𝑀𝒮 𐙚

“And it seems the world-famous Gojo Satoru has missed! He missed! Oh—what a blow for the Japanese team—hey Mech, can we get a close-up of who he was pointing at before missing the goal?”

As requested; the wedding replays the moments before Gojo’s missed goal: his look of determination, his deep breath, his arm raising for mere split-seconds to point…straight at you. And then it’s cutting to you outright laughing at the missed goal.

Fucking laughing.

Gojo himself pauses to watch the unfortunate sequences of events from below. 

“Aaaaand that’s half-time, folks!”

He immediately feels a wave of adrenaline strike him - nearly knocking him over at the force. The molten lead sensation floods every corner and crevice of him, and it makes his fingers tremble, it makes an unexplainable heat rise to his cheeks. Where the hell was this energy when he needed to score that last goal?

Gojo’s eyes remain fixated on you like two frozen-over lakes- made only brighter, not warm, in the face of the Sun.

As you’re finding yourself at the edge of those lakes, you wind down that laugh of yours- that stupid, gorgeous laugh of yours. It makes his heart ripple. And then with a soft smile upon your lips, you’re mouthing an apology. Instead of backing from those stone-cold lakes, daring to dip a toe in. Mocking, surely.

Fuck.

Gojo feels his clenched fists unfurl.

And his irritation.

He doesn’t suppose that you’re feeling guilty in the slightest - but what sort of world-famous sports reporter would you be if you got caught laughing at the star player? 

And Gojo Satoru is the star player—mind you. He’s just…having an off day? It’s exactly 45 minutes and 22 seconds into the quarter finals of perhaps the biggest football tournament in Gojo’s life: the FIFA World Cup. Japan has been facing off against an opponent they’d already been told would be a tough match to beat, with the odds stacked 79% against them- it just surprised Gojo that that 21% included him, too.

After all, he’s motherfuckin’ Gojo Satoru (don’t quote that).

With his signature white hair- and his ‘twinkling’ blue eyes- and that dimple at the corner of his smile. See that dimple? That dimple’s insured for ¥2,000,000.

But it wasn’t just fanfare and his dashing good looks. There’s no football without Gojo Satoru, and there’s no Gojo Satoru without football.

Ever since he was a young kid, the game just seemed to…call for him. 

Just starting out as some stupid sports channel he’d put on in order to avoid having to do his chores; then he’d started watching. Then he started paying attention. Then he started remembering their names and collecting his pocket money to buy some markers and a red, red t-shirt. He still remembers sprawling the t-shirt out on the floors of his cramped living room, and scrawling on Akers 10. Gojo Satoru was raised by Michelle Akers, Alessandro Del Piero, Roberto Baggio, Homare Sawa, and Jay-Jay Okocha as much as he was by his parents.

And then he’d started playing. 

He’d begged and begged his parents to get him a football for Christmas- even going to do extra chores around the house to butter them up.

And once they caved - making him promise not to play inside - Gojo had stumbled out to the playground faster than his legs could keep up. Although he remembers thinking that he’d make them- he’d make them keep up.

He admits he wasn’t instantly amazing - just slightly above average, if anything. But kids on the playground used to think he was the coolest thing.

Wanting to become a professional footballer? Every kid wanted to become a professional footballer at that age. So he’d gather the teams, he’d assign their roles, he’d play with them until the streetlights turned on and the crickets started chirping - except the only difference between Gojo and the rest…was that he wouldn’t go home. Refused to.

Not until his parents had to come down and physically drag him back home.

Until then, Gojo would kick and kick that damn ball as long as he had to to become good enough. Until his feet had to fuse with that damn ball, if it had to.

In middle school they adored him just as much.

The best football player and he’s got dimples to boot? 

He won’t lie - Gojo understands why he was called out for a confession at least thrice a week throughout the entirety of middle school. His grade, lower grades, and even some in the grade above. Manga club captains and school presidents- and some friends of friends not even going to this school. Some of his friends. Most…who’ve never even talked to him. 

And he doesn’t regret not letting any of that ‘sweet Spring love’ that his father always talked about blossom. He just wished his middle school-self had a bit more tact when rejecting girl after boy after girl.

Although he admits that the attention was nice- and those onigiri they brought him after practice was a sweet touch. But Gojo could never quite understand—what did they see in him?

He was hot, yes. He was talented. He was smart. He was funny- yes. But he just wasn’t…like the heroes that he looked up to. Not yet.

Gojo Satoru could never quite understand how he could love another as much as he loved football.

Sometimes when the confessions and the onigiri got a little too much, he’d go to the school rooftop and kick his ball around until the bell rang. Sometimes he’d simply sit and stare off into the distance—what was love? If we should love another as we love ourselves, then perhaps one doesn’t need it? Who said love had to be a person, not a dream?

Around this time, Gojo applied for the local junior football club.

He smoked them all- hah!

Then high school rolled around and here people started giving him looks - still dreaming of becoming a professional footballer? Wasn’t that child’s play?

Popularity was measured, at least for most guys, by how many girls you’d banged or whether or not you’d actually tasted beer. He himself wasn’t one to subscribe to such notions - but the status quo meant that people started…distancing themselves from him.

Reaching for him- if only to point at him like a party trick. Maybe throw a volleyball at him during gym classes, or puncture his football.

They actually did puncture his football.

He beat that boy until his knuckles bled - Gojo had gotten a temporary suspension, of course. He didn’t argue with the punishment. He thinks they went so lenient on him because it was his first offense.

But when he came back, it was even worse. There goes that freak still obsessed with football- isn’t he just going to get his dreams crushed? Isn’t he going to wake up? Grow up? He didn’t need them. He didn’t need a single fucking one of them.

Gojo threw himself into playing football more than ever around these years; until every bone in his body seemed to ache, and he always tasted metal from how hard he’d grit his teeth. He imagined their sneering, snickering faces at the end of the goal and kicked and kicked and kicked that fucking ball. And it was also around this time that he’d gotten the offer.

The offer.

He was glad to leave it all behind.

