#econ problem set!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

he props himself up on his elbows and squints at you like he’s trying to work through a problem set. “you’ve kissed people.”

“that does not count,” you say. “that’s like saying i can write a crime novel because i’ve watched csi.”

he laughs, the sound filling the room and doing that familiar thing where it loosens something in your chest without you realizing it needed loosening. this is why he’s your best friend. this is why he’s safe. this is why he’s absolutely not an option.

“okay, okay,” he says. “what about that guy from your econ class? the one who’s always asking to borrow a pen.”

“no.” you wrinkle your nose without even thinking. “too dorky.”

“too dorky?” he snorts. “oh, and you’re not?”

“shut up,” you say, shoving his shoulder.

he grabs your wrist and suddenly you’re both laughing, shoving, the mattress bouncing under you, the same stupid routine you’ve been doing since you were kids, elbows and knees familiarity, until you flop back onto the bed in unison staring at the ceiling fan as it ticks around.

“i just need,” you say, breathless, “like… an idea. a miracle. someone who actually knows what they’re doing to walk through that door and save me.”

the door opens.

“can you two shut the hell up?” sukuna’s voice cuts in, low and rough with sleep. “some of us are trying to rest.”

you sit up too fast.

he’s standing there shirtless, hair a mess, eyes half-lidded, sweats hanging low on his hips like they’ve given up on decency altogether, and your brain does something traitorous and stupid where it just stalls out for half a second.

“y—yeah, sorry,” you say automatically, words tumbling out before you can stop them.

yuji groans. “we weren’t even that loud.”

“you were,” sukuna says, dragging a hand down his face. his gaze flicks to you—then back to his brother. “keep it down.”

the door shuts. the room doesn’t go back to normal.

you glance at yuji. “wait—what is he doing here?”

yuji yawns. “oh. he just stopped by earlier to grab some stuff from the garage but then he, like, crashed on the couch and didn’t move. don’t mind him. you know how he always is.”

you don’t answer right away. because no, actually. you don’t. not recently.

you haven’t seen sukuna in months. not like this—not at home, not post-nap and shirtless. he goes to school on the other side of town. he doesn’t hang around.

sometimes he’ll show up for holidays or birthdays or the occasional guilt-trip dinner, but that’s it. lately it’s been like he only exists on instagram stories and through yuji’s complaints about him stealing snacks or dodging calls from their mom.

so why the hell is he here now?

and why does it feel like the air got thinner just from the sound of his voice?

you stare at the closed door for a second too long.

your brain tries to fill in the blanks—how many times you used to see him slumped in that doorway growing up, how he was always there in the background, grumpy and mean, lowkey a bully. always had something smart to say. always had to win.

but then he’d turn around and walk you home when it got dark. scare off anyone who tried to mess with you. defend you before you ever learned how to do it yourself. he’d deny it if you ever brought it up, but you remember. you remember all of it.

you remember the way he used to look at you like you were just there, something annoying and permanent.

so why did that look just now feel different?

you shake your head, hard, and look back at yuji, at your laptop, at the blinking cursor.

“anyway,” you say quickly, “that’s definitely not happening.”

“what’s not happening?” he asks.

“nothing,” you say. “ignore me. i’ll figure it out.”

you don’t look at the door again.

—-

you leave yuji’s room later with your laptop tucked under your arm and the same empty document burned into the backs of your eyes, cursor still blinking behind your eyelids like it followed you out just to be petty, like it wants you to know you didn’t escape anything by standing up and walking away.

nothing written. not even a sentence you can pretend you’ll fix later. just white space and that stupid blinking line, waiting.

you walk across campus alone, the air colder than you expected, hands shoved into your sleeves, dorm lights glowing in other people’s windows like proof that everyone else has somewhere to be, something figured out.

but friday is tomorrow.

and fridays are automatic. fridays are routine. fridays are yuji’s place and takeout and sitting around too long and staying later than you mean to. fridays are something you don’t have to plan for—you just show up.

which means you may have the chance to see sukuna again.

and then, because your brain hates you, it does the worst possible thing and starts filling in blanks you didn’t ask it to.

you think about what it would be like if it were him—his hands on you, like when he’s shown you how to do things before, the way he never rushes, the way he explains without making you feel stupid, like teaching is just another thing he’s good at.

you imagine his voice, telling you where to put your hands, what actually matters, what doesn’t, correcting you when you get it wrong without ever raising his voice.

you picture the way he stood in the doorway earlier, loose gray sweats hanging low on his hips, fabric doing absolutely nothing to hide the fact that there’s very little left to the imagination there, like your brain clocked it before you could stop it, it catalogued the shape and weight of it without asking for permission.

you think about what’s under them and hate how easily the thought settles, how it slots into place like it always belonged there.

stop.

your pace stutters, heart kicking hard against your ribs, and you squeeze your eyes shut like that might help.

this isn’t you. this isn’t something you think about. not about him. he’s yuji’s brother. he’s always been around. he’s annoying and familiar and not someone your brain is supposed to go quiet over. you’re just stressed. you’re just spiraling. you’re just projecting because you want answers, and he sounds like one.

that’s all this is.

you force yourself to breathe, to keep walking, to shove the image back where it came from, but it lingers anyway—his hands, his voice, the certainty of him knowing exactly what to do and exactly how to explain it to you.

stop, you tell yourself again, more firmly this time.

why now?

why him?

you’ve known him forever. he’s always been there—nothing about him has changed. so why does it suddenly feel different, like something tilted when you weren’t looking? like your chest tightened for no good reason, like you noticed his voice in a way you never have before?

you walk down the path thinking anyone but him over and over, like if you repeat it enough it’ll stick, like it’ll reroute your brain onto a safer track. anyone else. a stranger.

a nameless body you don’t have to think about tomorrow. a version of yourself that isn’t behind everyone else, that didn’t somehow make it to college without picking up whatever experience everyone else seems to talk about so casually.

you hate how childish it makes you feel. how small. how behind. how late.

this would be easier if i wasn’t like this.

the thought sits heavy as you reach your dorm, key sliding into the lock, because it doesn’t come with an answer — just the quiet promise that tomorrow, after classes, after you run out of excuses, you’ll have to come back.

and the cursor will still be blinking.

—

you wake up tired, drag yourself through classes, stare at people who sound like they have their lives together and nod like you understand what any of this is building toward.

you try not to think about last night, but your brain does that thing where it replays the one part you didn’t want it to save, and now you can’t stop seeing it—sukuna in the doorway, shirtless and irritated, gaze flicking over you like he’d already figured it out. the shape of him.

you shake it off, shove it down, swear it meant nothing.

it doesn’t help.

because now it’s dark out and you’re walking back to yuji’s place like you always do, like you haven’t been dreading it all day. it’s autopilot. friday night. takeout and whatever’s playing on netflix. you knock once before letting yourself in like you live there.

yuji’s already yelling from the couch. “you’re late!”

“you’re early,” you shoot back.

he grins when you round the corner, arms sprawled out, socks half-off, hair sticking up like he fought gravity and lost. “i ordered your favorite, so you’re not allowed to complain.”

“i never complain.”

he snorts. “you only complain.”

you drop your bag by the door, kick your shoes off, and try to act like your eyes didn’t just flick toward the other end of the couch. like you didn’t already know he’d be there.

except… you kind of didn’t.

because sukuna’s never here. not during movie nights. not when it’s just you and yuji doing the same dumb shit you’ve been doing since high school. he usually avoids this whole thing like it’s contagious—claims you’re too loud, that the movies are trash, that being around the two of you lowers his iq.

so what the hell is he doing here now?

you hover by the entryway a second longer than you mean to, caught off-guard, gaze dragging across the way he’s slouched into the couch—hoodie half-zipped, sleeves pushed to his elbows, grey sweats dangerously low on his hips, drink in hand, legs spread like he’s claiming the entire fucking house.

he glances up. meets your eyes. nods. “you’re late.”

you blink. “…you’re here.”

he smirks, slow. “sharp as ever.”

you frown, stepping further in. “why?”

he smirks, lazy. “you say that like you thought i’d be gone.”

“i did,” you say honestly. “you usually ghost the second we show up.”

“yeah, well,” he says, raising his drink a little like a toast, “mom and dad are out of town.”

you narrow your eyes. “don’t you have a dorm?”

“yeah,” he shrugs, “but why would i suffer in that shoebox when i can have hot water, real snacks, and a couch that doesn’t smell like mildew?”

you make a face. “gross.”

“truthful.”

you cross your arms. “i thought you hated being here.”

“i hate being here when they’re here,” he says. “every time i sit down, it’s either—‘have you heard back from that grad program?’ or ‘do you need help updating your resume?’” he mimics his mom’s voice a little too well. “it’s like a career fair with emotional baggage.”

you snort, despite yourself. “so this is… what? a staycation?”

“something like that,” he says, sinking deeper into the cushions. “i figure i’ll use up the free amenities while the guilt trips are on pause.”

your stomach does something weird and warm.

he’s not supposed to be here.

he’s choosing to be here.

you look away first.

you barely have time to sit with the weirdness of him being here before yuji’s voice cuts in again, louder this time, coming from the kitchen.

“can you unfold the table?” he calls. “i got dumplings and the good noodles.”

you cross the living room, bend to grab the scratched-up plastic folding table from behind the couch, and pop it open with one foot while yuji drags over the bags, hands full of sauce containers and those cheap paper napkins that never absorb anything. he’s already talking while sorting food, chopsticks stuck behind one ear like a pencil.

“you want the chili oil or no?”

“obviously.”

he tosses the packet toward you. you catch it.

you glance toward the couch—sukuna hasn’t moved. same position, same drink, same hoodie-and-sweats combo, like this is his house and you’re the one visiting.

“you’re not eating?” you ask.

he shrugs. “already did.”

yuji waves a hand. “he’s lying. he just mooched the egg rolls before you got here.”

“they were getting cold,” sukuna says, unapologetic.

you end up next to him on the couch, tray table between your knees, dumplings steaming in front of you. you try not to fidget.

yuji settles on your other side—except he’s yuji, so he sprawls. knee to your thigh, elbow jabbing as he adjusts, plate in his lap like a feral raccoon.

“you’re in my space,” you tell him.

“no such thing,” he grins, and gives you a shove—not hard, just enough to bump you right up against sukuna’s side.

you blink. feel the heat of him immediately, stretched out like he hasn’t even registered you’re touching. like he doesn’t care. like you’re not even—

don’t think about it.

you try to watch the movie. you do. it’s some dumb action flick yuji picked out of nostalgia, one you’ve both seen a million times. the plot doesn’t matter. you know every beat. you’re not watching the screen anyway.

you’re aware of the way sukuna’s thigh stays right there against yours. the shape of his wrist where it rests on the couch arm. how his hoodie rides up when he shifts to drink from the glass in his hand, dragging the fabric tight across his stomach. the clean line of muscle just under the hem, the peek of ink at his ribs. the curve of his mouth when he smirks at something the actor says, even though he’s not really watching either.

you imagine those hands on your hips. your throat. your thighs. his voice behind you, in your ear, telling you what to do and how to do it. correcting you. teaching you. like it’d be the easiest thing in the world for him. like he already knows you’d listen.

you cross your legs and shift away an inch.

he doesn’t react. doesn’t even look.

what is wrong with you.

“uhhh, bathroom,” yuji says suddenly, half-standing and holding his stomach. “that shrimp was a mistake.”

you don’t even register it until he’s gone, footsteps down the hall, door clicking shut behind him.

and then it’s just you.

and him.

and the credits rolling.

and the sound of him setting his glass down soft on the coaster.

“so,” sukuna says, and your whole body freezes, “how’s the little writing project?”

your head snaps toward him. “what.”

his mouth twitches. “yuji said you were stuck.”

“he told you?” your voice spikes, mortified.

“mm,” he hums, noncommittal.

“oh my god.”

“what?” he says, like it’s funny. “you asked for a miracle. you got me.”

you stare at him, open-mouthed, like you’re not sure whether to hit him or die on the spot.

he raises a brow, lazy. “cat got your tongue?”

“don’t flatter yourself,” you mutter, finally remembering how to speak.

“too late.” he stretches out like he’s settling in, wrist draped over the back of the couch, his whole frame angling toward you now. “so. what’s the issue? you trying to write something hot and you’ve never even been touched?”

you blink. hard. “excuse me?”

he shrugs, annoyingly casual. “not a judgment. just sounds like that’s the problem.”

“yuji told you that?” you hiss, heat crawling up your neck.

“you’d be surprised how much your bestie overshares when he thinks i’m not listening.”

you want to combust. spontaneously. immediately. your chopsticks freeze midair.

he watches you for a beat, head tilted, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like he’s holding back a laugh. then—

“look, i’m just saying,” he says, almost bored, “you don’t need to fuck someone to write about fucking someone. you just need to know what people actually notice. what feels fake. what kills the mood.”

you blink. again. your brain’s lagging, like your wi-fi just cut.

“i could help,” he says. “if you’re not too chicken.”

you laugh—nervous, defensive, too loud. “you’re joking.”

“am i?”

he doesn't blink.

your heart does this weird sideways lurch, and for a split second your imagination does something very stupid—throws up a flash of what that might look like: his voice behind you, telling you what sounds real. his breath against your ear. one hand in your hair. one on your hip. that same voice, smug and low, saying yeah, that. write that down.

“jesus,” you mutter, shaking your head like that’ll knock it loose. “you’re yuji’s brother.”

“and?”

“and that’s insane.”

he smirks again, cocky this time. “then keep writing about symbolic peaches.”

you open your mouth to say something back—something scathing, probably—but yuji yells from the hallway before you can.

“i think i’m dying!” he shouts from behind the bathroom door.

you flinch, the spell broken.

sukuna just snorts, leans back, and reaches for his drink again like he didn’t just detonate a bomb in your brain.

