this before, so I don't really know what I like."

"That's fine. We'll figure it out." His hand lands on your knee, casual, like it belongs there. You don’t pull away. "What about what you're not okay with?"

"I don't want my face in the video. Blurred, cropped out, whatever. I don't want people to recognize me."

"Done, we already chatted about that earlier, but what else?"

"I... I don't know. That's it, I think."

He's quiet for a moment, studying your face with those intense indigo eyes.

"You're shaking,” he points out, not taking his eyes off you once.

"I'm nervous,” you say with a nervous giggle.

"I can tell." His hand slides higher, resting on your thigh, just above your knee. "You've really never done this before? Any of it?"

"No."

"Not even kissing?"

Your face burns as you look down, shaking your head. "No."

You glance back up and see something change in his expression, a hungry look like you just handed him so much more then you’re already giving.

"Oh? So I'm your first everything."

"Yeah."

"Fuck." He breathes out the word like it's been punched out of him. "That's... that's so fucking hot. You have no idea."

"Scara..."

"No, I'm serious." He turns to face you fully, one hand coming up to cup your jaw. "You've never been touched by anyone. Never been kissed. Never had someone's hands on you like this." His thumb traces your cheekbone. "And I get to be the first."

You don't know what to say. Your whole body is tingling where he's touching you, every nerve ending lighting up.

"Can I kiss you?" he asks.

"You're asking?"

"First time counts. I want you to remember it, all of it."

You nod.

He leans in slowly, giving you time to pull away. You don't. His lips brush against yours, soft, tentative, nothing like the brutal way he handles the girls in his videos.

It's gentle.

It's perfect.

His hand slides to the back of your neck, pulling you closer, and you melt into him. Your eyes flutter shut. Your lips part. He kisses you like he has all the time in the world, like there's nowhere else he'd rather be.

When he finally pulls back, you're breathless.

"Not bad," he murmurs, thumb rubbing at your lip. "For someone who's never kissed before."

You stare at him, blinking slow, fully dazed. Your lips are tingling, actually, your whole body is tingling.

You wonder if he can see that.

"Can you..." You trail off, embarrassed.

"Can I what?"

"Do it again?"

"Yeah," he says quietly, like he was going to anyways. "I can do that."

He kisses you again. Longer this time. So much deeper. His hands tangle in your hair, tilting your head back, and you let him take control because you don't know what else to do. 

You just know you never want him to stop.

When he finally pulls away, you're both breathing hard.

"Okay," he says, standing up. "I need to set up the camera."

"Now?" You ask, pouting, wanting him to come back.

"Yeah. Now." He walks over to your ring light, adjusting the angle. "You're going to sit right there, looking all fucked out and pretty, and I'm going to film what happens next."

Your heart is pounding, your lips are all swollen, and your entire body is aching with want. 

He's really doing this.

It's really happening.

He positions the camera, checks the lighting, makes sure everything is perfect. Then he turns back to you, and the look in his eyes makes your breath catch.

"Ready?"

You're not.

But you nod anyway.

The camera light blinks red.

Recording.

Scara stands at the foot of your bed, fingers going around the hem of his hoodie, he pulls it over his head and your breath catches. You’ve seen his body in videos, pale, and lean, and deceptively strong, but it’s so different in person, more real, more… overwhelming.

It’s also the first time a boy’s been shirtless in your bedroom.

"You're staring," he says.

"Sorry."

"Don't be." His fingers move to his belt, undoing it with practiced ease. "That's kind of the point."

He pushes his jeans down, stepping out of them, and now he's just in black boxers. You can see the outline of him through the fabric, already half-hard, and your mouth goes dry.

He gets on the bed.

The mattress dips under his weight, and suddenly he's right there. He sits in front of you, cross-legged, casual, like he does this every day.

He does do this every day. 

Just not with you.

"Come here," he says, and it's not a request.

You lean forward, and his hand catches the back of your neck, pulling you the rest of the way. His lips meet yours, and this time it's not gentle. It’s like he’s doing it for the camera. This time it's hungry, demanding, his tongue sliding past your lips before you can even process what's happening.

You make a sound against his mouth. Something embarrassing. Something needy.

He laughs into the kiss.

His hands are everywhere, your shoulders, your waist, your hips, you can feel his hands at the hem of your babydoll top, "This is pretty," he murmurs when he pulls back just a little, fingers in the lace. "But it's in the way."

He pulls it over your head before you can respond, and a kisses you again, his fingers now at your back, unhooking your bra with practiced efficiency that should bother you but doesn’t. 

The bra falls away.

He pulls back from the kiss, and his eyes drop to your chest. You resist the urge to cover yourself, to hide, because he's looking at you like you're something precious. Something he wants to devour.

"Pretty," he murmurs.

"Scara..."

"Shh." His hands come up to cup you, thumbs brushing over your nipples, and you gasp. "I'm appreciating the view."

Before you can respond, he's moving you. His hands on your hips, spinning you around, pulling you back against his chest. Your back presses into his bare skin, and his so soft, warm, and solid.

"There we go," he murmurs against your ear. "That's so much better."