He was the youngest player in Japan to get a national team offer - oh, he remembers how nervous he’d been then, walking, wondering whether they’d look at him like they all do - and the second-youngest in the world to join an international club. He was an express - and damn expensive - pick for Real Madrid, and the only Japanese player to make a first-team appearance. He was the youngest player to win a major tournament at the UEFA European Championship. He was the youngest Japanese football captain leading them into the FIFA World Cup- and the only one to lead them into the quarterfinals. Not to mention his rabid fan club and his four-time title as the world’s prettiest striker!

But fuck, man. 

All that…for this.

Today, Gojo Satoru was having an off time. And he’s blaming it on you—was that necessarily fair? 

Hm…not likely. But nothing matters when he’s in the zone and he’s supposed to keep his eyes on the football- but they keep somehow drifting to you.

Fuck again.

This was on him, he knows. He knows. And yet-

And without a single word to any of his teammates or Coach Yaga…he’s marching straight over to you. Behind him, he hears Yaga’s choked-up call of his name and his teammates’ confusion. 

The cameras follow him with every step he takes- of course they do, he’s Gojo fucking Satoru. In the distance he can practically hear the tension tighten, as the commentators mention something about him, as the big screen zooms in on his steadfast path, as you’re turning around to see him nearing and your eyes widen.

For a mere split-second - before your hand tightens ‘round your mic, and you’re immediately holding it towards him at the ready.

“And here we have the star player-” It amuses Gojo how your lip tightens around that little phrase you just have to say when referring to him. “-Gojo Satoru’s…best friend in the distance—can the camera capture Geto Suguru during his pre-match stretches?”

The. Fucking. Audacity.

Gojo’s mouth drops as the camera hastens to focus on that damned Geto next to Coach Yaga behind him. He isn’t even the one that came up with those stretches! He stole them from Gojo-

Pointedly—he coughs into his fist.

And then you’re turning towards him with a faux-shocked expression on your face. Lashes fluttering. Those glossed lips of yours dropped into the perfect ‘oh’.

Gojo gets the urge to mimic the exact same expression - and just his luck, the camera’s turning to him at that very moment. There’s a small smirk at the edge of your lips as you’re bringing the mic up to your lips.

This wasn’t his first match interview with you.

Not in the very least. 

Gojo was the greatest in his field, and you were (admittedly) the greatest in yours. So it was inevitable that the two of you would meet- match after match, interview after interview, you’d fired your questions away at him.

And sure…there were the usual ones he already scripted for. But you’d quickly climbed up the ranks for asking on-the-spot questions specific to each player, to pick their brains - and in Gojo’s case, to make him squirm.

You asked him about his elementary school nickname as ‘The Strongest’ (which he later adopted as his actual field name so hah- jokes on you!), and his affinity for sneaking sweets into his strict athlete’s diet (Yaga lectured him after that one…jokes on him), and his utterly barren love life.

For someone so flirtatious, one must wonder why he’s never seen out and about with anyone. Maybe he’s simply football-sexual?

That particular interview had racked up quite a few (…million) views across various social medias as Gojo had turned red and stuttered - the first time someone had managed to get the chatterbox to pause - s-something about well, if you really want you can date him-

But he digresses. The point is that Gojo has had interviews with you before - so this should be a piece of cake. Really. Actually…Gojo’s first ever professional interview was almost with you- but that’s a story for another time.

“—and we’re live at the FIFA World Cup Quarterfinals with Gojo Satoru, Captain of the Japanese team.” You’re plastering that camera-ready smile of yours; though honestly he finds your priggish one more- “It’s your first time at the FIFA as a team captain. How are we feeling today, Gojo-san?”

His heart leaps a little at the honorific. “G-good. Good.” And then at the little raise of your brows - did Gojo Satoru just fucking stutter? Again? - he’s instantly shaking his head free of…whatever. Splashing on his own irresistible smile- dimple? Check. “Oh- y’know me, sweetheart. I’m always good~”

“Is that so?” You ask. “I’m glad to hear that. Because it seems like we’re going to need all the confidence we can get, Gojo-san. Tell me—what changes might the defense have to see in the next half if we’re going to beat the opponent’s two-point lead?”

“Well, I can’t share every secret here now, can I~?” Gojo chuckles. “But just know that we’re going to make good use of Geto in the next half- I know Coach Yaga has some good plans for him.”

You nod. “Speaking of- how is Geto Su-”

“We’re talking about me.” Gojo whines. And he’s sure that this part of the interview is going to get clipped to hell and back—but it doesn’t matter when you’re smiling…like that. When you’re throwing your head back and gesturing at that Japanese jersey of yours- number 4?

Geto Suguru.

“My apologies, I do tend to be favorable towards defenders.” You hum. “But I see you’re rather defensive yourself today, Gojo-san. What changes might the strikers have to see for this next half-”

“Nothing.”

That makes you pause. Your smile falters, though you manage to salvage it. “Erm- my apologies, I didn’t seem to hear you over the crowd. Did you say nothing?”

“I did.” And for how priggish you might act - you’d never amount to his sheer levels. His haughty hair flip that sends a few fan club members fainting in the front row, “Absolutely nothing. I’m perfect.”

“Oh-”

“I’m Gojo Satoru, don’t you know? Neeeeext question~”

“Yes I…I am aware.” You mutter under your breath. “Unfortunately.”

“What did you just-”

“But whilst we absolutely erm- adore your confidence, Gojo-san, one really does start to wonder with the two point lead…” You have a fire in your eyes - for how much you might be exasperated by him, it was undoubtable that you needed this win, too. “And I have only one more question for you: will we win?”

He pauses at that.

Just a split-second.

It’s a fleeting moment, yet it seems to hold the world. You’re not letting your gaze waver from his, and he’s not letting his gaze waver from yours. That fire in your eyes? It’s spreading across his own cheeks and then down his neck, across every inch of his body and coiling around his heart. And who’d have thought…that the great Gojo Satoru was flammable?

Gojo shoots a quick look down at himself to make sure that he’s not actually- before then wrapping his hand around the mic handle. He doesn’t exactly take it from you - just keeps his fingers resting on top of yours, and you’re not letting go either..“Nah, I’d win.”

Someone’s breath hitches- either yours or his.

He’s leaning in - down -so close that his lips are nearly grazing the grille. 

Gojo keeps his summer lake-blue eyes directly on you as he speaks—“And if I do…how about I get to take you out on a date?”

“You what-” Around you, cheers are erupting. And you’re wondering just what might have been shown on the big screen, only to realize that it was…the two of you. Glamorously displayed for millions of people to see.