—

you don’t stay late.

you make up something about homework. about being behind. about getting a head start on your readings before monday even though it’s friday and everyone knows you don’t touch shit until sunday night.

yuji doesn’t question it, just clutches his stomach dramatically and says the shrimp’s still trying to kill him, tells you to take leftovers, offers a weak thumbs up from where he’s curled under a throw blanket like he’s on his deathbed.

you wave him off, mutter something about texting later, and slip out the door.

sukuna doesn’t say anything when you leave.

but you can feel his eyes on your back the whole way to the hallway.

you walk faster than usual, keys clutched in your hand, cold night air biting at your cheeks as you cut through campus toward your dorm. your brain won’t stop spinning—like it’s buffering. like it’s stuck between tabs.

you asked for help.

not like that. not really.

except now you can’t stop imagining it. not just the suggestion, but what it would look like. feel like. his mouth near your ear, his fingers tracing your wrist, that stupid low voice explaining the difference between pornographic and believable like he’s grading you.

you swallow and push your dorm door open.

kick off your shoes. shed your coat. go straight for your bed and your laptop, like maybe forcing yourself into motion will fix it.

the document’s still open.

cursor still blinking.

you pull the covers over your lap, fold your legs under you, rest your fingers on the keys.

nothing.

not a word.

not a single honest sentence.

you type, slowly: she kissed him like she’d done it before.

you stare at it. backspace.

he touches her like he owns the moment.

backspace. you close your eyes.

and see him.

you asked for a miracle. you got me.

his smirk. the slow way he said it. the way his eyes didn’t move, didn’t flick, didn’t waver—like he already knew what you’d do with the thought. like he planted it.

and now you can’t stop thinking about what he’d say if you let him get close enough to correct you. to guide you. to show you the kind of heat that doesn’t need metaphor.

you drag a hand down your face, cheeks hot, heart weird and jumpy.

this is yuji’s brother.

you don’t even like him.

he’s smug. infuriating. mean. he barely talks to you unless it’s to be a dick about something. he’s a problem. he’s always been a problem.

and still—your fingers twitch.

you type, again: he touches her like he’s teaching her something she’ll never forget.

you stare at it.

you don’t delete it.

not yet.

you fall asleep like that. laptop still open. sentence still glowing on the screen like it knows it’s crossed a line.

you don’t dream. or if you do, you don’t remember it.

just wake up groggy and uneven, mouth dry, skin clammy, that same heat from last night clinging to the back of your neck like a warning. like you left something unfinished.

you shower. make coffee. sit at your desk and stare at your notes like they’re in a different language.

by noon, you’ve refreshed the same three apps fourteen times and rewritten the same paragraph twice with no new words added. your phone buzzes. it’s yuji.

yuji: shrimp poisoning update: i’m still dying. plz come over yuji: bring electrolytes or vibes or both idk yuji: sukuna’s literally useless. he’s just making toast and watching me suffer :(

you blink.

toast?

you hesitate. because you weren’t planning on going back today. you told yourself you’d take space. get perspective. delete the sentence. reset the mood.

but yuji’s asking. and he’s your best friend. and he’s sick. and… you’re already grabbing your keys.

—

the front door’s unlocked when you get there.

“back from the dead?” you call as you toe your shoes off.

yuji’s voice comes from the couch, muffled under a pile of blankets. “barely.”

you head straight to the kitchen, drop your bag on the counter, pull two gatorades from your tote.

and that’s when you see him.

sukuna. leaned against the fridge, plate in hand, wearing a tank top that’s doing absolutely nothing to distract from the fact that he’s half muscle and no shame, sweatpants hung loose on his hips, jaw working slow as he takes a bite of cinnamon toast like the world owes him nothing and he owes it even less.

“wow,” you say flatly, “what a beacon of brotherly support.”

he shrugs, mouth full. “he’s not dying.”

“he thinks he is.”

“he’s dramatic.”

you toss him a look as you move past him. you do not look at his arms. or the way his neck flexes when he swallows. you do not think about last night. or the sentence. or the way his voice is somehow the same in person as it was in your imagination—just rough enough to scrape against your ribs.

you do not.

“here,” you say, handing yuji the drink once you reach the couch.

he lights up like you’ve performed a miracle. “my savior.”

“your savior brought you electrolytes,” you say, plopping down next to him. “and she’s staying just long enough to make sure you don’t vomit on the carpet.”

"give me some kinda good news." he hums a little between sips, then glances up at you. “you make any progress on your writing?”

you go still.

“…not really,” you say as you sit criss-cross on the floor beside him.

he makes a face, the same one he always makes when you don’t want to talk about something—not annoyed, not pushy, just curious in that sweet stupid way that makes you want to confess things you shouldn’t. “what’s stopping you? still stuck on the scene?”

you nod, slowly.

he sits up more, leans on his elbow like it helps him think. “can’t you just, like… watch porn or something?”

your head whips toward him. “what?”

he shrugs. “i mean, if you need ideas.”

“porn,” you echo, flat. “yuji.”

“what?” he says, defensive now. “i’m just saying. it’s not like there’s a shortage of material out there.”

you stare at him, then drag a hand down your face. “oh my god.”

and behind you—

clink.

you freeze.

slowly glance over your shoulder.

sukuna’s standing in the kitchen again, rinsing his plate in the sink, but there’s something about his posture—the lazy slouch of his shoulders, the way he shakes the water from his hands—that makes it feel like he heard every word. like he was waiting for the right one to land before reacting.

you catch his eye.

he doesn’t blink. just tilts his head, real slow, mouth tugging into the kind of smirk that says that’s what you’re working with?

and suddenly your whole body burns.

you snap your gaze back to the tv, ears on fire, pulse stuttering.

yuji keeps talking—something about storyboarding a sex scene like a fight scene—but you don’t hear it. all you can think about is the way sukuna looked at you, like he knew exactly what part of that conversation wasn’t just academic. like he’d seen the little flash of panic behind your eyes, caught it, catalogued it, kept it.

fuck.

you sit rigid for the next few minutes, barely breathing, and when yuji finally excuses himself to go upstairs—“i think the shrimp’s staging a comeback tour, be right back”—you almost bolt.

but you don’t.

because you feel it before it happens.

sukuna’s steps behind you.

the subtle shift of the couch as he drops into yuji’s spot.

his arm brushes yours.

and his voice—that voice—slides in low and warm like it belongs there.

“porn, huh?”

you jolt. “oh my god.”

“relax,” he says, clearly enjoying himself now. “just thought it was funny.”

“you would think that’s funny.”

he leans in a little, elbow on the back of the couch. “what, not your thing?”

you flinch like it was an accusation. “excuse me?”

he shrugs one shoulder, lazy. “porn.”

“jesus,” you mutter under your breath.

“just curious,” he says, like he’s not enjoying the way your voice pitched. “you watch it or not?”

“why the fuck would i tell you that?”

he grins, sharp teeth and a twitch of his jaw like he’s won something. “so that’s a yes.”

you open your mouth—shut it.

he tilts his head, eyes narrowing just enough to track the way your throat bobs.

“what’s your type?” he asks, soft. cruel. “you like the soft, fake moaning kinda shit? studio lighting, vanilla choreography, lots of uh-uh-uh baby please?” he mimics it in a falsetto that makes your whole body light up in mortification.

“shut up,” you hiss, face burning.

he ignores you.

“or do you skip to the rough stuff? choking. hands. crying. that why you can’t write it down? ‘cause you want someone to make you feel it first?”

but he’s just sitting there like he didn’t say anything obscene at all, pinky tracing a slow circle into the armrest like he’s bored, like he hasn’t just undone you down to the bone with a single sentence and a look that’s far too pleased.

“i’m just saying,” he murmurs, eyes flicking to your mouth, “if you’re gonna do research, might as well use a source you can ask questions.”

your stomach swoops.

you freeze for half a second—heat curling up your spine, shame trying to dig its little claws in—but you don’t let it win. not this time.

you smile.

“yeah?” you say, cocking your head just a little, voice light but your pulse pounding. “what kind of porn do you watch, sukuna?”

that gets him.

not much—just a flick of his eyes, a slow shift in his posture, like you surprised him. like you scored a point he wasn’t expecting you to take.

“you look like you’re into some freaky shit,” you add, and there’s something proud in it, something satisfying, because even though you’re flustered, you’re not folding. not for him. not yet.

he smiles.

wide. teeth. slow as syrup.

“freaky,” he repeats, voice dropping a little. “you say that like it’s a bad thing.”

you roll your eyes—not because you’re annoyed, but because you have to do something with your face or he’ll see it all over you.

“please,” you mutter, grabbing a throw pillow and shoving it into your lap like it might deflect the heat. “you give off big uses the tags ‘brat tamer’ unironically energy.”

he laughs. deep in his chest. low and amused and just a little too delighted.

“and what, you’ve been scrolling?” he asks, leaning in again, elbow braced on the couch, close enough that you can feel the pull of him, gravity bending in his direction. “studying my digital footprint?”

“no,” you shoot back, too quick. “i just—” you flounder. recover. “i’ve met you.”

his eyes flash with something sharp.

“guess that makes you the expert,” he says. “so tell me, then. what am i into?”

you blink.

he’s baiting you. obviously. you can feel it in the slow, smug curl of his mouth, the way his voice drags just enough to make your pulse trip, the way he’s watching you like he’s already heard the answer in your head and is just waiting for you to say it out loud.

you square your shoulders, pretend you don’t feel backed into a corner.

“dumb girls,” you say.

his brow arches, amused. “yeah?”

“yeah,” you sniff, deflecting, heat crawling up your neck. “dumb girls who fall for the whole broody asshole thing. you probably like it when they call you ‘sir’ and pretend to struggle when you pin their wrists.”

his mouth twitches.

“mm. that’s cute,” he says, low. “you rehearsed that for me?”

“i rehearsed it for my own dignity,” you snap. “you’re not the first guy to act like a walking red flag.”

he hums. lets the words hang. then—“but i’m the one you’re thinking about.”

you roll your eyes. “in your dreams.”

“you sure?” he murmurs. “’cause you’ve been thinking a lot lately.”

your stomach flips.

“i haven’t—”

“you have.” his voice is a little quieter now. “last night. in bed. alone. you tried to write, didn’t you?”

your mouth goes dry.

“i’m just guessing,” he says, like it’s no big deal. “but that look on your face says i’m right.”

you stare at him.

your mouth opens. nothing comes out. your brain is still trying to catch up to how easily he said that, how casually he put it on the table like it’s a shared observation instead of a private, humiliating thought you didn’t consent to anyone noticing.

he watches you for another second.

then he moves.

he doesn’t loom. doesn’t crowd. he just shifts, slides off the couch and down to the floor where you’re sitting cross‑legged, close enough that your knees almost brush, close enough that you can feel the heat of him without him touching you yet.

he settles there like it’s nothing. like he belongs.

“relax,” he murmurs, when you stiffen. “i’m not gonna bite.”

his knee nudges yours. barely there. accidental if anyone else were watching.

his fingers trail against the carpet, then brush your ankle like he didn’t even mean to do it—light, lazy, testing. you swear you feel it all the way up your spine.

“you’re thinking too loud,” he says quietly.

you swallow. “you’re projecting.”

he hums, amused, and tilts his head to look up at you from where he’s sitting. the angle is wrong in a way that makes your stomach flip—his eyes level with your mouth now, lashes casting shadows you absolutely do not need to be noticing.

“maybe,” he says. “or maybe i’m just good at reading people.”

his fingers shift again, knuckle grazing your calf this time, lingering for half a beat too long to be an accident.

“i bet you even thought about touching yourself to me,” he adds, voice low, almost conversational. “just once. just to see if it’d help.”

your breath stutters.

“that’s—” you start, but he cuts in gently.

“i didn’t say you did,” he says. “i said i’d bet.”

he watches your reaction like he’s collecting data.

then, because he’s cruel, because he can, he continues.

“you wanna know what i watch?” he asks, like he’s offering trivia. “since you asked ever so nicely, princess.”

you don’t answer. you can’t.

he smiles anyway.

“i like girls who don’t know they’re already gone,” he says. “girls who overthink until their bodies give them away. girls who act tough and pretend they’re judging, when really they’re wondering what it’d feel like to be handled by someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.”

his fingers tap your ankle once. twice.

“girls like you.”

the words land soft and heavy all at once.

he stands.

just like that.

no follow‑up. no pressure to respond.

he dusts his hands on his thighs, glances toward the hallway like he’s remembered something unimportant, and adds over his shoulder:

“anyway. think about it. or don’t.”

then he walks away, footsteps unhurried, leaving you sitting there with your pulse in your ears, skin buzzing where he barely touched you, mind screaming what the fuck just happened.

and worse—how easily it made sense.

—

you end up leaving yuji's later than you meant to.

not because yuji needs anything—he’s finally asleep, curled into the corner of the couch like a crime scene chalk outline, snoring softly under three layers of mismatched blankets—but because you kept thinking maybe he’d show up again.

that sukuna would walk through the kitchen for a snack, or pass behind the couch on his way to the bathroom, or offer some lazy comment just to hear himself talk.

but he doesn’t.

he disappears the way he always does—suddenly, thoroughly, like it was never about you in the first place. like he didn’t lean close, voice rough in your ear, and say things he had no business knowing.

and you? you just… keep stalling.

hovering in the kitchen too long. picking at leftover rice like it’s suddenly fascinating. checking your phone even though no one texts you except your group chat asking for notes. all the dumb little things people do when they’re trying not to seem obvious about waiting.

but eventually, you run out of reasons to stay.

so you slip your shoes back on, grab your bag, scribble a dumb little sticky note for yuji (“don’t die. hydrate. stop ordering shrimp. love u.”), and let yourself out.

the night is cold. the streetlights flicker. the walk back is too quiet and your thoughts are too loud.

you’re not even frustrated with him—not really.

you’re frustrated with yourself.

because it wasn’t supposed to get under your skin like this. it wasn’t supposed to turn you into some wound-up mess who’s too horny to function and too proud to do anything about it. he’s not even flirting—he’s just being sukuna. smug. sharp. obnoxious. too perceptive for his own good.

and now you’re stuck with the aftermath, walking briskly back to your dorm with your jaw tight and your fists jammed in your jacket pockets, brain circling the drain of every shitty fantasy you’ve accidentally conjured in the last twenty-four hours.

him on the floor beside you. the scrape of his voice. the way he looked at your mouth.

you groan. out loud. to the night air.