One hand finds your breast again, squeezing, palm warm against the soft flesh, rolling your nipple between his fingers. 

His other hand slides lower.

Down your stomach, tracing the edge of your panties, where his fingers trace the edge of the lace without going any further..

"These videos you make," he says, conversational, like he's not currently driving you insane. "I've watched all of them. Every single one."

"You mentioned that."

"Did I mention the one where you sat on that vibrator for forty-five minutes without cumming?" His fingers dip below the waistband, just barely, brushing against the sensitive skin beneath. "You were crying by the end. Begging even. And you still held out."

"That was... a challenge. From a subscriber,” you breathe out, trying not to squirm.

"I know… I read the caption." His fingers slide lower, finding your folds, and you whimper. "I jerked off to that video six times. Kept thinking about how pretty you'd look if it was me making you cry. Me making you beg."

He presses his fingers against your clit, rubbing in slow circles, and your hips jerk involuntarily.

"There it is," he murmurs. "Those pretty little sounds. Just like in the videos. Except now I get to hear them in person."

"Scara..."

"Take these off." He snaps the waistband of your panties. "I want to feel you properly."

Your hands are shaking as you lift your hips, sliding the underwear down your thighs, kicking them off somewhere onto the floor. You're completely naked now, pressed against his bare chest, with nothing between his hand and your cunt.

His fingers finds your clit immediately.

"Fuck," he breathes. "You're soaked, already. We've barely started and you're dripping all over my hand."

"I can't help it."

"I know you can't, that's what makes it so fun."

He circles your clit slowly, not enough pressure to do anything but tease. Your hips buck, trying to get more friction, but his other hand that was on your breast wraps around your waist, holding you in place.

"Patience," he says. "We have all night."

"Scara, please..." you whimper out, so sweet and so needy.

"Please what?"

"More. I need more…"

He laughs, and it’s that exact laugh from the first video you ever watched of him. The one that made you wet before you even knew his name.

"You want my fingers inside you?"

"Yes." You nod, desperate.

"Such a simple word… You’re going to have to beg prettier than that."

Your face burns, but you're so turned on you don't care about dignity anymore.

"Please, Scara. Please put your fingers inside me. I need to feel you. I've been thinking about it for two weeks, imagining what it would feel like, and I can't... I need..."

"Good enough."

He slides a finger inside, and the sound you make is embarrassing. High, and so desperate and completely involuntary. He's not even doing anything yet, just holding his finger inside you, letting you adjust to the intrusion.

"Tight," he murmurs. "So fucking tight. All those dildos you use and you're still this tight?"

"They're not as big as..."

You cut yourself off, embarrassed.

"As what?" He adds a second finger, stretching you open. "As me? Is that what you were going to say?"

You don't answer. Your brain is going fuzzy, all of your attention is focused on the feeling of his fingers inside you.

"You trained your throat for months," he says, still in that conversational tone, like he's discussing the weather while he finger-fucks you. "I watched you go from barely taking six inches to deepthroating that ten-inch dildo on your wall. Holding it for a full minute without gagging."

His fingers curl, pressing against your front wall, searching.

"Fifty seconds," you manage. "I could only... only do fifty seconds."

"Still impressive." He crooks his fingers, checking your expressions, seeing if he found that spot yet. "But training your throat is one thing. This..." He curls and curls still searching. "This is something else entirely."

He finds the spot.

Your whole body jerks, a broken moan spilling from your lips. He presses harder, rubbing circles against that bundle of nerves, and your vision starts to blur at the edges, your toes curling

"There it is," he says, satisfaction dripping from his voice. "That's the spot, isn't it? That's what makes you fall apart, go fucking blank."

"Oh god. Oh fuck. Scara, I can't..."

"You can." His fingers speed up, pressing harder, faster, and you can’t control the loud moan you let out, hard instictively grabbing at his arm. "You're going to take whatever I give you, and you're going to love it."

His other hand leaves your breast and wraps around your throat instead. Not squeezing hard enough to cut off air, just enough to make you aware of how completely he has you.

"Look at you," he murmurs. "Shaking already. Just from my fingers. Imagine what you're going to do when I actually fuck you."

You can't imagine it. You can barely think. All you can do is feel, the pressure building between your legs, the heat of his body behind you, the grip of his hand on your throat.

He adds a third finger.

The stretch makes you gasp, pain and pleasure blurring together. He doesn't slow down. If anything, he goes faster, fucking you with his fingers like he's trying to prove a point.

"You know what my favorite video of yours is?" he asks.

You shake your head, unable to form words.

"The one where you fucked yourself on that machine for two hours straight. Where you came so many times you lost count. Where you were crying and begging and saying you couldn't take anymore, but you didn't stop." His fingers speed up, fucking into you harder, faster. "You came eleven times that stream. I counted."

"You... y-you counted?" You surprisingly manage out.

"I counted everything." His grip on your throat tightens. "Every moan. Every whimper. Every time your eyes rolled back. I have it all memorized."

His fingers find that spot again, pressing hard, and you cry out, the sound echoing off the walls of your bedroom. Your mouth falls open, gasping for air, and that's when he moves.