You wonder if he can hear your heart race.

You wonder why he wasn’t paying attention to the thousands of people nearby that were chanting ‘say yes, say yes, say yes-’

“So, Miss Reporter?” Gojo cocks his head, a smile upon his lips. “What’ll it be?”

You’re biting down on the inside of your cheek- and it’s only too late that you’re realizing it’s to keep yourself from mirroring that world-famous smile. “Yes.” Your heart leaps.

And you’re sure that Gojo heard you- you’re sure of it. But he’s taking the mic completely now, and turning it upon yourself—“I’m sorry, what was that?”

“I said…” Something akin to…adrenaline? Something akin to…excitement? You didn’t know what name to put on it, but it’s making it difficult to keep your voice exactly steady. “-yes.” Thank goodness it was just a one-word answer.

Gojo smiles wide.

And as the commentators recite the entire interaction in various languages, Gojo’s hearing a call of his name from the coaches’ bench. Realizing that he’d nearly spent the entire break with you- he’s throwing a dazzling smile your way - and several flying kisses at the fans - before making a break for it. 

Reaching Coach Yaga, Gojo’s ducking his head and listening to every word the older goalkeeper has to say. There’s a fierce look of concentration on his face—

“You’re staring~” Shoko, from behind the camera, croons. “He really is even better-looking in person, huh?” She’d long since known about the little tension between you and Gojo Satoru- not any kind of good tension, that is. You’d just somehow gotten on his nerves as much as he got on yours.

And you shake your head free of any suggestions that Shoko might put in it. “I wasn’t staring-”

“Mhm.”

“I was just imagining the look on his face after he loses that bet.”

Shoko smirks. “That’s if he loses that bet.”

“Well…”

And then you’re glancing at him once more. Gojo was now jogging in place and doing a few warm-ups before the second half of the quarterfinals started.

Because for all that talk- Gojo Satoru wasn’t going to win that easily, was he?

Was he?

.

.

.

“It’s incredible—Japan has won! The Japanese team has really won!” The commentator’s voice booms across the stadium, making it shake with sheer excitement. It was contagious. The taste of victory was often sweet. “Gojo Satoru has led the Japanese team to the semi-finals—!”

2-3 to Japan.

All the way from 0.

And you knew the scores - you watched the game unfurl before your very eyes. And yet - surrounded by it all - you stand stunned.

From your right, you’re feeling Shoko euphorically shake you. Her camera equipment nearly slips out of her hands before she’s back at it and recording close-ups of the players’ tearful reactions. 

Most of them had surrounded Gojo and were crushing themselves together in an embrace. They’re pushed so far together that you could only make out a flash of white hair and an uproarious distinct laugh. The microphone damn-near slips out of your hands.

“I repeat, folks—Gojooooooooooooo Satoru has led the Japanese team to the semi-finals for the first time in history! It’s a momentous occasion for the underdogs- Gojo Satoru and his Unlimited hat-trick, everybody.”

They’re replaying those historic moments on the big screen: when Gojo dribbled past four players to strike his first goal of the match, just two minutes into the second half of the game; when Gojo upset the game by drawing the score 2-2 with a goal from the 18-yard box, a goal that went around the fucking goalkeeper; when Gojo finished with a flourish with a head-butted goal just over the goalkeeper’s shoulder, at the 89th minute.

At that last goal, he’d pointed right at you- a hatrick. A hatrick.

“Who’s gonna win?” He’d mouthed, as his teammates were drawn to him in embrace like magnets flying across the field.

You’d simply rolled your eyes.

It was a match for the books - and for generations of footballers just like him to watch and rewatch and watch. And maybe…just maybe they’d buy their own blue t-shirts and scribble down: Gojo 66. Around you, reporters were already chattering about Japan’s succession into the semi-finals—could these underdogs actually have a shot?

Japan had risen from an impending bitter defeat- and that very same Gojo 66 was breaking free from his teammates and flouncing across the field. And the MVP - surely - beamed as he lapped up the attention; running across the pitchside and blowing sappy kisses to his fainting fan club. He’s getting thrown a water bottle- and wastes no time before tearing it open and letting the cool water run on top of his head. Water making his jersey stick to him even more so.

Long legs slightly shaking from fatigue. Blue eyes brighter than ever. If there was one word to describe him, then it would be- dazzling. His skin glistened with sweat, and small droplets of water like diamonds - his jersey was practically glued to him—a part of him, in every single possible manner. Celebration seemed to cling to Gojo just as tight as that jersey did.

And Gojo then catches sight of you watching him- and runs. Runs. 

To you.

And stops right before you.

“So…” He pants out, and makes sure to flash a quick smile at the rolling cameras. “-about that date…?”

You sigh.

But you can’t help yourself- you chuckle.

“Fine.”

“Fuck yeahhhh—!” And then Gojo’s darting back onto the field in celebration - his team engulfs him once more, and before you know it he’s being thrown into the air. Cameras shift between his ecstatic celebration, and your more muted watching, because honestly…you had no idea what to say. What to do.

You just bagged yourself a date with Gojo fucking Satoru - and you hadn’t even thought you’d be able to tolerate him just about an hour and a half ago. 

But that earnestness in his eyes…

You wonder if-

Nope. And then you’re watching Gojo threaten to take his jersey off and throw it somewhere into the crowd - you’re sighing and wondering just how you’re going to get through this. When a mic happens to be shoved into your line of vision—and you’re just about to take it and get ready for your post-match interviews, when-

“Ah ah-” Shoko tuts, amusement lacing her tone. “The interviewer holds the mic. The interviewee answers the question on how it feels to be the future girlfriend of the MVP of the match? Japan’s pride and unofficial prettyboy?”

“Terrible.” You state, extremely seriously. “In fact, I’m considering breaking up with him this very second.” Well…partially seriously.

Shoko faux-gasps. “After a hatrick like that? Why?”

You’re waving breezily. “I’ve always been more of a Geto or Modrić fan myself. Strikers aren’t my thing.”

“Well they’re about to be your thing because you’ve got a date with one-” Shoko checks her watch. “-in just a few hours.”

It’s sinking in. And although you don’t regret saying yes- “Fuck, the fan clubs are gonna kill me.”