“ugh.”

you hate this. you hate him. you hate how easily he slips under your skin like it’s muscle memory. like you’ve always been like this—some girl with a secret soft spot for the worst possible option. except it’s not soft. it’s raw. exposed. stupid.

by the time you get to your dorm, you’re exhausted. not even from the walk. from the noise in your own head.

you drop your bag. lock the door. shed your hoodie like it’s too heavy to keep wearing.

and then you just stand there. in the middle of the room. staring at nothing.

you want—something. someone. a fix. a release.

instead, you’re alone with a blinking cursor again.

and you’re mad at the idea of touching yourself, because it feels like giving him power he doesn’t deserve. like he’d know. like he’d smirk if he ever found out.

like maybe that’s exactly what he wants.

this is stupid. you’re not doing this for him. you’re just—relieved. blowing off steam. resetting. that’s all.

you don’t even argue with yourself anymore.

you peel your jeans off, kick them aside, tug your shirt over your head and swap it for an old tank that hangs loose against your ribs.

you crawl into bed and flop onto your back, staring at the ceiling, arms thrown over your head like surrender.

for a minute, you just breathe.

then you grab your phone.

twitter loads. immediately annoying. loud. fake. you scroll anyway, irritated, thumb flicking too fast, skipping past everything that feels wrong. too polished. too forced. too obviously not him.

your brain narrows the search without asking you.

dark hair. broad shoulders. a voice that’s rough instead of performative. guys who look like they’d sit too close and talk too quietly just to see what you’d do.

it takes longer than it should, but eventually you find one that’s… close enough.

you don’t turn the volume all the way up.

you don’t really watch.

you just listen.

your free hand slips under the blanket, fingers brushing over your chest through the thin fabric of your tank. you suck in a breath when you feel how hard your nipples already are, thumb circling one, then the other, sharper this time like you’re annoyed with yourself for how easy it is.

your other hand hesitates at your waistband.

slow.

careful.

like if you go too fast you’ll have to confront what you’re doing.

“fuck,” you whisper.

you’re already wet. of course you are. slick and warm, your fingers gliding instead of dragging, your hips shifting without permission like your body’s been waiting for this all night.

you close your eyes.

it’s not the video you see.

it’s sukuna on the floor beside you. elbow on the couch. that look in his eyes when he clocked you. the way his voice dropped when he said girls like you like he knew exactly where to aim it.

your fingers press harder. move faster.

you bite your lip to keep quiet, breath breaking anyway, one hand squeezing your chest while the other works between your thighs like it knows exactly what to do even if you pretend you don’t.

“sukuna,” you breathe.

the name slips out before you can stop it.

you freeze.

eyes snapping open. heart slamming so hard it almost hurts.

did i just—

shock hits you, sharp and dizzying, embarrassment crawling up your neck. your fingers still, hovering, like you might pull away and pretend this never happened.

your thighs tremble.

you hesitate.

then—fuck it.

you keep going.

angrier now. needier. like you’re daring yourself to finish what you started. like stopping would somehow be worse. your fingers curl just right, pressure building fast, your body tensing like it recognizes the path even if your brain doesn’t want to.

you cum with a muffled gasp, face turned into your pillow, pleasure ripping through you too quick and too intense to soften. your back arches, toes curling, breath shuddering as it crests and breaks, leaving you shaking and oversensitive and stunned.

you lie there afterward, chest heaving, phone forgotten somewhere near your hip.

“what the fuck,” you whisper again.

but this time it sounds quieter. tired.

you turn the phone screen off without looking at it, tug the blanket up around you, curl onto your side like you’re trying to contain the mess of yourself.

sleep takes you fast.

before you can think too hard.

before you can decide what it means.

before you can admit that this—whatever it is—has already started.

—

his mouth is hot.

that’s the first thing you register. heat and pressure and the slow grind of his tongue as he sucks at the soft flesh just below your jaw, dragging his teeth down the column of your throat like he wants to leave something behind. a mark. a memory. ownership.

you exhale too sharp, hips jolting like he’s shocked something inside you, like the friction between your legs is suddenly the only thing tethering you to the bed. your hands find his shoulders—and you mean to push him off, to say something halfway coherent, but then—

“still with me?” sukuna murmurs, voice low, voice smug, voice so close it curls under your skin.

you nod without thinking.

“use your words, princess.”

“y-yeah,” you breathe.

his mouth twitches against your skin like he’s smiling. then he’s dragging his palm up your thigh, under your shirt, across your stomach—like he’s touching you to prove a point.

his fingers hook in the waistband of your shorts.

“we doing this?” he asks, barely a whisper.

you don’t answer fast enough.

his hand moves lower.

your breath catches.

“fuck,” you hiss, hips jerking when his fingers slide over your underwear, right where you’re warmest. “sukuna—”

“mm?” he hums, nose brushing your cheek, his thumb pressing down, circling once.

you whimper. actually whimper.

his lips graze yours.

“so fucking wet already. cute.”

his fingers slide under the waistband like they belong there.

no hesitation, no asking again, just that confident hook of his knuckles tugging your underwear down your thighs until cool air hits skin that’s already too hot, too sensitive, like your body’s been waiting longer than you have. he doesn’t rush it. of course he doesn’t. sukuna never rushes anything he knows he has control over.

“look at you,” he murmurs, thumb dragging slow and deliberate through slick heat, spreading it like he wants to see how bad it’s gotten. “barely touched and you’re already like this.”

you try to argue. it comes out as a broken sound instead.

his hand cups you fully now, palm warm, fingers long and sure, pressing just enough that your hips lift without permission, chasing it, begging without words. he clicks his tongue softly, amused.

“that’s it,” he says. “don’t think. just feel, princess.”

one finger slips in.

you gasp, sharp and helpless, back arching off the bed as the stretch punches the breath from your lungs. he waits—just a second—lets you adjust around him, lets your body realize what’s happening, how deep, how real.

then he moves.

slow at first, curling his finger just right, finding something inside you that makes your vision blur instantly, that has your thighs trembling and your hands clawing at the sheets like you might disappear if you don’t hold onto something.

“there,” he says quietly. “that’s the part you’re supposed to write about.”

you sob his name.

his second finger slides in easily, obscene in how natural it feels, how full you are, how your body opens for him like it’s muscle memory instead of fantasy. he sets a rhythm that’s cruelly unhurried, fingers working you open, thumb circling your clit in lazy, exact strokes that make your legs shake uncontrollably.

you can’t breathe. you can’t think. every sound you make feels too loud, too needy, but he doesn’t stop — just watches you fall apart under his hand like this is the lesson, like this is what he’s been trying to teach you all along.

“close,” he murmurs, voice right in your ear now. “i can feel it. don’t fight it.”

you shatter.

it rolls through you all at once—tight and overwhelming and white-hot—your body clenching hard around his fingers as you cry out, back bowing, pleasure ripping through you so fast and so intensely it leaves you dizzy, ruined, shaking.

his fingers keep moving through it, slow and deep, drawing it out until your legs give out completely.

“good,” he says softly.

and you wake up with a gasp.

heart pounding. sheets twisted around your legs. underwear damp and unmistakable, heat still throbbing between your thighs like your body hasn’t caught up yet.

your dorm room is dark. silent. empty.

no sukuna. no weight beside you. no voice in your ear.

just the hum of the radiator. the glow of your phone on the nightstand. and the horrifying realization settling in all at once.

oh my god.

you press the heels of your hands to your face, mortified, pulse still racing, slick evidence cooling against your skin.

and worse—much, much worse —your body is still aching for him.

you lie there for a second too long, staring at the ceiling like it might scold you into sanity, heart still kicking hard, your phone buzzes once on the nightstand—nothing important, just a notification—but it snaps something in you anyway.

before you can talk yourself out of it, you grab it.

it reads sunday, 12:23 am.

your fingers hover over his name.

don’t, you think.

why would you do that.

you do it anyway.

you: are you still at yuji’s?

the typing bubble doesn’t appear right away, and that somehow makes it worse. your stomach churns. you toss the phone onto the bed like it burned you, then immediately snatch it back up again, pacing the narrow strip of floor between your desk and the door.

why did i ask that.

what am i even doing.

the phone buzzes.

sukuna: yea. why?

two words. calm. unbothered.

you swallow hard, pulse spiking all over again like your body doesn’t understand the difference between dream and reality yet. your thumbs fly, backspace, hover.

you: just wondering you: didn’t know if you went back to your dorm

you stare at the screen, mortified by how obvious that sounds. he doesn’t respond immediately this time, and the silence stretches, loud and humiliating.

your skin still feels too tight. too warm. like the night clung to you and didn’t let go.

shower, your brain supplies, desperate. now.

you drop the phone face-down on the bed, grab a towel from the hook behind the door, yank your shower caddy off the shelf with a little more force than necessary. shampoo clatters, loofah tangles around your wrist. you don’t care.

as you head down the hall, your phone buzzes again.

sukuna: nah. told you i'm staying the night.

you freeze for half a second, fingers tightening around the towel.

of course he is.

you don’t reply.

you just keep walking, push into the bathroom, lock the door behind you like that might lock the thoughts out too. you turn the water on hot—too hot—steam already starting to curl up toward the ceiling as you strip and step under it, shoulders sagging the second it hits.

you let the water run over you, over your face, your hair, like you can wash the night away. like you can rinse the image of his hands, his voice, the way your body reacted, right out of your system.

it doesn’t work.

you’re still in the shower when you cave.

steam thick in the air, water beating down on your neck, your leg propped awkwardly against the tile wall as you shave like you’re training for the olympics, hands moving fast, razor slipping dangerously close to uneven territory. your breath’s coming too fast to blame on the temperature alone.

your phone’s on the counter, screen lit up, mist curling around the edges.

you lunge for it, still wet, fingers fumbling.

you: i changed my mind you: i’ll take you up on that offer

the second you hit send, your stomach turns over on itself.

a moment later:

sukuna: thought you might sukuna: send the addy

you hesitate.

then:

you: here’s my address you: just knock

you stare at it for a beat. three dots flicker at the bottom, disappear.

you brace both hands on the sink and take a breath like you’re about to dive underwater. everything’s too hot. too real. too fast.

you wipe the fog from the mirror.

look at yourself—damp towel slung across your chest, bare skin flushed from heat and adrenaline, water still dripping from your collarbones.

your pulse thrums low in your stomach, relentless.

why does this feel like it matters.

you rinse fast, too fast. nearly trip getting out, towel half-tucked and slipping, legs damp and goosebumped. you moisturize like you’re trying to erase every imperfection, swipe deodorant like he’s gonna be under your arms, shii he might tug on a loose tank and shorts with a matching set underneath and immediately regret both.

you light a candle. you fluff the pillows. you curse yourself out under your breath.

then you sit on the edge of the bed, staring at the door like you’ll be able to hear his footsteps from the stairs.

your phone buzzes.

sukuna: on my way

you don’t respond.

you asked.

he’s coming.

and you don’t know what’s about to happen.

you try sitting.

you really do.

you sit on the edge of your bed, legs crossed like you’re calm, like you’re centered, like you didn’t just text sukuna in the middle of the night and invite him over like a fucking lunatic. you rest your hands in your lap. you stare at the candle.

ten seconds.

then you’re up again.

you pace to the door. check the lock. double check. you twist the knob and relock it just to make sure. you wipe your palms on your shorts. you glance in the mirror. turn sideways. frown. adjust your top. fix your hair. unfix your hair. tug the neckline lower. regret it.

you check your phone.

nothing new.

you open the window for air.

you close it immediately when it makes the candle flicker too hard.

you practice what you’ll say.

“thanks for coming, this won’t take long.”

“i just want clarity, nothing else.”

“this is for the project, nothing more.”

you say them out loud. again. and again.

you try not to think about his hands. his mouth. the way he looked half-asleep and annoyed and hot for no reason.

you try not to think about the dream. the part where he said you were wet. the part where he wasn’t wrong.

you try not to picture how this could go. where it could go. how it might go if you just stop pretending you're normal.

you press your knuckles to your mouth and whisper: what am i doing.

and then—a heavy knock.

you freeze.

you stare at the door like it’s a fucking ghost.

he knocks again. two slower taps this time.

you grab your phone and check the screen like it might offer a reason not to open it. no new texts.

you swallow hard.

then cross the room—step by slow step—and place your hand on the knob.

your heart hammers.

you invited this.

you twist.

and open the door.

he sees everything in one sweep: the dim glow, the towel still damp on the rack, the nervous way you're standing like you forgot how posture works. the smell of whatever you used in the shower clings to the air—sweet, soft, flustered.

his gaze slides over you.

you forget how to breathe for half a second.

“huh,” he says, smirking like he’s already solved the whole puzzle. “romantic.”

you flush instantly. “i wasn’t trying to—i mean—”

“sure,” he says, like he’s humoring you, stepping inside only once you move aside.

you hover, awkward, near the desk while he takes his time scanning your space like he’s evaluating it—picking it apart. then he sinks into your desk chair like it was always meant for him, legs spreading wide, thighs draped in those same loose sweats, forearms resting on the arms of the chair like he’s claiming territory.

he looks up at you, smug. “well?”

you swallow. “i had some—questions. notes. i thought maybe—”

you falter. it sounds fucking stupid now. everything you rehearsed in your head twenty times, all the clever ways you were gonna make it sound academic, detached, like this wasn’t weird—

“is this weird?” you blurt. “i feel like it’s weird. it is weird, right?”

his brow ticks up. that smirk stays.

“you’re the one who invited me, sweetheart,” he says, tone light. “i was minding my business.”