His hand leaves your throat, and suddenly his fingers are in your mouth instead. Two of them, pressing down on your tongue, and you suck on instinct, moaning around the digits.

"That's it," he breathes. "Fuck, that's it. That's what I want. Suck them just like that."

You suck. You suck his fingers like your life depends on it, tasting yourself on his skin, while his other hand keeps working between your legs. The combination is overwhelming. Too much and not enough all at once.

"Fuck," he groans. "You're so good at that. All that training paid off, huh? You're going to suck my cock just like that. I'm going to fuck your throat until you can't breathe, and you're going to take it, because that's what you've been practicing for."

The words push you closer to the edge. 

"You're close," he observes. "I can feel it. The way you're clenching around my fingers, the way you're shaking. You want to cum so bad, don't you?"

You nod desperately, unable to speak with his fingers in your mouth.

"Too bad." He slows down, keeping you right on the edge. "I'm not done with you yet. I want to hear those pretty sounds a little longer."

You whine around his fingers, and he laughs. "God, you're pathetic," he murmurs, and it sounds like a compliment. "Completely pathetic. And I fucking love it."

He keeps you there for what feels like hours. Edging you, backing off every time you get close, until you're crying real tears and begging around his fingers for release.

"Please," you sob when he finally pulls his hand from your mouth. "Please, Scara, I can't... I need..."

"Need what? Say it."

"I need to cum. Please. Please let me cum."

"Okay." His fingers speed up one final time. "Cum."

You shatter.

The orgasm rips through you like nothing you've ever felt before. Your whole body convulses, clenching around his fingers, and the sound you make is somewhere between a scream and a sob. He works you through it, extending the pleasure until you're twitching and oversensitive.

Then he pulls out.

You collapse against him, boneless, breathing hard, shaking. You've made yourself cum hundreds of times on camera, but it's never felt like that.

"Good girl," he murmurs, pressing a kiss to your temple. "That was beautiful."

Then he pushes you off.

You land on your back, staring up at the ceiling, trying to remember how to breathe. Your whole body is tingling. Your cunt is throbbing. And he's not done.

You hear the rustle of fabric, of something hitting the floor.

You lift your head to look.

He took off his boxers.

And his cock… is big.

You've seen it in videos before, sort of. Japanese censorship laws meant he always had to blur it, pixelate it beyond recognition. Sometimes he got lazy with the editing and you can almost make out the shape. But you've never seen it clearly.

It's bigger than you thought.

You’re almost an expert at dildos, which translates into dicks. You’re able to tell how long they are just by a glance, and you’d estimate his is about 8 inches, at least.

"Fuck," you breathe.

"That's the plan."

Your hand reaches out before you can stop yourself.

You wrap your fingers around him, feeling the weight, the heat, the way he throbs in your grip. It's nothing like the dildos you've practiced with. It's warm and alive and so, so real.

You’d never use dildos again if you had the real thing everyday.

"Eager," he says, but he doesn't stop you. Just watches, eyes dark, as you stroke him slowly. "You're supposed to be a virgin."

"I am a virgin." You look up at him, voice almost tired, still recovering.

"Could've fooled me." He lets you touch him for a few more seconds, then grabs your wrist, pulling your hand away. "But I didn't come here to get a handjob."

He comes closer, positioning himself between your legs. You spread them automatically, making room for him, and he settles into the space like he belongs there.

"This is going to hurt," he says. Not a warning. Just a fact as he rubs his cock slowly against your folds, almost teasing.

"I know." You say, anxious, but just wanting to get the hard part over with already.

"You might bleed."

"Wait really? I thought that was a myth…" Your brows knit, getting distracted way too quickly.

"You could,” he says, not dwelling on the subject further, “And I'm not going to be gentle."

Your breath catches, you nod slow. "I know."

He grabs one of the cameras he'd set on the bed earlier, angling it down between your bodies. The other cameras are already positioned around the room, capturing everything from multiple angles, but this one will get the close-up. 

The money shot.

"Any last words?" he asks, almost mocking.

You shake your head, rolling your eyes despite the whimpers you’re letting out, feeling his cock, warm, heavy, just resting ontop of your cunt. "Just... do it. Before I lose my nerve."

He smiles, cruel and so adoringly beautiful at once.

And then he pushes inside.

Easing in? Not his style at all. He slides all the way to the hilt in one smooth thrust, and the scream that tears from your throat is unlike anything you’ve made before.

It hurts.

It hurts so fucking bad.

You feel like you're being split in two, like he's too big, too much, like your body wasn't made to take this. Tears spill down your cheeks, and you grab at his shoulders, nails digging into his skin.

He doesn't stop.

He starts to move, slow but not gentle, pulling out halfway before pushing back in. The camera in his hand stays steady, like he’s a pro at this, documenting everything, while his other hand grips your hip hard enough to bruise.

"There it is," he breathes. "Fuck, there it is. That's what a virgin feels like. So fucking tight. So fucking perfect."

"It hurts," you whimper. "Scara, it hurts..."

"I know." He leans down, still moving, still fucking you, and his lips brush against your cheek. "I know it hurts. But you're taking it so well. Such a good girl."