Shoko nods. “I won’t disagree with that. I’ll miss you when you’re gone.”

“Shoko- darling- sweetheart- you’re supposed to disagree to make me feel better.” 

She shrugs. “You’re a reporter- give ‘em hell. Whack them with your mic or something.” She’s then finally handing you the mic—and you’re smoothing out your suit with a sigh. “But until then- try not to kill Gojo Satoru. We need him for the semi-finals.”

“No promises.”

And as Shoko and the rest of your team start counting down until you’re On Air again, you’re stealing a fleeting look behind at Gojo Satoru. It seems he hadn’t tired of the fan service yet- and now actually had taken off his jersey and thrown it at the fan clubs- was that a brawl up there in the stands?!

He catches your eye and sends you a flirtatious wink.

And a flying kiss.

You mean to swat it away- but then you’re rolling.

.

.

.

“Shoko- what does one wear to a date with a football star?”

“I don’t know, ask the Akinator.” 

“Shoko, that’s…actually I should have done that.” It seems that all around you was defeat: having the team you were rooting for win the quarterfinals for the FIFA World Cup, scoring a date with the MVP of the match, getting a promotion and a bump in your paycheck all because of it? All in all, you were having a terrible day. 

And not to mention- you hadn’t even begun to check your social media—according to the way that Shoko had painted it: the football side of the Internet had crashed into your little circle of the Internet, and then it’d been set on flames and trampled with cleats five times over. And that’s not even beginning to dive into Gojo’s stan Twitter…the horror…

The edits. The speculation. The articles. The fanfiction- out of curiosity, you’d searched a few up.

And you’d have to say…that they were very…descriptive. @tonycriesaboutfootball you were looking at her.

All in all- it’s safe to say that your little agreement had caused a little break in the Internet.

And here you were: cooped-up in your humble hotel room for the match. On the phone was Shoko <3 your biggest help since after the match and right now- gathering your thoughts…and your look…and yourself. After putting her on video call—the two of you worked together to sort through your suitcase and find something half-decent for some fancy schmancy date.

In the end, you’d decided on a chic outfit you’d actually planned to wear when reporting the FIFA World Cup Finals.

And nevermind how much you protested and lamented and complained about how expensive shopping for another dress is going to be, Shoko had simply replied- “Just get your millionaire athlete boyfriend to buy one. Take his black card, duh?”

Ah…

And right now you were simply putting in the final touches- slouched over your hotel vanity. 

She disappears from the screen for a minute and comes back wielding her chunky laptop. “About 21% of people think this is a PR stunt…18% think you two won’t actually go on the date…and 44% think that this is true love and both of you can bear their children. They also may or may not be camped outside the restaurant.”

You take one last look at yourself in the mirror. Hell yeah…“And the other 2%?”

“Ah- well they’re out for blood.” Shoko casually closes her laptop. “Ready?”

You shudder. “As I’ll ever be. Do I look okay?”

“You look good enough to eat- now go.”

Someone from what you assume to be Gojo’s team had actually approached you after the match - something about exchanging numbers, and then letting you know the details about the date. And around 5PM that evening, you’d just been getting off of a final few interviews from another match- when they’d texted you.

He’d texted you.

(+81 03 XXXX XXXX): guess whooOOoooooOooOOO~? (⌒▽⌒)☆

You: ?

(+81 03 XXXX XXXX): hehehe you have three guesses. clue no. 1: i’m hot asf. clue no. 2: i’m even hotter wwwww. 

You: I’m blocking you.

(+81 03 XXXX XXXX): waitヽ(O_O )ﾉ

(+81 03 XXXX XXXX): wait nooooooooooo 

(+81 03 XXXX XXXX): don’t block me ( ◣∀◢)ψ

(+81 03 XXXX XXXX): i was jokinggggggggg

(+81 03 XXXX XXXX): it’s satoruuuuu ☀(▀U ▀-͠)

You: Ah, of course. 

(+81 03 XXXX XXXX) added to your contacts.

(+81 03 XXXX XXXX) changed to (Foot)ballz.

You: Hello, Satoru-san.

(Foot)ballz: hehe

(Foot)ballz: no need to be so formal with me when we’re going on a date~ (͡o‿O͡)

(Foot)ballz: i’ll come pick you up at your hotel so just lmk where you’re staying!!

You: You just want to find out which hotel I’m at, you perv…

(Foot)ballz: I’VE BEEN CAUGHT (ʘ ͜ʖ ʘ)

Ultimately you ended up sending your location to the ridiculous man - however you’d expected Gojo Satoru to text like…it certainly wasn’t this. But you found yourself tolerating it, for the most part.

You suppose.

And once you’re done spritzing on some of your favorite perfume, your phone lights up with a new message.

(Foot)ballz: here ⸜(*ˊᗜˋ*)⸝

With a small huff of laughter, you’re grabbing your things and heading out.

The car parked outside was anything but inconspicuous. 

And you don’t exactly know what led you to think that in the first place—because when has Gojo Satoru ever wished to fly under the radar? 

What was sprawled across the hotel porte-cochère was a gleaming red feline of a vehicle; that type you’d see on the covers of car magazines, or parked outside stadiums with fans surrounding it. Many, many fans. It had all those sorts of curvatures and indents that made it built for speed just like the athletes that owned these types - spoiler wagging behind it, bumper pawing forward, iridescent tyre rims catching the light and showing off. Even stopped outside the hotel, it purred as though impatient to get back on the prowl once again.

From the driver’s seat, Gojo Satoru is opening the door and standing tall- and your breath catches in your throat. 

Gojo had cleaned up nicely. He was dressed in a form-fitting suit—such a dark blue that it was nearly black. The velvety fabric draped around his trim waist, flaring ever-so-slightly where his broad shoulders were- it made him look so much more handsome than was fair. His long legs were covered in the same fabric, and at the ends peeked out shoes so polished they were almost painful to look at- you wonder how long he spent on that…

That usually-messy hair of his had pushed backwards, and on his face were semi-opaque round sunglasses. On his face was a smile.

Where a celebrity often wished to blend in, Gojo stood his six-and-a-something feet high above the rest.

In seconds, Gojo’s reaching inside the car and pulling out a massive bouquet of red roses. Thus he crosses the short distance between you both in two strides, and gently hands them to you- you take it with bated breath. “This is…”

“I know I know-” Gojo cocks his head with a smug smile. “I’ve outdone myself.”