“i know, i just—” you fidget with the hem of your tank. “it’s just a project, but it’s not a project, and now you’re here and you’re sitting like that and it’s just—i don’t know, maybe this was dumb.”

he exhales through his nose. gets up slow, like he’s giving you a chance to walk it back.

“if you’re not ready, fine,” he says. “i can go.”

he looks down at your grip. your fingers on his skin. then back up at you.

you let go too fast. step back like you’re embarrassed. he doesn’t laugh.

just nods, like that’s all he needed.

“then stop wasting time,” he says. “sit.”

you blink. “sit?”

he tilts his head, gestures to the rug between his legs. “on the floor.”

“…why?”

“because i said so.”

you obey before you even think about it, slipping to your knees on the soft rug. the heat from his body hits you like a wall, his legs bracketing you from behind as he leans forward, his breath ghosting the back of your neck.

“close your eyes,” he murmurs.

you do.

“if you were writing this,” he says, voice low and right at your ear, “where would he touch her first?”

you hesitate. “her face?”

his hand ghosts your jaw. barely there.

“boring,” he murmurs.

you bite your lip. “her—her waist?”

his palm brushes your ribs. then withdraws. “warmer.”

you breathe uneven. “her.. neck?”

a low sound hums from his chest. not quite agreement. not quite praise.

just noted.

and then—his knuckles graze the slope of your throat, light as a whisper, slow as a secret.

you jerk, not from fear, but from how exposed it makes you feel. how easily he could tighten his fingers. how quickly he could tip your chin and make you look at him.

how easily you’d let him.

“sensitive, huh,” he murmurs behind you, and you can hear the shape of his smirk in the way the words curl at the edges.

like he’s already writing this scene for you. like you’re just here to confirm it.

your heart knocks hard behind your ribs. you want to play it cool.

but his voice—it’s so soft. like he’s in no rush. like he enjoys this part.

“tell me why,” he says, still close to your ear. “why would a guy touch her here first?”

you try to find your voice. it sticks. your mouth is too dry.

“because it’s…intimate,” you say, quiet.

his thumb presses—just barely—at the hollow of your throat.

you swear you stop breathing altogether.

“that all?” he asks, like he’s testing you.

you scramble for more. “it’s—it’s not sexual, not right away. it builds tension. it’s suggestive. it makes her aware of her whole body.”

there’s a pause.

then, low and pleased: “good girl.”

you swallow like it burns. your thighs clench.

“what next?” he asks.

your brain short-circuits. you can’t think of words, only feelings. only the place his hand used to be. only the way your nipples have gone stiff under your tank, how your skin feels too tight everywhere.

“…her legs,” you say.

“where?” he prompts.

“her thighs.”

“too vague.”

your breath stutters. your chest lifts with it, and the air feels different now, heavier.

you try again. “the inside of her thighs.”

a beat. then—

“getting there.”

his palm ghosts over your knee. slides up, slow, until the heat of it hovers just shy of where you’re starting to throb, and that’s where he pauses—just rests it there.

“why?”

you swallow, hard. “because—because it’s close but not—”

“not what?”

“not where she wants it.”

you can hear the smile in his voice. “and where does she want it?”

your mouth opens. nothing comes out.

he leans in.

“say it.”

you flinch. “between her legs.”

“where?”

you shake your head, whispering, “i can’t—”

his breath skims your ear. “sure you can. you’re the writer, right?”

he waits.

“her—her pussy.”

and god, it burns, saying it out loud like that, but he hums like it pleases him, like he’s filing that sound away somewhere dark.

“good girl,” he says, and it shoots straight through you like lightning.

you gasp, and his hand curls tighter on your thigh like he heard it. like it confirms something.

“but,” he murmurs, tone dipping softer, more dangerous, “he doesn’t go there yet.”

you’re panting now. still kneeling. your thighs tense, your hips tilted ever so slightly toward him without meaning to.

“he wants her desperate,” sukuna goes on, and his other hand slides around your waist—light pressure, anchoring you there. “wants her to ask.”

you nod, barely.

he smirks. “and you? what do you want?”

your voice cracks. “i don’t know.”

he brushes your rib again. still not touching your chest. still ignoring the way your nipples are aching under your tank. you hate him. you want him to stop. you want him to never stop.

“that’s a lie,” he says, calm as ever. “try again.”

you’re shaking. “i want—i want more.”

he smiles like you said exactly what he wanted. but he doesn’t give you anything. just shifts a little behind you, one leg bracketing your hip, body like heat, like gravity, like ruin.

“and if you were writing this,” he breathes into your neck, “what would she say when he makes her wait?”

you shut your eyes. try not to whimper. try not to beg.

you say, soft, “please.”

he exhales through his nose. satisfied.

his hand trails up your thigh again, slow, torturous, stopping right at the seam of your panties—and you swear your whole body flinches forward just to chase it. but he doesn’t move. doesn’t press.

just leaves his hand there, over the heat of you.

then—he shifts behind you. one arm sliding around your waist, the other bracing beneath your thighs—and before you can react, he lifts you. not like you’re heavy. like you’re inevitable.

you gasp, breath catching, hands flying up to anchor against his chest as he pulls you into his lap and sets you there, knees straddling his thighs, heat pooling where your body meets his.

“eyes on me,” he says, low, like it’s a favor. like it’s a command.

you obey before you even think about it.

his face is so close now. his hand rests light on your hip. his other fingers skim your spine, tracing lazy half-circles like he’s not already drawing full-body answers from you.

“you know how to kiss?” he asks, like it’s a real question. like it’s on the syllabus.

your breath stutters. “y-yeah.”

his mouth curves. “you sure?”

you stiffen slightly. “i’ve done it before.”

“that’s not what i asked.”

your mouth parts, but no defense comes out.

his thumb lifts to your chin, tilts your face. he studies you—every little twitch, every skip in your pulse like he can read it through your skin. his voice lowers.

“you want me to show you?”

your heart’s in your throat. your chest tightens like it can’t hold all this in. “i…”

his nose almost brushes yours. his breath fans against your lips.

“you can’t write it if you don’t know how it feels,” he murmurs.

you nod, barely. and that’s all it takes.

his hand at your jaw tilts, lifts. your nose brushes his. your mouth parts before you even mean to—like instinct, like muscle memory, like something in you’s already decided. your breath stutters when his thumb grazes your lower lip.

he watches your hesitation like it’s cute.

and then he kisses you.

not deep, not yet—just a soft drag, a test, his mouth slipping slow over yours like he’s trying to prove something, like he’s showing you how it’s supposed to feel when it’s not performative, not desperate, not trying to win anything—just there.

and when you shift like you’re not sure where to put your hands, he grabs your wrists and guides them up—pulls them around his neck, like this, here, hold on.

you do.

you melt into him.

your fingers knot in the hair at his nape just as his lips part against yours, deepening it—wet now, warmer, his tongue teasing slow, like he’s got time to savor how fast you’re unraveling. your hips squirm before you can stop them,

and that’s when his hands move—down your sides, over your hips, firm and dragging, until they’re settled at your ass, holding, gripping, manipulating—and you realize a second too late what he’s doing.

he rolls you against him.

and he’s hard.

not fully, not all the way—but growing, thick under the soft barrier of his sweats, and you feel it when he shifts again, dragging your clothed heat over the shape of him like he knows what it’s doing to you. like he wants to make sure you know, too.

you gasp into his mouth.

he doesn’t stop kissing you.

just swallows the sound. tightens his grip. rocks you again, slow.

and fuck, you’re already wet.

your tank top’s half-ridden up. your thighs ache from tension. your mouth is slick and buzzing and open under his and you can’t even tell if you’re kissing him back right anymore or if he’s just kissing you until your brain gives up and lets your body want.

he pulls back barely, breath hot against your lips.

“not bad,” he murmurs, cocky. “but you’re still thinking too much.”

and then he kisses you again before you can answer. deeper. dirtier. wetter.

like he’s fixing it himself.

and you don’t know what makes you do it—somewhere between humiliation and adrenaline, between his voice in your ear and the weight of his hands still holding you like he wants something more from you—you lurch forward before he can kiss you again and catch his bottom lip between your teeth.

soft, at first.

then a little harder.

his breath hitches like he didn’t expect it.

you suck lightly, just enough to make him feel it, just enough to taste the gasp he doesn’t let out, and then you slip your tongue into his mouth—confident, slick, matching his rhythm from earlier but slower, dirtier, wet in the way that makes your thighs twitch and your chest tighten and your brain shut off for real this time.

he lets you.

lets you take it.

moans—actually moans—into your mouth when your hips shift forward, grinding down against him on instinct, like your body’s just figured out what it wants and decided to go after it.

you feel him twitch under you. feel him respond.

and when he exhales into your mouth—tight, ragged, like fuck, okay—his hands flex at your hips, then slide down in one long pull, dragging over your ass like he needs something to hold on to, and pushes up into you, slow and hard, meeting your grind with the kind of pressure that makes your breath catch and your cunt clench.

he’s hard now.

not just getting there—there.

and it makes something click in you. makes you bolder. makes you whimper a little into the kiss and tilt your hips again, chasing that friction like it might give you answers, like it might finish what the last night started.

your tank top’s half-ridden up. your thighs ache from tension. your mouth is slick and buzzing and open under his, and you can’t even tell if you’re leading anymore or if you just unlocked something he’d been waiting to release—because now he’s kissing you back rougher, hungrier, teeth catching yours, tongue stroking deeper like he’s reclaiming it.

he breaks the kiss for a second—just enough to pant against your mouth.

“…didn’t know you had that in you.”

he doesn’t break the kiss when he stands.

that’s the thing that gets you—the way his mouth stays on yours even as his hands tighten on your hips, even as the floor disappears under your feet and you make a startled sound into his mouth that he swallows immediately, tongue pressing in like quiet, like i’ve got you.

you barely have time to register it before he lifts you fully, solid and effortless, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carries you across the room like this is obvious, like this is where you were always headed.

the bed hits the back of your knees.

then the mattress.

he drops you down and follows you immediately, palms bracketing your head as he hovers over you, body a heat-heavy presence between your thighs, mouth still on yours, still kissing you like he’s proving a point.

he doesn’t break the kiss when he stands.

that’s the thing that gets you—the way his mouth stays on yours even as his hands tighten on your hips, even as the floor disappears under your feet and you make a startled sound into his mouth that he swallows immediately, tongue pressing in like quiet, like i’ve got you.

you barely have time to register it before he lifts you fully, solid and effortless, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist as he carries you across the room like this is obvious, like this is where you were always headed.

the bed hits the back of your knees.

then the mattress.

he drops you down—not rough, but decisive—and follows you immediately, palms bracketing your head as he hovers over you, body a heat-heavy presence between your thighs, mouth still on yours, still kissing you like he’s proving a point.

your hands are everywhere. his shoulders. his neck. his back. you feel the flex of muscle under your fingers, the way his weight shifts to keep from crushing you while still making you feel it.

his kisses turn slower. wetter. open-mouthed and tongue dragging against yours like he’s tasting instead of taking now, like he’s savoring the way you sound when you gasp.

his mouth leaves yours just long enough to trail down your jaw, your throat, teeth scraping lightly where your pulse jumps hardest.

“fuck,” you breathe, barely realizing you said it out loud.

his hands slide down your sides, thumbs brushing under your tank, fingers spreading over your ribs, your waist, your hips—grounding, claiming, mapping you like he’s memorizing the shape of you under his palms.

your body moves before your brain catches up.

maybe it’s instinct. maybe it’s frustration. maybe it’s the way he’s everywhere except where you need him.

you reach down.

your fingers brush him through his sweats—hot, hard, there—and you curl your hand around him without thinking, without planning, without permission.

his groan is immediate. low. rough. it vibrates straight through you.

“—fuck.”

for half a second, you think you’ve done it. you think you crossed the line and he’s going to let you have it.

then his hand closes around your wrist.

firm. not angry. not panicked.

“no,” he says, voice tight now, restraint threading through it like steel. he pulls your hand away from him and pins it beside your head, fingers lacing with yours just to make the point stick. “not yet.”

your chest heaves. your legs shift under him, needy, aching.

“why—” you start, breathless.

he dips his head, forehead brushing yours, nose nudging your cheek, voice dropping back into that maddening calm.

“because,” he murmurs, “you’re grabbing for the ending.”

his thumb strokes once over your knuckles, almost gentle. almost affectionate.

“and i’m still teaching you the middle.”

his free hand slides up your stomach—palm broad and warm and maddening—until it rests under the swell of your chest, not quite cupping. just waiting. like he’s listening to your heartbeat there.

“you keep getting shy,” he murmurs. “but you’ve got all these ideas, don’t you?”

your lips part. your throat’s dry. “i…”

his head tilts. he studies your face like a text he’s annotating. like every glance is a margin note you’ll have to answer for later.

“what do you like?” he asks, simple as a quiz. like it’s an easy question. like there’s a right answer and he already knows it.

you freeze. “i—i don’t know.”

he hums, skeptical. “sure you do.”

his hand trails higher, up to the hem of your tank, fingers dipping under like he’s flipping a page. your breath hitches again.

“you liked that earlier,” he murmurs, brushing your ribs, “when i touched here.”

you nod, barely.

“and here,” he adds, palm spreading over your waist again, squeezing, slow and firm.

you nod again.

he leans down, lips near your throat. “what about this?” his thumb brushes the side of your breast, not quite touching your nipple. just teasing. just hovering like it’s a privilege.

you make a noise in your throat. embarrassed. startled. needy.

“hm?” he prompts, voice darker. “you like your tits played with?”

you flinch. “i—i don’t know. i haven’t—”

he pulls back just enough to meet your eyes. “haven’t what?”

you whisper, “no one’s ever done it like that before.”

he grins slow. wicked. fucking delighted.

“no?” his voice dips like it’s velvet dragging across skin. “want me to try?”

your lips part. “i—yeah. okay.”