Tears are streaming down your cheeks. He notices, and instead of stopping, he leans down and kisses them. His tongue traces the wet tracks on your skin, collecting your tears, tasting your pain.

"So pretty when you cry," he says against your cheek. "I've always thought so. All those videos where you make yourself cry from overstimulation. But this is better. This is real."

He keeps moving, slow and deep, and gradually the pain starts to fade. It doesn't disappear completely, but it transforms into something else, a burning fullness that makes your toes curl.

"That's it," he says, feeling you relax around him. "There you go. Starting to feel good, isn't it?"

You nod, biting your lip.

"Use your words."

"Yes," you manage. "Yes, oh god, yes..."

He speeds up.

The camera is still in his hand, still recording, but his attention is on you now. On the way your face changes, pain melting into pleasure. On the sounds you're making, those sweet, cute moans that you're not even trying to hold back anymore.

"You have no idea how long I've wanted this," he says, voice rough. "Two weeks of watching your videos, imagining it was me inside you instead of those stupid toys. And now I'm finally here. Finally fucking you for real."

He changes the angle, and suddenly he's hitting his cock deep inside the spot that makes your vision blur. You cry out, back arching, and he does it again. And again. Finding that spot and abusing it mercilessly.

"That's the one," he says, satisfied. "Found it, again. You make the cutest fucking face when I hit it."

"Scara... Scara, I'm gonna..."

"Already?" He laughs, mean and delighted, hitting that spot again, again, again. "We just started. You're really that easy?"

"I can't help it... it feels so good..."

"Then cum." He fucks you harder, faster. "Cum on my cock like the desperate little slut you are. Show the camera how good I make you feel."

You cum so hard you see stars.

Your whole body convulses, walls clenching around him, and you're pretty sure you're screaming but you can't hear anything over the blood rushing in your ears. He fucks you through it, doesn't slow down at all, and when the first orgasm starts to fade, the second one is already building.

"Good girl," he breathes. "That's my good girl. One down, how many more to go?"

He loses count somewhere around the fifth.

"Up."

His voice cuts through the haze of pleasure, and you look up at him, dazed. He's pulled out, leaving you empty and aching, and he's sitting back on your headboard, cock still hard and glistening with your slick.

"What?"

"Come here." He grabs your hips, hauling you up, and suddenly you're straddling him. His cock presses against your entrance, and you whimper. "I want you to ride me."

"I don't... I don't know how..."

"Mhm, don’t worry, I'll teach you." He guides your hips, lifting you up, positioning his cock at your entrance. "Sink down. Slow."

You sink Inch by inch, feeling him fill you up again, until you're fully seated in his lap. The angle is different like this. Deeper. You can feel him in places you didn't know existed.

"Now move." His hands are on your hips, guiding you. "Up and down. Just like that. Find your rhythm."

You start to move. It's awkward at first, clumsy, but then something clicks and suddenly it feels amazing. You're in control, setting the pace, taking what you need.

"That's it," he murmurs, watching you with dark eyes. "Fuck yourself on my cock. Show me what you've got."

You wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder, and grind down onto him. He groans, hands tightening on your hips, and you feel a surge of power. You did that. You made him make that sound.

You're so close to him like this, chest to chest, his breath on your lips. It feels intimate in a way you weren't expecting. More like making love than making content.

"Kiss me," you whisper.

He doesn’t hesitate, he kisses you, deep and filthy, tongue sliding against yours while you ride him. His hands slide up your back, pulling you closer, and for a moment it's just the two of you, the cameras forgotten.

Then, he breaks the kiss, as if remembering what it is you both are supposed to be shooting.

"Faster," he demands.

You go faster.

You bounce on his cock, chasing the pleasure, and he watches with heavy-lidded eyes. One hand slides up your back to tangle in your hair, pulling your head back, forcing you to look at him.

"Pretty," he says. "So fucking pretty. Taking my cock like you were made for it."

"Scara..."

"You know how many girls have been in this position? How many have ridden my cock on camera?" He yanks your hair harder, and you moan. "None of them felt like you. None of them were this tight, this wet, this desperate."

"Please..."

"Please what? Use your words."

You whine, grinding even more desperately. "Please... harder... I need..."

He laughs, and then he flips you.

One second you're on top, the next you're on your back with your legs over his shoulders and he's fucking into you so hard the headboard slams against the wall. The angle is brutal, hitting deep, and you can't do anything but lie there and take it.

"This is what you wanted, right?" His voice is rough, strained. "To be ruined? To be fucked so hard you can't think straight?"

"Yes," you sob. "Yes, yes, yes..."

"Then take it. Take all of it."

He cums inside you.

You feel it, hot and thick, filling you up as he groans and shudders above you. His hips keep moving, fucking his cum deeper, and you cum again just from the feeling of it.

When he finally pulls out, you're a mess. Cum leaking from your cunt, tears drying on your cheeks, whole body trembling with aftershocks.

He looks down at you with something like satisfaction.

"We're not done yet."

Content like this calls for lots of positions being changed, different ways you both fuck, constantly moving, constantly trying different things.