And without further ado, he’s tipping the valet well - the elderly man catches your eye, and you’re shrugging at him helplessly - and helping you inside the car. “You look gorgeous, by the way- although, of course you always do and this isn’t just me saying-”

“Gojo.” You smile. “Shut up and get in.”

He wastes no more time.

“D’you like the car?” Gojo asks as he buckles up, “It’s a Ferrari F80. I was thinking of buying this here as a little congratulatory present for myself- you’re the first one in here besides myself.”

“Seriously?” You ask. And he holds your gaze earnestly. “This is amazing.”

His smile flashes as he sets his hand on the wheel. “Then buckle up, sweetheart. We’re gonna be the hottest couple in town.”

“Not a coup- oh.” He speeds away.

.

.

.

“GOJO- GOJO—LOOK HERE—! GOJO IS THAT YOUR PARTNER?”

“GOJO HOW DO WE FEEL ABOUT THE HISTORIC WIN TONIGHT—DID HAVING YOUR GIRLFRIEND THERE HELP?”

“GOJO HOW DO YOU MAINTAIN THE TITLE OF PRETTIEST STRIKER FOUR YEARS IN A ROW?”

That…last one Gojo actually stopped to give a thorough answer.

And as for the rest, he’d given those paparazzi a coy smile and a wink before diving into the restaurant with you. The maître d’ quickly helped you get escorted to your private table.

The restaurant was…fancy. Right. That was one way to put it.

Another way to put it would’ve been: it was the type of restaurant that you honestly would’ve talked shit about with Shoko, then spent the next hour scrolling through its pictures. Then you’d catch a glimpse of a menu…and have immediately turned your phone off. Because in no conceivable world would you attend a restaurant of that high a price, for portion sizes no bigger than the meat rations you’d given yourself during your impoverished intern days.

And yet, here you were.

Gojo Satoru seemed to fit right in amongst the decor- the abstract artwork on the walls that looked like phalluses, the lights on the walls that also looked like phalluses, and the bowl of oranges upon every table - like a piece of the furniture himself. You don’t doubt that such a place was as casual as walking into a fast-food restaurant for him—but for you…let’s just say that whilst sports reporting jobs may pay high - especially for someone of your ranking - it wasn’t phallus-restaurant level quite just yet. 

“So uh…what did you say the name of this place was, again?” You ask Gojo after he’d ordered…whatever he was having. You’d gone with the same primarily because you didn’t want to butcher the pronunciations of the menu.

“Hm?” Gojo delicately folds his napkin. “Big D’s, why?”

You’re biting back a laugh, “No reason.”

He sends you a look. “And um…how was your day?”

“What are we, an old married couple?” Though there was something strangely…jarring about having the world-famous football player - the very same one you’ve rolled your eyes at or been forced to interview about a million times over - speak about something so…mundane with you. What else could you have expected? Maybe to talk stats, maybe updates on his fan club—maybe what ranking he’s surpassed now. You sigh. “But if you must know, the usual- oh, although I did get to interview Gakuganji for the first time in a while today—so that was fun.”

“Gakuganji Yoshinobu?” Gojo’s interest clearly piques. “Oh, he’s a legend. Did you know that since retirements he’s taken up-”

“Electric guitar.” You nod eagerly. “And he’s damn good at it, too.”

“I was thinking that after my retirement I should take up writing or something.”

“You seem like the type to never retire.”

And so the conversation…had strangely enough flowed- not something you would have expected from the haughty football player, but it was a pleasure nonetheless. And it had been about two hours into the conversation - currently on the topic of whether sharks were misunderstood - when the two of you looked down at your empty plates—and servers that seemed to be flitting about literally every table…but yours.

“Do you think they forgot about us?” You whisper to Gojo.

“Maybe they were so stunned by my devilish good looks that-”

“Okay.” And with a semi-fond smile upon your face, you’re standing up in your seat. Gojo’s mirthful expression drops—but before panic can start setting in, you’re gesturing for him to stand up as well. So you weren’t going to leave him in the phallus restaurant…you surprised even yourself with that. “C’mon- I know this great place downtown that sells the largest pizza you’ve ever seen.”

“Oh, please.” Tipping the servers, you two darted out of Big D’s through the back entrance where no paparazzi roamed. And into a night that was wild and untamed, you snuck into the darkness between stars and created light of your own—you copped a few good slices of pizza, greasy and not half-bad for the price, before walking down shadowed alleys where no one could find you. Almost no one. A few pictures snapped here and there- surely it couldn’t do much harm?

Oh, who were you kidding.

You could see the headlines forming already - had this been anyone else, you’d have been the one writing it. But tonight…“Everyone’s going to think we’re dating after tonight.”

“I know.” Gojo had replied, half of his profile illuminated by the neon shop signs. The two of you were walking around the less-nicer parts of town, or so one would say…how strange it is that where things are discarded and dilapidated, the lights shine the brightest and the moon seems to sing softly tonight. “But strangely enough- I don’t mind.”

“Getting dating rumors?”

“Getting dating rumors with you, I mean.” Gojo’s saying- before he coughs into his fist and attempts to amend. “Although, of course, you’d be lucky to get dating rumors with the Gojo Satoru~”

“You mean the Gojo Satoru who’s never gotten a dating rumor in his life?” You scoff. “Y’know before tonight they were calling you No-game Gojo?”

Gojo’s gasp is so loud that it startles passerbys.

In order to soothe him, you’re forced to buy this grown athlete ice cream. He asks for three scoops with extra sprinkles, and the two of you walk together - close but not touching - down by a nearby waterfront—the river around the massive city and pulled it into a tight embrace. You yourself felt the strange coil of something at the pit of your stomach.

“Did you really mean it?”

Gojo, who’d been eying your own ice cream cone, startles. “Hngh?”

Sighing…you hand him your final bite. “Did you really mean the thing about not minding dating rumors with me?”

“I did. Why?”

“No…just thinking that if I had to get dating rumors with anyone- at least you’re not the worst option.”

“Awwww-”

You smirk. “Although, Geto would have been-”

“Let me have this moment—”

His pinky finger grazes yours as you two walk.

.

.

.

The door slams behind you.