“okay,” he echoes, already dragging your tank top down with both hands, peeling it under your tits so they spill out, flushed and stiff, nipples peaked from cold and contact and god knows what else. “that’s cute.”

he palms one softly, then both—squeezes just enough to make your hips jerk under him, then thumbs over your nipples like he’s testing pressure, testing reaction, testing how fast he can get you to writhe.

your head tilts back with a whimper. he watches the whole thing, like a study in cause and effect.

“sensitive,” he murmurs, again, almost fond this time. “look at you.”

you do, barely—eyes half-lidded, throat exposed, chest heaving under his hands—and he leans down and mouths over one nipple, wet and sudden and warm, and fuck, it’s worse than you imagined. better. softer. hotter.

he licks slow, then sucks.

you gasp.

your back arches into his mouth before you can stop it.

his hand is still around your wrist, keeping you from grabbing him again, but his other palm strokes down your waist as he sucks your tit into his mouth and hums like he could stay there forever. like he enjoys this more than he should.

you whine. legs tightening. core clenching.

and all he says is, “yeah… you like this,” with your nipple still wet between his teeth.

and then he does it again. harder. longer.

and you nearly sob.

he licks and sucks his way back up—tongue warm against the curve of your breast, mouth dragging heat straight across your chest, up your sternum, wet and unhurried, like he’s claiming everything you are one inch at a time. like you’re something sweet he can’t stop tasting.

his hands don’t rush. they stay low, supportive. one cradling your lower back. the other stroking over your side, fingers grazing the slope of your waist like he’s petting down a shiver.

you breathe, ragged. you feel everything.

then he reaches your neck—and fuck, you thought his mouth was sinful on your tits but here, it’s worse. better. his teeth scrape under your jaw and you gasp, hips jerking into his lap on instinct.

“still nervous?” he murmurs against your pulse, voice sticky and smug.

you try to speak. it comes out a breath. “no.”

he hums, not convinced, and then sinks his teeth in gently—not hard enough to bruise, but enough to jolt something warm and dangerous straight down your spine. you moan, barely, just a sound from the back of your throat, and he chases it immediately with his tongue, soothing the bite with lazy licks, sucking the spot once, twice, before trailing higher.

then your ear—he doesn’t skip it. doesn’t ignore the way you tense the second his breath hits the shell of it. he drags his lips up the curve, then down behind it, tongue soft. teasing. slow.

you let out something between a whimper and a curse.

his voice is soft there, right against your skin. “you always this sensitive?”

“not—normally,” you whisper.

he grins against your ear. “guess you just needed the right study partner.”

you barely have time to respond before he’s kissing you again.

sloppy. hot. tongue-first. not patient anymore—like he’s been holding back and now he’s tasting how wrecked you are. your hands scramble for his shoulders, clumsy, needy, fingers fisting in the back of his shirt like you’re afraid you’ll fall right through him.

and he lets you. lets you take it.

but while your mouth is opening for him again—while your thighs are twitching and your stomach’s fluttering and your body’s starting to catch on to just how deeply he’s unraveling you—his hand moves again.

low.

lower.

his fingers brush over your pussy through your shorts.

barely. just a pass.

but it’s enough to steal every thought out of your skull.

you break the kiss on a gasp. he doesn’t let you go far. just chases your lips with his own, nipping the bottom one as his fingers drag over you again, slow, like he’s learning the shape of the heat there. like he’s checking to see if it’s real.

you can’t stop the way you whimper. or the way your hips try to press down.

his smile is fucking audible. “already?”

your breath stutters.

“thought you were gonna be a good girl and wait for instruction,” he murmurs, kissing the corner of your mouth, “but look at you. grinding like you need it.”

you shake your head weakly. “i’m not—i wasn’t—”

he strokes the seam of your shorts again, firmer this time, right over your clit.

you cry out softly. your nails dig into his shoulders.

he groans, low, satisfied. “mm. that’s more like it.”

“can i take these off?”

you nod, too fast. “yeah.”

your voice is high, wrecked. you sound too eager. you don’t care.

he shifts, slides the waistband down slow, thumbs hooking into the sides like he wants to make a scene of it, like it’s important he gets the angle right. your hips lift for him instinctively, and he hums a little like he likes that, like he noticed you offering yourself up without even thinking.

when the fabric drags down your thighs—slow, teasing, heat-sticky—he pauses.

his eyes drop.

and he actually stops breathing for a second.

“…fuck,” he mutters.

you freeze. “what?”

“these,” he says, thumbing the lace, “are ridiculous.”

they’re not. they’re cute. pale and soft, trimmed with little bows.

but he looks at you like you just stepped out of a fantasy he didn’t know he had.

his fingers brush the waistband again, lighter this time. “you always wear shit like this under your writing hoodie?”

you try to sit up, suddenly flustered. “i didn’t know you were gonna—”

he cuts you off with a grin, soft and smug. “i didn’t say i didn’t like them.”

his knuckle grazes the tiny bow at the center. “they’re pretty.”

your stomach flips.

“too pretty,” he adds, dragging the panties down the rest of the way. “almost a shame.”

“almost?” you whisper.

he brushes his nose right up the inside of your thigh, breath hot against your skin, like he’s following the heat of you.

his eyes flick back up—hungry, warm. “i’m not gonna feel bad if they get a little ruined.”

his hands slide up your legs, thumbs grazing the crease where your thighs meet your hips, settling just beneath the fabric. and for a second, he doesn’t do anything. just looks at you from down there—like he’s cataloging, committing, planning. like this isn’t just curiosity. it’s fucking reconnaissance.

you shift. inhale. exhale. it doesn't help.

his fingers press into your thighs, spreading them wider, tugging you closer to the edge of the bed, until you’re practically tilted forward and gasping already, your tank top bunched under your arms, your stomach tight, your pulse wild.

then—

his tongue presses through the fabric.

and it’s filthy. hot and slick and entirely too much even though you’re still covered, his mouth working slowly like he’s trying to taste you through the lace, open-mouthed licks dragging up the center seam while his hands squeeze your thighs like he’s got you locked in place.

you whimper. bite down on the sound. his eyes flash.

“don’t hold back,” he murmurs into you. “i want to hear it.”

your hips stutter forward, chasing him. he pulls back just enough to breathe, lips slick, smirk blooming wide across his face.

“yeah,” he says, voice gone hoarse, “you’re definitely a writer. dramatic little thing.”

he licks you again. slower. this time, the pressure rolls over your clit with enough heat to make your legs jump. and you can’t stay quiet—can’t stay still—you arch up, one hand shooting out behind you to brace on the sheets, the other fisting in the hem of your shirt like it’s the only thing anchoring you.

he groans, soft, like he likes the way you move. the way you shake. the way you’re already this wet for him and he hasn’t even taken them off yet.

then he does.

hooking his thumbs in the waistband, he drags them down slow—teasing, watching your face the whole time like he’s studying what embarrassment looks like when it hits your cheeks, your collarbone, the curve of your bare, glistening pussy in the cold air of his room.

“fuck,” he says, low and reverent. “look at you.”

you can’t.

you can barely breathe.

“spread wider,” he murmurs, voice low, like it’s for the room more than for you.

you’re already panting. already slick and wrecked, thighs trembling on either side of his shoulders, but you do it—you obey without thinking, feet dragging wider over the sheets, knees bent up, nothing covering you now, not even the panties he’d peeled off like wrapping paper.

“fuck—look at you,” he mutters again, more to himself, like he’s taking notes. “pretty pussy already fluttering and i haven’t even touched your clit yet.”

“you did—” you gasp, sharp—“you did earlier—”

he laughs. laughs, mouth warm and wet where it’s already hovering over you, breath ghosting the slick mess of your cunt like a warning. “that was nothing,” he says, dragging his tongue up the center seam just once, slow, all tease, no pressure, “that was a warm-up.”

you flinch. your head tips back. your hips jerk forward—need before thought.

his fingers press down into your thighs. “keep still.”

“i’m trying—”

“try harder,” he says, like he’s teaching you how to hold a pen properly.

you breathe like it hurts. you feel hot, head spinning, mouth open to moan but it’s all breath, no sound. his tongue traces your folds again—no hurry, no rhythm, just methodical, exploratory strokes like he’s figuring out what parts make you jolt and twitch, what spots make your breathing shift and your hands scramble up the bed like you’re trying to run away from the feeling.

you moan. “sukuna—”

he hums against you. your back arches.

“tell me what that felt like,” he says, pulling back, mouth slick, voice serious. “right now. describe it.”

you blink through haze. “it was—it was—fuck—it felt—”

he slides two fingers up your slit, slow, parting you open. “you’re a writer, aren’t you?”

you sob. “warm,” you manage. “and slow. and—wet. deep.”

he nods, satisfied. “good.”

then—his mouth’s on you for real.

you scream, basically, or whimper like something feral, one hand flying to cover your mouth while the other fists the sheets. your hips roll. your thighs clamp. your chest rises like you’re choking on heat and sensation.

he moans into your cunt—on purpose, loud—and it sends a shock through your body so hard you nearly sob.

“s-stop—” you gasp, but you don’t mean it, and he knows it.

“no you don’t,” he mumbles against you.

his fingers slide in.

thick.

slow.

the stretch of it nearly takes you apart, two of them pumping steady while his mouth circles your clit and you’re losing it, like completely. no plan. no dignity. no plot left in your head at all.

“what do you say when it feels that good?” he asks, not even lifting his head.

you pant. “i—thank you?”

he laughs again. “no,” he says, curling his fingers just right, making you choke, “you ask.”

“ask—?”

he licks you again. sucks again.

you cry out. “please—!”

“hm?” he pulls back. “please what?”

your voice cracks. “please let me—please let me cum—”

“why?”

you blink at him, glazed. “w-what?”

“tell me why you deserve it.”

“i don’t—i—i can’t—fuck—” your thighs twitch, trying to close again. he pushes them back apart.

he curls his fingers deeper, tongue flicking again, faster.

“you’re gonna cum anyway,” he murmurs, amused. “might as well earn it.”

“because—” you sob, high-pitched, “because i want it—because i need it, i swear—please—”

his mouth closes over you again, and this time he doesn’t stop.

doesn’t pull back.

doesn’t tease.

just devours you.

his fingers never falter, fucking you open while his tongue presses your clit into a constant throb, and you’re not even breathing anymore, you’re gasping, you’re grinding your hips into his face now, you’re whining like an animal, like a slut, like a student who finally gave up and admitted she wants to be taught—

—and when you cum, it’s like everything stops.

it’s so wet, you can hear it.

it’s so hot, you forget how to move.

your legs lock up around his head. your hips buck once. your back arches off the bed as your mouth drops open, a long, broken moan falling from it like confession.

and he stays there, tongue softening, licking through the aftershocks like dessert, until your thighs shake and your pussy pulses and you push at his shoulder, begging him—begging—for a break.

when he pulls back, his mouth is glossy. flushed. still smirking.

“good girl,” he says, wiping his thumb over your slit one last time.

you twitch. you gasp.

you don’t know who you are anymore.

you’re still twitching when he shifts down.

still trying to catch your breath.

your legs part instinctively—an offering, a warning, an invitation you couldn’t take back if you tried.

“relax,” he murmurs, voice a rasp against your inner thigh. “not gonna make you cum again.”

you whimper. “i—i can’t—”

“i know.”

his hands anchor you open again anyway, firm on the backs of your thighs, keeping you spread, keeping you honest, and his mouth dips one more time, down, down, down—

—and kisses your clit.

just once. just a kiss.

a wet, closed-mouth press that turns your whole body to glass, that makes your hips jump and your thighs tremble and your breath hitch like you know he did it just to see if you’d beg for more.

you almost do.

you feel it for a lifetime.

“mm,” he hums against you, and the vibration shoots through your cunt like a punishment. “still twitchy.”

your voice breaks. “that was—”

“what?” he murmurs, glancing up with that gleam in his eye. “too much?”

you swallow. “too good.”

he grins. kisses it again.

lighter. shorter. more like a thank you than a threat.

you moan before you can stop it.

he breathes out a laugh.

“still so sensitive,” he says. “guess we’ll save the rest for next time.”

then he drags his mouth back up your body—slow, wet kisses over your hipbone, your ribs, the curve of your breast, the underside of your jaw. he sucks your skin like he’s tasting a story he wrote first.

“n-next time?”

when his mouth finds yours again, you’re still slick and open and ruined.

and you kiss him back like it’s the only thing keeping you alive.

you whimper.

then he stands.

and it’s ridiculous, the way your whole body feels it, like pressure dropping from the ceiling, like heat pulling away from your skin all at once. like something just got taken away before you even had it.

you’re flushed. trembling. panting like you just ran a mile, thighs aching, nerves shot, breath hitching every time his scent brushes the back of your throat.

your chest rises and falls like a warning. your core pulses like an afterthought.

his gaze drags over you once, then dips lower.

“rewrite the scene,” he says. “send it to me.”

your mouth is open, but no sound comes out.

he turns.

the door swings open.

he doesn’t look back.

his scent lingers. his voice lingers worse.

the silence rushes in like a wave.

you don’t move. not for a long time.

you don’t know how.

you’re still on your back, legs numb, lips parted and swollen, pulse still caught in that place just below your bellybutton where everything feels wrong and raw and so, so ready for more.

you close your eyes. you breathe in slow. you try to ground yourself.

but there’s no coming back from this.

no neutral after that.

the cursor’s still blinking on your laptop.

you reach for it like you’re in a trance, fingers trembling, breath shuddering as you drag the computer onto your lap, still kneeling, still sticky, still wearing nothing but the throb between your thighs.

you know exactly what you’re gonna write next.