After probably your 14th orgasm of the night, you’re on the bed, propped up on your hand when you suggest, "I want you to fuck my face."

He pauses in the middle of repositioning the camera, eyebrows raised. "What?"

"The first video I saw of you." Your voice is hoarse, wrecked from moaning. "You were fucking that girl's throat. Making her choke. I want... I want you to do that to me."

"I remember that video." He sets the camera aside, turning to look at you with renewed interest. "She tapped out three times and I didn't stop."

"I know."

"And you want me to do that to you."

"Yes."

He smiles slow, and the look he gives you is predatory.

"Lie on your back."

You position yourself how he wants, your head close to your pillows, looking up at him. From this angle, his cock looks even bigger, hard again already, glistening with your combined fluids. 

He stands over you, cock in hand, and taps it against your lips.

"Open."

You open your mouth, and he slides in.

You've practiced this. Months of training with dildos, learning to relax your throat, to breathe through your nose, to suppress your gag reflex. But nothing could have prepared you for the real thing. The heat of his cock, the weight. The way he pulses against your tongue.

He slides in slowly at first, letting you adjust to the angle. But then his hips start to move, and slow goes out the window.

He fucks your face.

There's no other word for it. His cock slides down your throat, cutting off your air, and then pulls back just long enough for you to gasp before plunging in again. The sounds are obscene. Wet, gurgling, choking sounds that would embarrass you if you could think about anything besides the cock in your throat.

"Fuck," he groans, falling foward, his head falling down onto one of your pillows. "Your mouth feels amazing. Better than I imagined. You really did train for this, didn't you?"

He keeps going, humping your face with desperate little thrusts, and the sounds he's making are nothing like the controlled, mocking ones from before. These are raw, unfiltered. Almost vulnerable.

You start to choke for real. Your hands come up, slapping against the backs of his thighs, the universal signal for "I need air."

He doesn't stop.

Instead, his knees move, pressing down on your arms, trapping them away from trying to signal for anything. You're pinned now, completely helpless, unable to tap out or push him away.

"There we go," he groans. "That's better… no tapping out, no escaping. You just lie there and let me use your throat like the good little fuckdoll you are."

He picks up the pace, driving into your throat over and over. You can't breathe, can barely think, your vision starting to blur around the edges. Your thighs rub together, desperate for friction, and he laughs.

"Getting wet from choking on my cock? Fuck, you're perfect. Listen to that sound." He thrusts particularly deep, and you gag violently. "That wet, sloppy, choking sound? That's the sound of your throat being trained by something real."

Just when you think you might pass out, he gets up from your pillow and he pulls back. You gasp for air, chest heaving, drool and tears covering your face.

He gives you five seconds.

Then he's back in your mouth, fucking your throat like he's trying to break you. 

"Gonna cum down your throat," he grunts. "And you're gonna swallow every drop. That's what good girls do, right? That's what you always say in your videos?"

You try to nod, but you can't move. You just lie there, throat open, accepting whatever he gives you.

He buries himself deep and cums.

You feel it pulsing down your throat, hot and thick, and you swallow on instinct. He holds himself there, grinding against your face, riding out his orgasm, until finally he pulls out.

You gasp for air, coughing, drool and cum running down your chin, your whole body trembling.

He looks at you like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

The positions blur together after that.

He fucks you from behind, face pressed into the mattress, ass in the air. He fucks you on your side, one leg hooked over his shoulder. 

Then, he lifted you off the bed like you weighed nothing at all. Your back hit the wall hard enough to knock the air out from your lungs, and you could already feel his cock pushing inside.

"Wrap your legs around me," he orders, and you obey, ankles locking behind his back, thighs squeezing his waist. The new angle lets him sink even deeper, and you cry out, nails raking down his shoulders.

"Fuck… Good girl." His voice is strained, arms flexed as he holds you up, and you can see the slight muscles in his forearms working. 

Every thrust pushes you up the wall, your back scraping against the plaster. It hurts, you can feel the friction burning your skin, but the pain just makes the pleasure more real.

"You know how many times I've thought about this?" He fucks up into you, brutal and deep. "Having you pinned like this. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. Just taking whatever I give you."

"Scara..." Your head falls back against the wall, eyes rolling. The angle is hitting something inside you that makes your vision blur.

"That's it." He shifts his grip, one hand sliding under your ass to support you better, the other coming up to wrap around your throat. "Look at me. I want to see your face when you fall apart."

You force your eyes open, meeting his gaze. His pupils are blown wide, cheeks flushed, that perfect composure finally cracking. He looks almost as wrecked as you feel.

"You're so fucking tight like this," he groans. "Squeezing me so hard. Like your body doesn't want to let me go."

"It doesn't," you gasp. "I don't. Please don't stop, please..."

"Couldn't stop if I wanted to." His hips snap forward, driving you up the wall, and you swear you see stars. "You feel too good. Took one look at this tight little cunt and knew I was fucked."

The hand on your throat squeezes, cutting off your air just enough to make your head spin. Your legs are shaking, your arms are shaking, everything is shaking, and he just keeps going, fucking you against the wall like he's trying to leave an impression of your body in the plaster.