And following right behind it, Gojo’s doing the same to you.

He has his hands clutched at your waist, and his mouth down your neck - leaving hot, slimy strings of spit wherever he’s pepperin’ the most filthiest kisses. You’re moaning as you let yourself get engulfed in Gojo Satoru’s wave of need—molten desperation shooting through your veins.

There’s something wet forming at the in-betweens of your pretty legs- and it seems as though Gojo almost has a sixth sense. Because he wastes no time before sliding a hand down your front and cupping your throbbing pussy through your dress. “Mmm-” He grunts off against the side of your ear. The hot breath sends goosebumps skittering down your exposed skin. “And who are you this wet for, sweetheart~?”

“Mmm, dunno.” You bat your lashes up at him. “Probably the best player on the team.”

A priggish smile toys at Gojo’s lips, and he’s leaning ever-closer to you. “And just who might that be?”

You’re pulling Gojo down as though this was a secret just between the two of you - and the man eagerly reciprocates closing the distance between you. You’re basked in his likely maddeningly expensive cologne as he leans in—“Geto Suguru, of course.”

And Gojo’s letting out just the softest surprised gasp—

He leans backwards with slightly-parted lips, and you’re getting the feeling that no one’s ever said anything like that to him before. Gojo’s eyes sweep down where your pretty body is pressed up against him- and before you know it, he’s crashing his lips onto yours. “Mmm—” He’s lappin’ at your moans- and the edge of your bottom lip. There’s a squeaky noise that’s being let out as Gojo tastes the lipgloss slathered on your maw. “Cherry.” He notes.

You’re stringing your fingers into his pure-white hair.

With the pad of his thumb, Gojo wipes off the remnants of glossy make-up on his mouth. “You taste sweeter than you are, y’know that?”

And with your fingers twisting into his hair so that he moans- you’re dragging him right back to you. “And you’re better when you shut up.”

Eventually, you’re backing him into your bed.

The hotel room wasn’t all that spacious, and it’s only a few hasty strides before you’re preparing to push him onto the mattress—

But Gojo’s reflexes are too quick. And he’s flipping the two of you around so that it’s your back that’s coming into contact with the springy bedcoils, falling onto the cloud-like bed with the MVP of the match. Mr. Hotshot Gojo Satoru himself.

Gojo smirks as he hovers above you. “Wanna hear a magic trick? I know exactly what you’re thinking about, pretty girl~” He husks.

And you’re letting out a gasp as his lips come kissing down your neck once more. You can’t help it - you’re arching into him already. “And what’s that?”

“Me.” 

As he chuckles, you’re rolling your eyes. “You’ll have to be more specific than that.”

“Oh?” Gojo raises one of his white brows- like a challenge. If there was anything he was weak to—then it was a challenge. And maybe you, but…you didn’t need to know that just yet. “Then let me be clearer…you were thinking about me—” As he speaks, his dominant hands are exploring your body - starting at the right side of your tits, and massaging for a few moments before switching to the other one. “-running these trained hands everywhere on your body like this, weren’t you?”

Your heart leaps to your throat- and down there. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

He chuckles. “And then you must’ve thought about my fingers- I did have a little stint as a goalkeeper—” Through your fabric, he’s pinching your left nipple and you moan. “-did you know that?”

“I did.” You admit. Your reporting habits left you investigating every single nook and cranny of these footballers’ careers and lives.

“And then maybe these spectacular abs- I have them insured, did you know that?” The urge to roll your eyes is immense—but you’re more focused on the way that the world-class player was shuffling his body purposefully down yours, letting the button-up underneath his suit push against your core- you’re feeling his abs. As though he could read your mind, Gojo flashes you a devilish smile and keeps going down- “Or these arms.” Down. “Or these thick thighs. Heh.” Dooooown.

All the way until he’s between those tremblin’ legs of yours. At least his face was.

“But most of all…how about this glorious face?” Gojo shoots you his camera-ready smile inches away from your clothed cunt—pearly-white teeth and dimple to boot. “And I know m’fucking pretty- but I get the strange feeling that I’d look even prettier between your legs.”

And just as he’s about to lean in-

You’re sitting up and putting a hand on his shoulder. Stopping him.

Gojo looks up at you with a face full of concern. 

But you’re merely shaking your head. “You’d be hard-pressed to think that I’d let you get all the bragging rights.” You scoff. “Get up. Let me sit on your face.”

His blue, blue eyes gleam in delight. “Now you’re speaking my language.”

“Shut up and get over here.”

And you’re sure that Gojo murmurs something about ‘making him shut up’ (you’d be more surprised if he didn’t) and yet within seconds you suddenly have his 6’4 toned frame stretched-out beneath you.

With your knees making the mattress upon either side of his head dip, straddling him, you’ve straddled the two of you into an oh-so-perfect 69 position - but he doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he doesn’t care. Looking underneath you, you notice that the white-haired man has hunger consuming every inch of him, with his eyes half-lidded and his mouth slightly-ajar, licking his lips as he fucking chases your clothed cunt—

“But just ooooone thing.” You’re placing a hand on his chest and pushing him back down- Gojo lets out a cracked whimper. He stares up at your clothed cunt like the gates of heaven above.

“Yes, my demanding girl~? More demands? Isn’t having the great Gojo Satoru underneath you and begging for your pussy enough?”

“Hmm, nope.” You pop the ‘p’. Without wasting more time, you’re fumbling with Gojo’s outrageous dress pants until they’re managed off. What’s revealed to you first is his v-line that stands out—moving with every one of his impatient bucks; then his bulging boxers; then looooong smooth legs, toned from so many years of training. And then you’re almost done. “How about a bet that whoever makes the other cum first gets a reward?”

“A reward?” You’re not turning to look at him- but you don’t need to to know that Gojo’s eyes were probably shining by now. “What kind of reward?”

“Hmmmm, how about…” You suggest. “The winner gets to decide the position for se-”

“I’m in.”

And that’s all that’s being said before Gojo reaches up n’ pushes your dress up. He titters as he takes in the way your pussy was oh-so-wet being outlined against your underwear—that already-thin fabric hugging to your pretty lips n’ soaking wet for him already.