…

after the game, azzi swears she sees the blonde everywhere she goes. unfortunately, blondie always sees her and leaves before azzi can say a word to her.

she knows she’s best friends with kate martin, who is on the soccer team. they’re practically inseparable, almost to the point where azzi considers if they’re dating. but that couldn’t be true, since she’s pretty sure kate has slept with half the campus. open relationship maybe? azzi didn’t judge. she could technically dm kate and ask about her, but they’re not really close like that. it’d probably sound weird.

she looked through kate’s following list the day after the game, but never found the woman. there was zero trace of her on kate’s page, too. she was a complete mystery, and azzi had to figure her out.

azzi found out that she’s had econ with the girl all semester, but they always sit on complete opposite sides of the room. today, azzi decides she’s going to stand outside the lecture hall thirty minutes early to not miss the blonde girl walking in.

but eventually, thirty minutes reduce to twenty, and twenty minutes reduce to ten. usually, she’s here before azzi, and azzi’s always here at least fifteen minutes early.

azzi doesn’t give up hope yet, staying outside for a few more minutes. when the blonde girl ends up not making an appearance at all, azzi starts to wonder if she’s the problem.

as class goes by (very slowly) she decides that she’s going to stop seeking her out, and instead will wait for her to magically appear somehow.

and it seems like fate is on her side, because just hours later, azzi sees her eating in the dining hall alone. perfect. she moves out of the way enough that blondie won’t see her, but enough to ensure she has a perfect view of her.

she stands behind a corner, almost stalkerish, and watches her every move.

azzi notices she’s not eating her food, just poking at it like a sad puppy. speaking of sad, blondie looks like she just got news that her dog got ran over. azzi wants to go and comfort her, but she stays back for a few more minutes, not wanting to seem like a stalker (even though she definitely fit the role.)

after a few moments, she glances down at the table, picking up her phone and sighing, like it took all of her energy to do so. as she listens to the person on the other line, she just mutters a few words back before hanging up. when she sets her phone back down, she looks like she’s going to cry. her head falls into her hands, and she grips her hair. azzi can’t tell if it’s frustration or her trying to keep her composure.

she takes a few deep breaths to calm herself, before picking at her food again. shit. this was making azzi sad.

everyone knew kate on campus. azzi has heard whispers about her best friend, but she’s never really gotten a close look at the woman. obviously, she liked her space. azzi never saw her at parties, and the first time she’d ever seen her doing something mildly entertaining was the basketball game.

and azzi didn’t really understand why. she was straight (at least, she thought), but anyone with eyes could see that blondie was an extremely attractive woman. so why did she seem so uninterested in everything besides school and kate?

shit, maybe they were dating. open relationship, maybe? azzi didn’t judge.

eventually, she decides she can’t watch blondie sulk any longer. she steps out from the corner she was standing behind, and blondie definitely spots her. this time, azzi’s too close for her to run away. score. blondie focuses on her plate, as if it will make her magically vanish, and azzi knows she’s won.

when she finally reaches the table, she sits in front of her and says, maybe a little bit too enthusiastically, “hi, i’m azzi,” as she puts her hand out.

blondie’s eyes widen and her face turns bright red, and azzi thinks it’s the sweetest thing in the world. she wonders if she gets this way with everyone. it’s so cute. she’s so cute. in a completely friendly, platonic way.

well, that’s if blondie wants to be friends with her.

she reaches her hand up to meet azzi’s, and finally replies. “uh — hi.” blondie stumbles, and she looks like she wants to leave, but it’s too late. azzi’s got her stuck. “paige. i’m paige.”

azzi smiles, but not in a condescending way. she doesn’t want to scare paige away again. “paige. that’s a pretty name,” azzi giggles, repeating it in her mind. “i saw you at the game on saturday.”

paige flushes, clearly surprised azzi remembered her. jesus, does this woman know how endearing she is? if paige was a boy, azzi’s like, 100 percent she’d fall in love with her. paige, still in her surprised state, mumbles out a stupid “really?”

and azzi giggles again. paige doesn’t seem to like it, and she looks down at her plate biting her lip. she’s clearly way too nice to leave despite how uncomfortable she is, so when azzi notices her body language, she tries again. “sorry, i’m not laughing at you. you’re just so cute, i can’t help it.”

and paige smiles. up close, azzi sees how adorably gummy it is, and she can’t help but smile too. azzi wants to take a picture of paige’s face and keep it in her pocket forever. paige, still smiling, mumbles out a quiet “thank you.”

“you weren’t in class today,” azzi says after a few moments of awkward silence.

“something came up,” paige explains vaguely.

azzi nods, and then realizes she approached paige with zero idea what she’d say to the woman. she blurts out a “i tried finding your instagram,” before realizing that was probably on the list of the worst things she possibly could’ve said.

paige’s eyebrows raise, and she giggles.

well, at least she’s laughing. that’s nice. her laugh is very nice. “um — i have one,” she starts, “but it’s kinda personal.”

azzi nods in understanding, accepting her defeat. she’d get it someday.

but paige speaks again. “you can totally follow it, though,” she offers. “‘s kinda stupid, don’t really post.”

azzi shakes her head. “no, please. i want it.”

she’s sure she sounds extremely desperate, but it’s the truth.

“okay, um. do you wanna give me your phone so i can type it in?”

azzi immediately grabs her phone out of her pocket, unlocking it before handing it to paige. as paige enters her instagram, azzi uses it as an opportunity to study her further. she’s still wearing those glasses, but azzi notices how blue her eyes are. she’s beautiful. everything about her is beautiful.

just as she’s about to comment on it, she realizes paige is looking at her. paige quickly swats her eyes back down, almost like she was committing a crime by looking at azzi. it’s cute, but azzi hates that she does that. she wishes she’d be more shameless. but, from the little she knows about the woman, that’s just not paige. paige speaks, and azzi almost can’t hear her. “here, there’s not really much on it.”

azzi looks at her account. it’s private, and the profile picture is a photo of the night sky. the account only has 13 followers, and there’s no display name. no wonder she couldn’t find her.

the username is “pbueckers5” and azzi swears she never saw this in kate’s following list. surely enough, none of her mutuals follow her. she lets her curiosity get the best of her, deciding to ask paige about it. “kate doesn’t follow you?”

paige’s eyes widen at the observation and she chews at her lip. azzi’s sure they’re bitten raw by now. “she does,” paige explains, “just on another account. don’t want people finding me.”

azzi really couldn’t figure this woman out. it was almost as if she wanted to be invisible. without thinking, azzi scoffs and says, “if i were you, i’d probably slept through half the campus by now.”

paige’s eyes widen, and azzi instantly wishes she could take back her statement. she quickly rushes to recover, stumbling out a “wait — not like that. it’s just. you’re way too pretty to be hiding.”

paige nods, but she doesn’t seem to buy the excuse. she stands up and mumbles a “gotta go, kate needs me.”

and it’s definitely a lie. paige’s phone hadn’t buzzed a single time throughout their conversation, and azzi was pretty sure she saw her with a girl on the way over to the dining hall. paige gives her no time to reply, walking away immediately.

azzi hits the follow button on paige’s instagram, hoping she’ll get accepted, and checks her notifications. liam left her a series of texts.

today 3:56 pm

liam: dinner tonight?

liam: cooking us some chicken alfredo

today 5:47 pm

liam: dropped some by your dorm

liam: figured you were busy

liam: love :)

today 6:47 pm

azzi: sorry, i was studying for an accounting quiz

azzi: thanks for the food! looks great baby

azzi: love you too :)

there’s flowers next to the food, and it really does look delicious. azzi’s already eaten, though, so she offers it to caroline.

she spends a few hours studying, exhausted by the time she’s finished.

when she gets to bed, she checks her phone again. paige accepted her follow request and followed her back. she sees that there’s three new messages from her.

pbueckers5: hey this is probably super inconvenient

pbueckers5: but do you have a finsta or something? like kate’s?

pbueckers5: if you do could you follow me on that instead lol

azzi quickly switches to her fake account that she uses for stalking, and she follows paige, unfollowing her on her main account. paige quickly accepts, and azzi finally goes through her page.

there’s not much except two photo dumps, which mostly consist of a couple (very cute) mirror selfies and pictures of, presumably, her little brother. there’s photos of the moon in each one. she has no solo pictures in her highlights, but she does have some pictures with kate.

cool, so azzi learned virtually nothing about paige except for the fact that she might have a little brother. whatever. azzi would take whatever she could get, so she sends paige a dm.

azjf35: is that your little brother?

within minutes, she sees paige’s reponse at the beginning of her screen and immediately clicks on it. she smiles when she reads the message.

pbueckers5: in my photo dumps? you stalking me?

just as she’s about to respond, two more pop up on the screen.

pbueckers5: but yeah, that’s my little brother

pbueckers5: drew

azjf35: he seems like a sweetheart

azjf35: just like his sister :)

message bubbles pop up from paige’s end, and then die down. it happens a few more times until another set of messages come through.

pbueckers5: he’s great

pbueckers5: and you’re the sweetest

azzi giggles like a middle school girl with her first crush. it’s really not like that, but there’s just something so special about paige.

she tries think back to when she last felt this way over a friend, and she remembers sophie.

eight years ago

azzi’s eating lunch under a tree when she hears it.

“she’s so weird, sitting alone like that,” emily says. azzi can’t see her, but she recognizes her voice. azzi moved here three months ago, and emily and her posse have made her life a living hell ever since.

all of azzi’s friends from dance went to school together, but since she chose to go to a studio an hour away from home, she didn’t know anyone. she was still too shy to make conversation with people, so to everyone else she seemed like a loser.

just as she’s about to stand up, she hears a voice she’s never heard before. “you’re a fucking loser, emily. picking on her for eating lunch? something that everyone on planet earth does?”

azzi hears emily scoff, and when she looks up, emily and her friends are walking away.

who was that? why was she defending azzi?

azzi doesn’t look around to hear where the voice was coming from, instead sprinting to the bathroom. she immediately starts hurling into the toilet, and when her stomach is empty she leans against the stall and cries.

she really hopes to god, if he exists, that one day it’ll get easier. just as she’s about to call her mom crying for, possibly, the sixth time that week, she feels a knock vibrate from her stall door. she wipes her tears away and tries to stand up, assuming it’s one of the staff members checking on her, yet again.

when she opens the stall door, though, it’s not a staff member. instead, a blonde girl meets her. she’s pretty, with piercing green eyes. probably one of emily’s other friends. azzi tries to shut the door again, but the girl stops her.

“wait,” she says. “i’m sophie.”

she looks sincere, friendly. azzi hesitates before finally stepping out of the stall. “azzi,” she responds quietly, voice shaking from her tears.

she almost offers her hand out, but decides that’s probably awkward. sophie notices, and she smiles. “cute,” she pauses, before asking, “wait — like jennifer azzi?”

nobody’s ever noticed that. azzi tilts her head in fascination at this woman, and nods. “um — yeah,” she replies. “how’d you know that?” she asks, dumbfounded.

sophie giggles at that. “i play basketball.”

azzi nods. she walks over to wash her hands, and sophie speaks again. “hey — i’m sorry about emily. she’s such a bitch.”

and thank fucking god. someone agreed with her. azzi quietly giggles at that, and when she looks in the mirror, sophie is smiling at her. she looks like she’s contemplating something, finally blurting out a question. “can i have your number?”

azzi’s eyes widen at that, surprised that someone was asking. she nods in the mirror as she shakes off her hands, going to towel them off before taking out her phone for sophie.

sophie quickly enters her number into azzi’s phone, sending herself a text. “there,” she says. “bye now, azzi,” she says, before walking out of the bathroom. azzi is left confused, but also hopeful, since she thinks she just made a friend.

…

azzi starts hanging out with sophie way more, who, by the way, is way better at basketball than she’d anticipated. she attends nearly every single one of her games to cheer her on, always making a poster for her.

sophie starts coming to her house, and she basically becomes a part of sophie’s family.

tonight, she has a home game, and azzi’s there thirty minutes early. she sits high in the stands, wearing a random red t-shirt the school gave out. she painted a 12 on her face, a recent habit she’s picked up since she started watching sophie. it’s the last game of the season, and azzi’s excited for sophie.

as sophie’s warming up, she smiles and waves at azzi when she spots her in the stands. azzi makes a little heart hand at her best friend, before blowing her a kiss.

azzi still sits alone when she spots emily. she’s walking in with her friends, and she looks around the gym until she spots azzi. azzi flits her eyes away once she feels emily look in her general direction, but it’s too late. she knows she’s in for it tonight.

emily starts walking towards the section the brunette is sitting in, and azzi tries to look for a way out, but she’s cornered. emily’s friends are walking up the other side, and azzi almost cries right there on the spot.

emily hasn’t been bothering her lately. ever since azzi started hanging out with sophie, they haven’t had an opportunity to do so. she’s with azzi 24/7, almost like a bodyguard.

but now, there’s nothing sophie can do. she’s about to play a game, for god’s sake. why couldn’t they just leave azzi alone?

emily slides in on azzi’s right, and amyah and chelsea settle on her left. azzi prepares herself for the worst, accepting that there’s no way out this time. emily starts immediately. “sophie, huh?”

azzi doesn’t respond. she just nods once, trying to keep her focus on the court. the team is still in the locker room since there’s still a couple of minutes left until tip off. emily snickers, snorting out a “she’s gay, you know.”

azzi’s ears perk up at the comment. she knew sophie was weird about boys, but she’d never heard her say anything like that. azzi mutters out a “no, she’s not.”

and emily laughs like it’s the most outrageous thing she’s ever heard. “yes, azzi, she is.”

how kind. emily finally learned her name. azzi speaks back, louder this time. she looks emily straight in the eye, and says, “no she isn’t.”

emily glares at her like she’s stupid. “she is. everyone knows it. and she’s probably, like, in love with you or something.”

azzi shakes her head and feels her face heat up at the thought. “she’s not in love with me. i don’t like girls,” she mutters, her tone not confident whatsoever.

emily’s eyes roll. “right,” she says, unbelieving of azzi. her tone softens. “you know, we were dating when you moved here. then she started talking all about you.”

azzi’s suddenly very interested. sophie has never told her any of this. she looks at emily sympathetically, suddenly feeling sorry for god knows what reason. she never understood why sophie had so much disdain towards emily, but it finally started to make sense. “really?” azzi asks. “well, i’m sure you’re wrong. we’re totally just friends,” she shrugs. “i don’t even like girls.”

emily smiles, seemingly very happy to hear that nothing would be happening between azzi and sophie. “cool. so you wouldn’t mind if we started dating again?”

azzi stares at her blankly. she wasn’t about to deny emily of dating sophie, but she also didn’t like the thought of the blonde girl having her time taken up with someone who used to make her life a living hell.

but surely sophie wasn’t like that. she was a great friend to azzi, so azzi had no reason to believe she’d ever do something to hurt her.

just as she’s about to answer emily, the team starts running out, with sophie leading. she spots azzi in the stands and glares when she sees who’s sitting beside her. emily leans over to whisper in azzi’s ear. “she definitely likes you.”

azzi mutters out a frustrated “i don’t like her, emily,” before standing up and excusing herself to go to the bathroom.

once she gets outside the gym she calls her mom to pick her up, the number 12 on her face destroyed by her tears.