"Cum for me," he demands. "Right now. Let me feel you pulse around me."

You don't have a choice. Your body obeys him without your permission, clenching around him as the orgasm rips through you. He fucks you through it, pace never faltering, and when you finally go limp in his arms, he's still hard inside you.

"Good," he breathes. "Now let's see how many more we can get out of you before your legs give out completely."

More and more positions blur after that one, and at some point, you’re on your knees, carefully placed on your soft rug of course.

You're grateful for that, the soft rug. You've been down here for what feels like hours, jaw aching, lips swollen, looking up at him while he holds the camera and watches you worship his cock.

"Eyes up here," he says, tilting the camera down to catch your face. "I want them to see those pretty eyes when you choke."

You look up at him through wet lashes, his cock heavy on your tongue. He's not moving, not yet. Just letting you hold him there, drool pooling in your mouth, waiting for permission.

"You look good like this." He traces the outline of your stretched lips with his free hand. "On your knees where you belong. Mouth full of cock. Barely able to breathe." His thumb wipes at the drool running down your chin. "This is what you were made for, isn't it?"

You try to nod, but it's hard with your mouth this full.

"Don't answer that. It was rhetorical." He starts to move, slow shallow thrusts that make wet sounds echo through the room. "I already know the answer. I've seen you practice on those dildos for hours. But they were never enough, were they?"

He pushes deeper, hitting the back of your throat, and you gag around him. The camera catches everything.

"Plastic can't compare to the real thing." He pulls back, lets you breathe for half a second, then pushes back in. "Can't feel you choking. Can't hear the sounds you make. Can't watch the tears fall down your pretty face."

Your eyes are watering. You can feel the mascara running, can feel how messy you must look, but he's looking at you like you're the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.

"Take it deeper," he instructs. "Show me what you learned."

You relax your throat, let him slide further, until your nose is pressed against his stomach and you can't breathe at all. The camera is right there, capturing the way your throat bulges around him.

"Fuck." His voice cracks, almost breaking from the feeling of your mouth. "Fuck, that's perfect. Hold it. Hold it for me."

You hold, five seconds… ten… fifteen. Your lungs are burning, tears streaming down your face, but you don't pull back. Not until he does it for you.

"Breathe."

You gasp, sucking in air, and he taps his cock against your cheek. Once. Twice. Leaving wet marks on your skin.

"Open."

You open, and he slides back in, and the cycle starts all over again.

You both switched rooms at some point, change of scenery, and you led him to your bathroom.

He'd bent you over it the second you walked in, said something about the lighting being "fucking perfect" and grabbed his camera from the bedroom. Now you're pressed against the marble, watching yourself in the mirror while he fucks you from behind.

"Look at yourself," he orders, one hand fisted in your hair, pulling your head up so you can't look away. "Look at what I'm doing to you."

You look.

Your reflection is a mess. Makeup smeared, hair tangled, mouth hanging open as sounds spill out that you don't recognize. Behind you, he's a study in contrast, composed and controlled, watching your face in the mirror while he drives into you.

"You see that?" He pulls your hair harder, forcing your back to arch. "That's what a ruined virgin looks like. That's what I do to girls who think they can resist me."

"I didn't resist," you gasp.

"No." He slams into you, and you watch your own face contort with pleasure. "You didn't. You spread your legs and begged for it. Desperate little thing."

The angle is brutal, every thrust pushes you into the counter, the edge digging into your hips, but you can't look away from the mirror. Can't stop watching the way his cock disappears inside you, the way his face tightens with pleasure, the way your body moves with each impact.

"This is my favorite part," he says, meeting your eyes in the reflection. "Watching you watch yourself get fucked. Seeing the exact moment you realize how pathetic you are."

"I'm not..."

"You are." He reaches around, fingers finding your clit, and you cry out. "You're dripping all over my cock, moaning like a whore, watching yourself get ruined, and you're going to cum just from seeing your own fucked-out face in the mirror."

He's right, way too fucking right. Because watching yourself, watching him, watching the everything being reflected back at you… it’s pushing you toward the edge faster than anything has.

"That's it," he murmurs, rubbing your clit in tight circles while he fucks you. "Watch yourself cum. I want you to remember exactly what you looked like."

You cum with your eyes locked on your own reflection, watching your face go slack with pleasure while he groans and spills inside you.

The mirror fogs up from your breath.

He doesn't pull out.

"Again," he says. "I want to see it again."

At some point, you end up with him sitting against your headboard, your body draped across his lap. His fingers are in your ass, slicked with lube, stretching you open while you whimper into his chest.

"You've never done this before either, have you?" he murmurs, working a second finger inside you. "Never had anything in this tight little hole?"

"No," you gasp. "Never."

"Jesus Christ." He crooks his fingers, finding a spot that makes you see stars. "You really are a virgin everywhere. Completely untouched. And now you're all mine."

"Scara..." You can barely form words. "It's too much..."

"It's not enough." He adds another finger, 3 now, and you cry out. "Not nearly enough. I'm going to ruin every part of you before this night is over."

He keeps you there for what feels like hours, working you open, making you cum over and over until you're crying and begging and promising him anything if he'll just let you rest.