“What’s that about not being so wet?” Gojo hums. He makes the loudest noise as he leans in and presses a great big smooch right on top of your sopping lips. You’re keening out sweetly on top of him- he didn’t even know you could sound that sweet-

“You said that out loud.” You’re grumbling behind at him. “Don’t tell me you’re pussydrunk already, hotshot?”

“Awwww—” Gojo’s spankin’ that swollen exterior of your cunt. “You think I’m hot?”

And now about that damn evening dress obscuring his view- ah, he knows…

Soon enough, you’re hearing a rip-rip-riiiiip—! that makes your blood grow cold. The sensation of cool air biting into your skin is registering in your brain - and then only the realization that Gojo had just fucking ripped your best dress- “Now, I know that isn’t what I think it is.”

“Ah…” He grunts distractedly. Before reaching down to his dress pants and pulling out something dark, sleek, and cash-cold. “Buy yourself whatever you need usin’ this, sweetheart.”

Gojo reaches forwards and stuffs his black card between your pretty drivelling lips. And then he’s divin’ nose-deep between your legs and eating you out with the panties on—letting his looooong luscious tongue zigzag across your slit and accumulate every wad. Once he’s done stealing every drop of slick leaking out of you, Gojo wastes no time before slippin’ aside your panties using his tongue, then making your inner lining feel eeeeeevery coarse tastebud of his taking over you.

It’s just so much.

You’re arching your back and letting out a prolonged moan - or at least you’re attempting to. But what’s really coming out instead are a few muffled sounds as the black card holds firm between your lips.

Your eyes widen.

How could you let yourself be swayed by Gojo Satoru’s black card, of all things…?!

Spitting the black card out, you throw a glare at Gojo. “D-don’t think you’ve won the bet just because you’ve gotten a headstart.”

“Oh?” Gojo coos. “I think I’ve won the bet regardless by how much you’re stutterin’ and whining like a slut on my tongue.” He’s spitting every syllable out against your pussy- literally. He’s drizzling a splash of saliva that he’s using a hand to smack- to smear across every inch of your sodden lips.

You let out a sudden whine, and he laughs.

“Was I wrong~? Mmm- shell me. Who’s the bwest—?” Muffled by his burning-hot kisses.

And you won’t let yourself be bestest just like that, would you? Especially not when he sounds so silly already drunk on your pussy?

In sultry seconds, you’re spittin’ out his damn black card and dragging Gojo’s boxers down. By how much he’d been showing through his bulge…you’d already assumed that he’d be massive.

But Gojo was…really massive.

Mentally you’re counting about eight or nine inches- seriously. And each of those inches were fat and throbbing, the girth of a Coke can and the length of something you’re sure would leave you unable to walk. At least for a week.

As though somehow sensing what you were thinking; Gojo’s thickened tip pulses. Grows even pinker.

“Cock got yer tongue?” He giggles wetly. “Why’re you stupefied, huh? Looks like m’gonna win~”

From the top of his shaft, he’s ooooozing out a constant source of precum—and you’re leanin’ in to sweetly kiss away the syrup that clings to his tip. Just the softest kittenish kiss- but it’s enough to make the football player yelp from underneath you.

His toes curl. His hips buck up without him even seeming to realize - and Gojo lets out an echo of your name - like a prayer - as his fat tip sticks inside your mouth. “O-ohhhh, now you’re playing dirty, sweetheart.”

“M’just doing the same thing you’re- mmm, doing.” You answer- purposefully keeping your mouth on Gojo so that the vibrations shoot up his veins.

“Tch- yeah.” Gojo admits. “But s’only fun when you’re the one getting all drunk on my tongue-” And just because he’s babbling away doesn’t mean that he’s stopping his ministrations for a single second - he’s lavishing and lavishing the tight rim of your hole with his tongue. Licking. Lingering. Letting the top of it hook inside and stretchin’ you out just a little bit more. “Why can’t I be the one to have all the fun—?”

“Do you always have to win?”

“Yes.”

As ridiculous as that sentence sounded, it doesn’t surprise you that it came out of Gojo’s mouth.

The very same mouth that’s becoming more n’ more feverish on your cunt - as some form of revenge, you suppose. Gojo’s grabbing a handful of your left ass cheek and using it to drag you deeper into his mouth.

His jaw unhinges. His nose pushes against your skin. 

He’s sucking onto every tender spot of your pussy- eventually resting his pinkish lips on your hole and shoving his tastebuds in so deep. “Tch- this is my fuckin’ win—and this should be my pussy, girl.” Deeper. “C’mon. C’mon. Forget sucking my cock- just fuck back in t’me, sweetheart.”

“F-forget? Sneaky…you just wanna win.”

You can feel him smile against your cunt. “Awww, you know me so well—”

“So selfish, Satoru.” You huff. 

“Ohhhh.” And he’s shivering- wracking with something primal all the way head-to-toe. “Call me that again~”

“Satoru.” You’re plopping your mouth over his puckered, pretty head- he was just so cutely needy.

It wasn’t something that you’d expected over the hotshot player. Even though Gojo Satoru might not look like it upon first impression—his cock was so sensitive, so very honest with you that it almost gave you secondhand embarrassment to see. The moment you’re putting your mouth on him n’ starting to suck, he’s spurting out the sweetest honeyed wads of precum here n’ there. The moment you’re leaving him- Gojo throbs even angrily bigger and shuffles his hips to chase your warm mouth.

One of your hands reaches down to squeeze at his balls - so plump and perfectly-shaped. It was annoying that everything about him seemed to be handcrafted by the heavens themselves.

And you’re massaging his most sensitive spots using the mountain of your palm, grinding him against your hand every time your mouth sucks on him. You’re repeating this sequence a few more times. 

But he’s not holding back either - Gojo’s now started using the side of your waist as a handlebar, almost.

And he’s grabbing you hard- dragging you onto his awaiting mouth even harder.

“Sweetheart. Sweetheart. Sweetheart- sweetheart.” He repeats like a broken record player. All whilst his tongue was open and ready—he hones it at the tip, sharpening, so that it can probe even deeper. Slithering it inside again and agaaaaaain until you’re soaking all down his face. “Mmm- again, sweetheart.” Gojo whispers, feeling the mess start to trickle down his chin. “C’mon- Satoru needs to hear you say his name when you cum.”

“Satoruuuuu—oh.” You’re gasping. “But you’re not winning before I do-”

 He’s immediately reaching for your throat with a vicious thrust of his hips.