…

present day

azzi winces at the memory. her and sophie still talked after that day, but she remembers things becoming awkward to them. life had become a blur after that.

she turns her phone back on, opening instagram to reply to paige. she types out her response, shutting her phone off without before going to sleep.

Liu Yangyang was your best friend. Not the casual kind who lent you notes once a semester and waved in lecture halls, but the kind who knew you liked strawberry milk in your coffee even though you claimed you hated sweet drinks.

The kind who showed up to your apartment at 2 a.m. with greasy fries and a Powerade because he “had a feeling.” The kind you secretly, shamefully, maybe just a little bit—wanted to fuck.

But Yangyang? He saw you as just a friend. Just a girl who wore baggy hoodies and stole his socks, who cursed too much and watched horror movies like they were lullabies. He didn’t know the version of you that other people paid to see.

At least, that’s what you thought.

You were a camgirl.

Not because you wanted to be forever—but because tuition was murder, your scholarship only covered so much, and frankly? You were good at it.

A few hours a week. Lingerie. Sometimes toys. Always a mask. Always a fake name. Never in person. You were careful.

And Yangyang? He was never supposed to know.

“Dude,” he groaned, flopping back on your dorm bed, legs dangling off the edge. “If Professor Jin assigns one more group project, I swear I’m gonna commit a crime.”

You didn’t look up from your laptop, fingers dancing over your keyboard. “You mean like not showing up to half your lectures already?”

“Low blow.” He kicked your thigh lightly with his socked foot. “You love me.”

You rolled your eyes but smiled. “Yeah, yeah. You bringing your ass to film club later?”

He shrugged. “Only if you promise to actually pay attention this time. Last week you were glued to your phone.”

You stilled for a second.

Last week’s stream. You had just finished a pretty intense session—your most generous subscriber, P1nDown, had sent a massive tip. You’d thanked him with a custom video. The rush afterward was addictive. You couldn’t stop checking for his next message.

You cleared your throat. “Yeah. Sorry. Just had stuff.”

Yangyang tilted his head at you like he was trying to read behind your words. He was always good at that—getting too close, asking too little, and seeing too much.

The problem with secrets was that they lived everywhere: in the way you avoided his gaze when a notification popped up on your phone, in the way you kept a second folder on your laptop labeled “Taxes” that definitely wasn’t about taxes.

You had a system. You were careful.

Until you weren’t.

It happened on a Tuesday. The air was heavy with pre-storm heat, your dorm Wi-Fi was shot, and you had an econ assignment due by midnight.

You didn’t think twice when you texted Yangyang.

you home?
need to borrow ur laptop, mine’s dead.
i’ll bring iced coffee?

Yangyang💕: only if it’s that trash vanilla almond shit you get
Yangyang💕: door’s open

You snorted and headed to his place. His dorm was across campus in the international student housing building—cleaner, nicer, quieter. Typical.

He wasn’t home when you got there. You let yourself in, dropped the coffee on his desk, and booted up his laptop.

That was your first mistake.

The tab was already open when the browser loaded.

It wasn’t porn—not exactly. It was a paused video. Full screen.

Your video.

You blinked, brain buffering.

It was you—wearing the navy lace teddy you’d bought for your two-month streaming anniversary. Knees parted. Lips parted. Fingers wet. Eyes half-lidded under your crystal-studded mask. The words “Thanks for the love, P1nDown 💋” were scrawled in text across the bottom.

And in the top-right corner?

The account name was logged in.

L.Yang99

Your stomach dropped.

No. No way. No fucking way.

You slammed the laptop shut like it had burned you. Your chest felt tight, ears ringing.

Yangyang… was your top subscriber?

He came back ten minutes later, earbuds in, hoodie damp with sweat.

“Hey, did it load okay? Wi-Fi was—"

“You’re P1nDown.”

He froze mid-step. Slowly, he took his earbuds out.

“…What?”

You stood, heart racing, pointing at the laptop like it was a crime scene. “Don’t lie. Your tab was open. My video. Your account. Logged in. I saw everything.”

Yangyang went still. Then exhaled a long, shaky breath.

“Okay,” he said quietly. “Yeah.”

Silence.

“You knew it was me,” you whispered.

“I figured it out a while ago.” He looked at you then, eyes dark, unreadable. “Didn’t mean to find it. I was just scrolling and… I saw the mole on your inner thigh.”

Your breath hitched.

He’d noticed that?

“You shouldn’t have—”

“I know.” His voice cracked. “I shouldn’t have watched. But I couldn’t stop.”

You swallowed hard. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He gave a humorless laugh. “What was I supposed to say? ‘Hey, by the way, I jerk off to your streams every other night and tip you more than my rent’? That’s not exactly best friend behavior.”

Your face flushed. The words should’ve made you angry. Ashamed. But part of you—the part that had fantasized about Yangyang’s hand between your thighs, about him seeing that side of you—lit up like a fucking firecracker.

“You’re my best friend,” you said, throat dry. “This could ruin everything.”

He stepped closer. “Yeah. Or maybe it changes everything.”

You didn’t speak for a long time.

Just stared at Yangyang like he was a stranger wearing your best friend’s face. Your throat was dry, stomach twisted, but your thighs were clenched tight and warm in a way that made you furious at yourself.

This was wrong. He was Yangyang—the boy who used to spoon-feed you ramen when you were too hungover to move. The boy who held your hand through every mental breakdown. The boy who, for the last six months, had been your highest paying subscriber—without you knowing.

And now, he was just standing there. Looking at you like he’d seen you naked a hundred times.

Because he had.

“You saw everything,” you murmured.

“You’ve been seeing everything.”

Yangyang looked wrecked—flushed, eyes glassy, tongue darting out nervously across his bottom lip.

“Yeah.”

“And you still came over like nothing happened? Let me crash at your place? Let me sit on your bed when you—when you’ve watched me—?”

“I didn’t do it to be creepy,” he cut in, voice strained.

“It wasn’t some plan. I didn’t even know it was you at first. But once I did, I just— I couldn’t stop.”

You backed away a step, pulse erratic.

“So you just kept watching. Tipping. Getting off to me. While pretending to be my best friend.”

“Don’t say it like that.” He stepped toward you, hands open.

“It wasn’t pretending. I’m still your best friend. I just…” He exhaled shakily.

“You were so confident. On camera. It didn’t feel like you were just performing. It felt real. Like you wanted it.”

You did. You do.

But admitting that felt like throwing a match into a pool of gasoline.

“I don’t show my face,” you muttered. “You weren’t supposed to know. That wasn’t you I was performing for.”

“I didn’t care. I still don’t.” His voice dropped.

“I just wanted to see you. All of you. Even the parts you think you have to hide.”

Your skin burned. Your heart pounded. But something deep and hot and twisted inside of you ached at those words.

This was Yangyang. He was the only person you’d ever trusted with your ugly. With your midnight breakdowns and your shame and your softness. You never imagined he’d want the other part of you too.

But maybe he had all along.

“You’ve tipped me over two grand,” you said softly, breaking the silence.

Yangyang laughed weakly. “Yeah. I might’ve had to ask Xiaojun for rent last month.”

You blinked. “You’re serious?”

He nodded.

You narrowed your eyes. “Why?”

Yangyang stepped closer again, and this time you didn’t move.

“I liked making you feel good,” he said.

“Even if you didn’t know it was me. I liked knowing I could do that for you. That I was your favorite.”

Your breath hitched. “You were my favorite.”

“I still want to be.”

The air between you snapped like a live wire.

He reached out slowly, hand brushing your jaw. You didn’t pull away. Your eyes searched his—unsure, trembling, but needy.

“I’ve wanted you for months,” he whispered. “Every time you moaned someone’s name on camera, I pretended it was mine. Every time you said ‘good boy,’ I imagined it was me you were teasing. Touching.”

Your knees buckled.

“Yangyang…”

“Tell me to stop, and I will.” His thumb grazed your cheek. “But if you don’t—tell me what you do when you know I’m watching.”

You didn’t sleep that night.

You didn’t kiss him. You didn’t take your clothes off. You didn’t let things go further than they should.

But you let him stay.

On the floor beside your bed, blanket over his shoulders, eyes locked on you like he could read every filthy thing you’d ever streamed—and still wanted more.

The next few days were weird.

Not bad weird. Just hot and slow and buzzing with tension that you didn’t know how to handle.

Yangyang came over to your place more. He brought snacks. Teased you.

Caught your eye when you leaned too far forward in a low-cut shirt.

You caught his eyes lingering too long when you stretched in your shorts. He never pushed, but the air between you was never innocent again.

He never brought up your streams. Never asked when your next one was. But one night, you checked your page, and your private inbox lit up.

P1nDown:
if you’re going live tonight
can i request something special?

You:
what kind of special?

P1nDown:
just want to hear you say my name
once
just once

You stared at the screen for a long time.

Then typed:

You:
only if you ask nicely.

You didn’t say it on the stream.

You thought about it. Played with the idea. Even put on the red lace bodysuit—the one that always made you feel like a weapon.

But when the tip came in—$500, and the caption “Please, baby. Say it for me.”—you only smiled at the camera and whispered, “Not yet.”

You were going to make him earn it.

You didn’t mean to tease him.

Okay. Maybe you did.

Just a little.

The night you wore the red lace on stream, Yangyang didn’t speak to you for a full day.

You didn’t blame him. You were his best friend—his favorite streamer—and you’d stared directly into the lens, lips parted and plush with gloss, and whispered, “Not yet.”

He knew it was for him. And you knew what that did to him.

The silence only lasted until the next night, when he showed up at your door with a bottle of soju and a six-pack of mango sparkling water like nothing had happened.

“Movie night?” he asked, eyes dark.

You nodded. “Movie night.”

But neither of you made it to the end of the movie.

You were sitting on your bed, laptop on your lap, one foot tucked under you. Yangyang was next to you, scrolling on his phone, his body angled slightly toward yours. Close enough that your knees brushed when you laughed. Close enough that your whole body was on alert.

It was suffocating. This weird electric buzz in the air that never left anymore.

When the movie ended, the silence lingered. Heavy. Heated.

You cleared your throat. “I have a stream tomorrow.”

Yangyang’s head snapped up. “Yeah?”

You nodded slowly. “Haven’t done one since… you know.”

His lips quirked. “Since you found out I’ve been jerking off to you?”

Your face flamed. “Yangyang.”

“What?” he leaned in slightly, gaze

locked to yours. “You asked.”

You licked your lips. “You could’ve just pretended you hadn’t seen it.”

“I didn’t want to pretend.”

A pause.

“Do you still…watch?” you asked.

His eyes darkened. “Every time.”

Your breath caught.

“Do you…” You couldn’t believe you were saying this. “Do you touch yourself to me?”

The corner of his mouth curled up, slow and devastating.

“Do you want the truth?”

You swallowed. “Yeah.”

He leaned forward, and this time, there was no space left between you. Just heat. Just tension. Just the past year of him pretending and you hiding and all of it boiling over.

“I’ve come to your voice more times than I can count,” Yangyang whispered. “To the sound of you begging, moaning, teasing. You’ve ruined me for anyone else.”

You whimpered. Literally whimpered.

“And you know what the worst part is?” he said, voice ragged. “It still wasn’t enough.”

Your body moved on instinct. You dropped the laptop to the floor, barely heard it hit the carpet, and grabbed his hoodie, fisting it in your hands.

He didn’t wait.

Yangyang crashed into you like a storm—mouth hot, hands possessive, tongue sliding into your mouth with months of pent-up hunger. You moaned into the kiss, your back hitting the mattress as he pushed you down and slotted himself between your thighs.

“Fuck,” he gasped against your lips. “I’ve wanted this for so long.”

“You should’ve said something.”

“You should’ve said my name on stream.”

Your laugh broke on a moan as he kissed down your neck, hands already slipping under your shirt. He tugged it off, eyes darkening at the sight of your bralette.

“This the one you wore in the birthday stream?” he asked.

You flushed. “Yeah.”

“I came so hard to that video.” He licked a stripe between your breasts. “Still do.”

“Yangyang—”

“Say it again,” he growled. “Say my name like that.”

You did.

And he lost it.

His mouth moved lower. Hands under your waistband, dragging your shorts down in one smooth motion. You gasped when his tongue traced your hipbone.

“I always wondered what you tasted like,” he murmured. “Thought about it every time you opened your legs on cam. Wondered if you got wet just for the camera—or if you were already dripping before you hit record.”

“I’m always wet,” you whispered.

“Thinking about who’s watching.”

“You mean me.”

You bit your lip, nodding. “I didn’t know. But maybe part of me hoped it was.”

He growled low in his throat. “Fuck. You’re evil.”

Then he kissed your inner thigh. Your stomach. The crease of your hip.

“Yangyang—”

“I want to taste you,” he said. “But I want to hear you first.”

You blinked. “What?”

He sat back, legs sprawled, hoodie riding up just enough to tease the waistband of his boxers.

“I want you to touch yourself,” he said. “Like you would on stream. Like you do when you think about me.”

You should’ve hesitated. But you didn’t.