But the position that stands out most is the one where he's fucking you face down into your mattress, deep and slow. His mouth is on your neck, your shoulder, your jaw, kissing and biting and marking you as his.

It feels oddly passionate for sex content.

"You feel incredible," he murmurs against your skin. "Better than anyone I've ever had. Tighter. Warmer. More responsive."

"Scara..."

"I love how you say my name." He bites down on the junction of your neck and shoulder, hard enough to bruise. "Say it again. I want everyone who watches this to know exactly who's ruining you."

"Scara. Scara, please..."

"Please what?"

"I don't know." You're crying again, overwhelmed. "Just... more. I need more."

He gives you more, more thrusts, more of everything, until you're shaking apart beneath him, cumming so hard you see white.

He kisses you. 

A lot.

More than he does in his videos. You've watched enough of them to know that he's usually detached, controlled, focused on the camera and the performance. But with you, he keeps leaning in. Pressing his lips to yours, or to your neck, or at your breasts, anywhere he could find.

"Intermission."

He pulls out, leaving you empty and aching, and collapses onto the bed beside you. You're both breathing hard, covered in sweat and other fluids, and you've lost count of how many times you've cum.

"I need a minute," you manage.

"Take five." He rolls onto his side, propping his head on his hand, watching you. "You've earned it."

You lie there, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember your own name. Every muscle in your body aches. Your cunt is sore, your throat is raw, and you're pretty sure you have bruises in places that bruises shouldn't be.

You've never been happier.

"Here."

You turn your head, and see him holding out his hoodie, the one he was wearing when he arrived.

"Put this on. I can see you shivering."

You hadn't noticed, but he's right. The sweat is cooling on your skin, making you tremble. You sit up, wincing at the soreness between your legs, and pull the hoodie over your head.

It's a little big on you. Soft and warm, and it smells just like him. 

"Better?"

"Yeah." You look down at yourself, almost drowning in his clothes. "I look like a little kid."

"You look like you're mine."

The words hit you somewhere deep. You look up at him, and he's watching you with an expression you can't quite read.

"Lie back," he says.

"What? I thought we were taking a break."

"We are." He pushes you gently onto your back, spreading your legs, and you let him. "But I've been wanting to taste you all night, and I can't wait anymore."

He settles between your thighs, his face inches from your cunt, and looks up at you through his lashes.

"Just relax. Let me take care of you."

His tongue drags through your folds, and you gasp, hands fisting in the sheets. He's not trying to make you cum this time. Not yet. He's just... tasting. Exploring. Licking up the mess he's made of you, cleaning his own cum from your cunt with gentle, thorough strokes.

"You taste like me," he murmurs against your skin. "Like us. Fucking delicious."

He eats you out slowly, lazily, like he has all the time in the world. His tongue circles your clit, dips inside you, traces patterns that make your toes curl. And the whole time, you're lying there in his hoodie, feeling more cared for than you've ever felt in your life.

When he finally makes you cum, it's soft. Gentle. A slow wave of pleasure that washes over you instead of crashing, leaving you warm and boneless and completely content.

He crawls back up your body, kissing your forehead before settling beside you.

"Fiftieth orgasm of the night," he says. "New record?"

"Definitely a new record."

He laughs, it’s not the mean laugh from before, it’s something softer, something real.

When it's finally over, you're barely conscious.

Your body feels like it's been taken apart and reassembled wrong. Every muscle aches. Your throat is raw from screaming. You can still feel him leaking out of you, cum dripping down your thighs.

He tucks you into bed. Actually tucks you in, pulling the covers up to your chin, smoothing your hair back from your face. Then he climbs out, reaching for his jeans.

You watch, dazed, as he pulls his jeans back on. He starts gathering his cameras, carefully placing them in his bag, and something cold settles in your stomach.

This is it. The part you've been dreading. The part where he leaves and goes back to his life and you become just another video in his collection.

"Are you leaving?"

Your voice comes out small, scared. You hate how vulnerable you sound.

He pauses, camera in hand, and looks at you. "Do you want me to?"

The question hangs in the air. You're still wearing his hoodie, still lying in your bed, still feeling his cum leaking out of you. And he's asking if you want him to leave.

"No." you whisper. "I don't want you to leave."

No pretense. No games. Just honest, raw need.

He puts the camera down.

You barely have time to process before he's climbing back into bed, pulling you against his chest, wrapping his arms around you like he's afraid you'll disappear.

"Good," he murmurs into your hair. "Because I didn't want to leave either."

His hand traces patterns on your back, soothing. After everything he's done to you tonight, the tenderness almost makes you cry again.

You tilt your head up to look at him, and he leans in, pressing his lips to yours. The kiss is different from before. No heat, no desperation. Just soft and slow and achingly tender.

He tilts your chin up and kisses you.

When he pulls back, you chase his mouth.

"Needy," he murmurs, letting you kiss him again.

When you finally pull back, letting you both get some air, you can’t help asking, "What are you going to do after this?"

"What do you mean?"

"After this. After tonight." You trace patterns on his chest, avoiding his eyes. "Are you going to post the video and move on? Find another girl to film with? Go back to your life like this never happened?"