You spread your legs, fingers dipping between your folds, and started slow. Deliberate. The way you always did for your top-paying subscriber—who, as it turned out, had always been this close.

Yangyang watched with wide, dark eyes. One hand down his pants, gripping himself hard.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “You’re even prettier like this in real life.”

You whined as your fingers circled your clit, thighs trembling already.

“Did you ever think about me?” he asked, voice low. “When you streamed? Did you ever think about what it’d be like if Iwas the one tipping you? Watching you?”

“Yes,” you gasped. “Always.”

That was all it took.

Yangyang was on you in seconds, lips on your throat, hand replacing yours between your legs. He slid two fingers into you, fucking you slow and deep while your mouth fell open.

“You’re so wet for me,” he groaned. “You want me to fuck you, baby?”

“Yes—please, please—”

He yanked off his hoodie and pants in record time, eyes locked to yours the whole time.

And when he finally sank into you?

It was everything.

It was soft moans and whispered names and the sound of his hips hitting yours.

It was him biting down on your shoulder, whimpering, “You feel so fucking good.”

It was you wrapping your legs around him and crying out, “Don’t stop—Yangyang, please—”

And when you came?

You didn’t hold back.

You said his name.

Over and over and over.

Just like he’d always wanted.

“You’re still wet.”

Yangyang’s voice was low, right against your ear, as his fingers brushed the inside of your thigh under the table.

“Yang—someone might see—”

“I want them to.”

You squeezed your thighs together, pulse pounding.

You were in the library.

At the back corner table where you and Yangyang usually studied, hidden behind stacks of textbooks and his laptop. You were trying to write an essay while he claimed to be “editing photos” for his class—which clearly translated to “see how wrecked I can get you without anyone noticing.”

You wore a skirt. That was your first mistake.

No panties. Your second.

Letting him come with you today, even after he whispered “You’re not allowed to cum again until I say so” last night—your third.

His fingers grazed the slick heat between your legs again, slow and deliberate.

“You were moaning so pretty for me last night,” he murmured. “Now look at you. Dripping in a fucking library.”

You bit down on your pencil.

“If someone comes back here—”

“Then you better keep quiet.” His fingers

slid deeper, just shy of slipping inside.

“Be a good girl.”

Your hips bucked instinctively, and Yangyang grinned.

“You like being edged like this, huh?” he whispered. “Been thinking about it all day, haven’t you?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

He moved his fingers faster, but still shallow. Not enough to satisfy, just enough to torment.

“Bet your subscribers would love to see this,” he said. “You all spread out at a library desk, stuffed full of my fingers, trying not to cry.”

“Yangyang—”

“You’d put on a good show, wouldn’t you?” His lips brushed your temple. “Let them tip while you beg to cum. But I’d be the only one who actually gets to touch you.”

Your walls clenched hard.

He leaned in close, voice like velvet and venom.

“Say it.”

You whined under your breath. “Say what?”

“Say you’re mine.”

You turned to look at him—flushed, lips parted, pupils blown wide.

“I’m yours.”

And then—only then—did he let you cum.

Later that night, you were back at your place. Still sore. Still dizzy from the orgasm he wrung out of you with two fingers and a threat.

You didn’t plan to stream.

But something burned inside you.

A need to push the line. To play again.

To see if he’d crack.

So you went live.

Red lace. Lights low. Fingers already glistening.

It was supposed to be short. Just a teaser stream. Something to keep the top tippers active. But then someone new joined.

"S!nner773". You’d never seen the username before.

He tipped $300 within five minutes.

Then $200 more.

“Tell me how wet you are, baby. Want to hear you moan.”

You smirked and kept going—figuring Yangyang was probably watching silently like he always did, getting off knowing only he had actually been inside you.

But then your private inbox pinged.

From P1nDown—Yangyang’s account.

P1nDown:
log off.

You blinked.

Another tip from S!nner773 rolled in:

“Spread it wider, babygirl.”

Then Yangyang messaged again:

P1nDown:
now.

Your heart slammed in your chest.

You hesitated. Just one second too long.

And the next thing you saw was your door swinging open.

Yangyang walked in—chest heaving, jaw tight, eyes locked on your still-streaming body on your laptop screen.

“You ignored me.”

You scrambled to pause the stream, heart in your throat.

“Yangyang—what are you doing—?”

He slammed the laptop shut.

“You’re mine. You said you were mine.”

“I—I was just putting on a show, I didn’t even respond to the messages—”

“You let someone else talk to you like that. Tip you like that.”

You opened your mouth. Closed it. Wetness already pooling again between your thighs.

“I’m not mad you streamed,” he said. “I’m mad you didn’t tell them who you belong to.”

“Yangyang…”

“Get on the bed.”

You froze. “What?”

“You wanna act like a toy for strangers?” His voice dropped. “Fine. But I’m the only one who gets to play with you.”

Your legs moved before your brain caught up.

Yangyang stalked toward you, dragging his hoodie off. “Tonight, you don’t cum until I say so. Again.”

You whimpered.

And then—he made you show him everything.

Made you keep the red lace on. Made you read the anonymous tips aloud while he edged you again and again. Held your wrists above your head while he fucked you open with his mouth, his hands, his cock—and all the filthy words he never dared say before.

“You gonna moan his name, baby?” he hissed. “Or mine?”

“Yours,” you gasped.

“Say it louder.”

“Yours—Yangyang, please—”

“Then don’t ever let anyone else think they can touch you again.”

He didn’t let you cum for nearly an hour.

And when he finally did?

You moaned.

And he didn’t even care if the neighbors heard.

"so emma, gabe tells us you tutored him?" j.t. brought her into the conversation. emma perked up while everyone's eyes shifted onto her.

her cheeks reddened slightly, "he was doing econ in a french class. i had to help him."

that earned a few laughs from the table. emma glanced at her boyfriend. he was blushing badly, but the smile on his lips never disappeared. "perreault, why are you taking french? you're fluent," sykora chirped.

"easy credit. why else?" the younger boy shrugged.

"i guess it's a good thing you took it or else you wouldn't have met your lovely lady," fox grinned. emma shifted her gaze to gabe. he found hers almost instantly and gently nudged her knee with his under the table. "yeah, i guess it is."

"what convinced you, emma?" rempe smirked.

"he was nice and not stuck up like other hockey boys. something felt different," the blonde eyed her boyfriend and he smiled again. "it felt like he cared, like genuinely cared. i don't usually meet guys like that so i had to take the opportunity while it was here."

"gee thanks," gabe mumbled teasingly.

the other guys laughed and emma gently ruffled the back of his curls. she didn't mind their teasing. after 2 years of dating, she'd gotten use to gabe's crowd and the way things worked. she wasn't so afraid anymore. she eased into the light chirping here and there.

"you have a brother that swims back at boston, right?" j.t. kept talking. the guys wanted to know more about emma after gabe was always smiling down at his phone in the locker room.

the blonde nodded, "yeah, he's one of the captains this season. we've been swimming together since we could walk honestly."

"swimming takes a lot of endurance, so i applaud you and your brother. gabe mentioned you don't swim as much anymore?"

emma caught her boyfriend's quick glance that held a small apology in it for blabbing about her personal life. she just squeezed his arm though and kept her smile. "i do it more leisurely now. i gave up the competitive part before college."

"any reason why?" j.t. wasn't asking to poke, just genuinely curious. emma didn't mind though. "i mean like you said it's a tough sport. i'd been doing it so long i think i kind of burned myself out. i was starting to hate it and my philosophy is once you start hating something, it's best to quit it so you don't hate it even more."

the guys seemed to understand as they nodded along. "hey, i appreciate that. it can be really hard to walk away from something you've known all your life. good on you for knowing when to step back," raddysh said and emma appreciated his words. it was comforting hearing hockey guys who dedicated their whole life to a sport commend her for walking away from a sport she once dedicated her whole life to also.

"thanks. it was definitely hard, but it was for the best. i've been finding the love again now that the pressure of competing is off my back."

when the topic shifted off of emma and onto something else, the girl leaned back into the booth. this time gabe squeezed her hand. she squeezed back with a soft smile indicating that she was doing good.

the couple stuck around for another 20 minutes before deciding that they should probably head back. it was getting late and the commute back to gabe's apartment was close to half an hour. the hockey player wanted to make it home before it got too late and the subway started getting sketchy as it usually did when evening became late night. emma waved goodbye to the guys and their wives before following her boyfriend to the door.

when they got outside gabe took her hand again and began navigating them to the subway. emma was always so impressed he could lead the way without his phone despite only really being in new york for a few months now. "so, did you have fun?" gabe wondered as they walked.

"i did. they're funny," emma smiled.

"sorry j.t. started poking about swimming. i promise i don't just talk about your personal life like that. i only mentioned it like once when they asked about you and i told them only brief stuff—"

"baby, you're rambling. it's okay. i didn't mind. i know j.t. wasn't asking just to jab at me," the blonde cut her boyfriend off.

gabe's cheeks reddened. "sorry. i just wanted to make sure you knew i didn't like tell people your business. i know it's personal."

emma squeezed his hand tight, "i know you know and i love you. i never thought that, don't worry."

relief filled his system. he brought her hand up to kiss gently before they descended into the subway station. gabe's brain was working like two gears turning as he read the signs and navigated them to the right platform. he found a spot near the middle and shuffled emma to stand in front of him while they waited. she leaned into him—her feet slightly sore from the little heels that she just insisted she wore because it brought the entire outfit together.

"all good?" gabe asked.

"yeah, my feet just hurt a bit but i'm okay. i'll make it back," the blonde giggled.

even though it was late, new york was still moving. the platform was busy, but it was a friday night. emma watched how everyone seemed to be in their own world either going out, coming back, getting off of work, having a late night errand run—she kind of loved how everything was constantly moving and people were just living their own lives.

she's imagined many times what her life would look like with gabe living in new york and it was a life she couldn't wait to make real.

the familiar roar and rattle of metal against metal filled her ears. the infamous silver subway car began rolling by as it slowed to a stop and people edged closer to make it through the door and grab a seat. gabe held her hand tightly, his expression set. when the car doors opened, he pulled both of them through and immediately sat them down as everyone else filled in around them.

"12 stops," he hummed and emma glanced at the digital screen at the top of the car that indicated what stops were next.

"i like how you know it all," she said.

"it gets easier every ride. i usually take the same subway from home to wherever, so i know the stops," the boy smiled. emma didn't respond, but instead nestled her head into gabe's shoulder. he squeezed her thigh and mumbled something about closing her eyes if she was tired.

the ride went by faster than emma thought or it was because she did close her eyes and when she opened them again gabe had pinched her to let her know their stop was next. she blinked her eyes open, a bit groggy but awake as gabe pulled her up so they could get off.

"how'd that go so fast?" she wondered.

"i think you fell asleep," gabe chuckled.

the subway slowed again and its door slid open. emma stayed close to the rangers' rookie as he led them to the exit. when they got back up to the street the sound of cars passing and people rushing by filled their ears again. new york's nightlife had begun.

the upper east side was lively. people were hanging out on their fire escapes or down on their porches, soft music filling the streets. a few people waved and complimented's emma's outfit which she happily thanked them. when they got to gabe's apartment, he let her through the door first.

"home at last," he hummed as they began the climb the the 5th floor.

"i really like it here," emma grinned.

"yeah? me too," gabe agreed.

"i hope you don't get traded because i really wanna live here with you," her words earned a bright blush on the boy's face. he met her gaze from over his shoulder. "really?"

"i think i imagine it like everyday."

something about hearing emma say that warmed something deep in gabe's chest. he suddenly felt jittery all the way down to his toes. he'd be lying if he said he didn't think about it almost everyday too.

being long distance was tough. not seeing each other everyday was something the couple was still learning how to manage and cope with, but on weekends like these where emma drove down to spend it with him made everything worth it. the stress eased off his shoulders and everything gabe had been worrying about quickly disappeared. emma was the only person who could make his head feel lighter and all the comments from coach and people online didn't matter.

all the noise finally ceased when the couple stepped into the quiet apartment. gabe locked the door while emma flipped a light on. she breathed out in relief while she kicked her heels off and made it back to flat ground. she dropped her purse on the table and gabe just smiled watching her walk around his apartment like it was hers.

"i kind of wanna sit on the fire escape after seeing everyone else do it," she hummed, already walking towards the window.

"want anything? snacks? wine?" gabe went to the kitchen.

"i would never say no to a glass of wine and animal crackers," emma grinned before slipping outside once she had the window open. the dark-haired boy laughed.

while he got that ready, emma got comfortable on the metal landing. she could see all of manhattan's big skyscrapers in the distance and how there were still lights on meaning other people were still awake either wrapping up their night or just starting it. across the way, another group of people were on their fire escape. they looked like they were also sipping wine and enjoying the nice weather.

emma heard her boyfriend's footsteps shuffling by the window before his head appeared. in his hand was her glass of wine that he carefully handed her before sliding himself through. emma made sure he had a enough room as they got themselves comfortable against the brick. "for you," gabe also held out the bag of animal crackers (that he specially bought for emma).

"thank you," she smiled.

even though the city was still moving, the silence surrounded gabe because as long as he was with emma, she was the most quietest place he knew.

"thank you for coming with me tonight. it meant a lot you were there and i know the guys loved you," the boy hummed.

he met emma's eyes when she turned her head. "thank you for bringing me along. i had a lot of fun. seems like your new team treats you good."

"they're great. they were really excited to meet you."

"i could tell. i'm glad you're happy, p," emma rubbed his shoulder. "can't wait for you to see me play tomorrow," the hockey player kissed her skin.

"i'm looking forward to it. you're gonna do amazing," she pressed a soft kiss into his cheek, but gabe turned his head enough to capture her lips in a full kiss—something he'd been waiting to do once they were back home and away from the prying and teasing eyes of his teammates.

when they pulled apart, their foreheads knocked together and their breaths mixed together. "counting down the days until we can spend every night together like this," the boy mumbled.

emma blushed. "me too."