He's quiet for a long moment.

"Is that what you think?"

"I don't know what to think. That's why I'm asking."

He catches your chin, tilting your face up, forcing you to meet his eyes.

"If I don't leave," he says slowly, "if I keep coming back here, keep filming with you, keep... spending time with you outside of filming... this stops being just content. You get that, right?"

"What does it become?"

"Something else." His thumb traces your lower lip. "Something more."

"That sounds like you'd be my boyfriend."

The words hang between you. Your heart is pounding so hard you're sure he can feel it.

"Is that what you want?"

You're quiet for a moment. Not because you don't know the answer, but because you're scared to say it out loud.

"Yes."

The word is barely a whisper.

But he hears it.

Not a smirk. Not a mocking grin. A real, genuine smile that transforms his whole face, makes him look younger, softer, almost innocent, something just for you.

"Good," he says. "Because I'm pretty sure I've been so far gone on you since that video you posted with that stupid Hello Kitty pillow."

"It's not stupid."

"It's extremely stupid." He kisses you again, soft and sweet. "But so am I, apparently. For falling for a girl I met on the internet."

"You fell for me?"

"Obviously." He rolls his eyes, tone almost sassy, but there's no heat in it. "Why else would I follow only you? Why else would I stop posting? Why else would I spend two weeks texting you instead of finding someone else?"

"I thought..."

"You thought wrong." He pulls you closer, tucking your head under his chin. "I'm not going anywhere. Not unless you want me to."

I don't want you to."

"Then I won't."

You lie there in silence for a moment, processing everything that's happened. The long sex. The confession. The fact that you apparently have a boyfriend now, one who makes porn and took your virginity.

It's insane.

It's perfect.

"Scara?"

"Yeah?"

"I think I might love you."

He's quiet for way too long, and your heart plummets. But then his arms tighten around you, and his voice comes out rough.

"Yeah," he says quietly. "I think I might love you too."

You fall asleep in his arms, wearing his hoodie, with his cum still inside you and his heartbeat steady under your ear.

It's the best sleep you've ever had.

God, you were just so pretty. You were everything he didn't allow himself to want. That somehow made him want you even more. Nahida first brought you up as one of the Akademiya's sages, someone who could teach him how to be more human. He scoffed at the idea at first. He was Scaramouche, he was a harbinger. Why would he need help to act.. normal? Maybe that was the entire reason why, he couldn't forgive himself yet. He couldn't let go of his identity as Scaramouche. He thought you'd be like the other people at the Akademiya. They all looked at him like could explode at any moment, like he'd reveal his true intentions any time. You were considered fresh meat, some even considered you as the teacher's pet. 

You were young, too young to be a sage according to the majority of the Akademiya's scholars. You were the newly appointed sage of Spantamad after Cyrus retired. You and him were close, so it raised eyebrows when the position was given to you. You didn't mind though, continuing to study at the Akademiya with a burning passion. When you two first met he thought you seemed weak. You seemed to soft, too naive for the serious amount of power you held. 

"Hello, Wanderer."

You greeted him with a polite nod, the same one you used for just about anyone who greeted you in the halls. You didn't look at him like he was that harbinger who almost ruined the entirety of Sumeru. You saw past that. Your first official session was a mess, you brought him to the city, hoping to introduce him to some of the customs, maybe even introduce him to a few of the locals. You'd expected some people to stare, some to act differently, but it surprised you when almost everyone acted like you were walking with a monster. He heard the murmurs, all the unsolicited whispers. they were talking about how it must be so hard for you, or what you could've done to garner this level of a punishment. 

With a heavy heart, you decided to drag him to one of the cliffs. You sat down wordlessly, looking at the view as you sighed. You were used to all this. Mainly because you experienced it too, people saw you because you were only in your only twenty's, you were supposed to be going out, enjoying the world, not tied down to the responsibilities of a sage. You looked at him as he stood under a tree, leaning his back on it.

"You shouldn't dwell on it."

You spoke in a murmur, to which he only scoffed. Why would he dwell on it? He wasn't. That'd be weird. That'd be weak. The next session you two stayed indoors, you were encouraging him to study at the Akademiya, saying that he had the brains for it, he just needed to find a topic he was passionate about. He thinks he hated you more in that moment. You were being annoying. You were rolling your eyes and arguing with him like he was any other person. You treated him with such normalcy that he didn't know what to do. He would've rather had you look at him with disdain than deal with this new feeling. 

The following week you approach him with a bouquet of white tulips, you casually mention how tulips are often related to freedom, and you remembered him when you were passing by. You handed it to him, smiling as you told him about mundane things. That's part of being human, right? 

You've taught him perhaps the most human thing someone can do. It starts small, he starts looking forward to your weekly session, even swallowing his pride and asking Nahida if he could see you more often instead of every Thursday. He starts to look for you in crowds, it almost comes out of instinct. He acts like he doesn't care about what you're saying but then the next week he'll furrow his brow. 

"Why're you getting that one? You hate that."

He'd argue with you over your own preferences, you thought you'd try something new but you can't fight him when he's being practical.