You’re relaxing that muscle there so that he can delve deeper into your velvety cavern- the tresses of his veins scrapin’ against the roof of your mouth. Breathing through your nose as you have to win this. You fucking have to. It’s the competitiveness that’s getting to the both of you—and you’re moving in a fucking frenzy.

A stalemate.

Every zap of electricity, both of you reciprocate it twofold.

With your thighs wrapped around his head, with Gojo’s cock shoved down your throat. And the two of you move in synchronous tandem - you with the rapid bobs of your head, slobberin’ all down his plump inches—and him eatin’ away like a ravenous fucking wolf between your legs. The both of you were starved. 

But you have to realize…that a draw just isn’t enough for Gojo Satoru.

Because Gojo Satoru was a competitive motherfucker.

And without warning; he swipes three slick-buttered fingers ‘round the orifice of your cunt. ‘Round and ‘round a few times. Before he’s then letting them sliiiiiiiip in—he replaces his tongue with those long fingers of his that just manage to stretch you out so right.

You’re removing yourself from Gojo’s cock with a lecherous pop! Just to gasp n’ moan away as Gojo opens you up using his fingers.

“How about it now?” Gojo coos. He elongates his words- and something about it just makes your limbs twitch—as he’s probin’ inside in loooooong yearning thrusts with his seemingly never-ending digits. Again and again. “How about you say- ngh- ‘Satoru you’re the best~’ and maybe I’ll go easy on you when I win?”

Gojo mocks your voice by pitching it about a zillion octaves higher and making himself sound ridiculously flirty.

You scoff, embarrassment sizzling across your skin. “You fuckin’ wish.”

“Now, that’s not very nice~”

And he wasn’t going to play easy. He reaches his fingers back- then slams! them down all the way till the knuckles. The curvaceous tops of his digits were slightly thicker than the rest of him—so he’s able to drive apart your sticky walls n’ stick himself into every hidden spot and crevice. 

He was filling you up sooooooo good - “Oh p-please…” Tears drizzle down your cheeks. “That feels so good-”

“That’s not what I wanted you to say…” Gojo had amusement laced into his every syllable. “C’mon- tell your Satoru that he’s the best.”

“S-Satoru—” No—you can’t give up so easily. And lazily…you’re instead slobberin’ down his thick, vein-covered shaft instead. You can’t even take him in by now, because you were too afraid a sudden graze of Gojo’s fingers along your tender spots would leave you scramblin’ for air.

Speaking of tender spots…

“Y’know I’m real close to the goal.” Gojo trundles. Those long lashes of his flap, as though innocently. “Real close. I could just…” 

“O-ohhhh, fuck-” All three of those fingers are slippin’ around your g-spot - you get the impression that he was missing it on purpose, and it made you nervous over just what he might have planned next. Fuck he was massaging the softest areas of your cunt’s channel. “You’re bluffing.”

“By how much wetter you’re getting…” He smirks. “-I think the fuck not. C’mooooon the world’s strongest striker is eatin’ your pussy out, and you can’t even be nice?”

“N-no-”

“I sure can be.” The area of Gojo’s knuckles were practically gluuuued like adhesive to your cunt’s folds. His other hand lifts off of your hips- starting to knead your swollen nub—you’re starting to see stars as Gojo toys with your clit. “But only if you admit m’the best. C’mon, tell me I’m the best- tell me…and I miiiiiight just go a little easier on you.”

“S-Satoru…” It’s inevitable - between the constant probing, the suckling ‘round wherever he could reach, the targeting of your clit - that you’re about to reach your high. It’s simmering right underneath your skin. “Oh no-”

“Oh yes.” Gojo’s eyes glimmer with delight. “Close, huh? And what do you have to say—?”

“Satoru—” You knew that you’d have to do this if you wanted a satisfactory orgasm- Gojo would’ve gladly left you high and dry just to prove a point. “Y-you’re the best…”

The words feel sickeningly sweet leaving your tongue.

But just as soon as they’re rollin’ off- Gojo probes deeply into your g-spot. Hitting that exact area of nerves dead-on. And your orgasm crashes through you like a tidal wave - it’s burning hot and feels more blissful than anything you’ve ever felt before. Anything.

You hate to admit it, but you’re seeing stars as you cum on Gojo’s tongue.

And he has the audacity to giggle- giggle, pussydrunkenly. “Mmm, you think I’m the best, sweetheart?”

“Yeah…” You breathe. “When you shut up.”

Immediately, you’re pushing back into Gojo’s mouth - shutting him up. His mouth drops open for you on instinct. His cock’s floooooding silver, satiny spurts of precum at the mere act of being used—your walls fluttering around his tongue. Sucking him up. 

Gojo’s eyes roll to the back of his head. “G-goal…”

Your jaw drops.

His fingers are tunnelin’ straight to your g-spot during every peak of your high - those twinges of extra pleasure that he’s managing to prolong using his fingers, his mouth, his other set of digits kneading your pulsing clit. And what’s driving you even further past that tipping point is the way that Gojo whispers ‘goal, goal, goal, goal’ every time he strikes your g-spot.

Goal.

Goal.

Goal.

Goal.

Goal.

There’s no use trying to make him cum soon afterwards—you’re too drunk on your pleasure, and Gojo’s attempting to squeeze his thighs together to keep himself from cumming. Once your clit’s properly massaged, he uses that hand to squeeze his thickened hilt and prevent anymore beads of pearly-white from leaking.

Fucking unfair. 

By the time you’ve ridden through your high - you’re well and fully wrung out. Struggling to catch your breath. Struggling to stop your limbs from shaking- sensitively.

He’s left you oh-so-sensitive.

Gojo Satoru hadn’t even had to fucking try to overstimulate you—he’s just that good with his fingers. He’s just so flexible with his tongue. He’s just so-

“Is this some sort of subliminal? Why are you whispering those to my cunt?” You ask him. And it’s with a final squelch! - and Gojo whispering for a goal once his fingers detach from your g-spot - that you’re managing to untangle yourself from his ravenous mouth.

Though it wasn’t for a lack of trying from his part—Gojo chases after your drippin’ wet pussy like a bee chasing his beehive. Were you the Queen or were you the honey? He’s having a hard time deciding, as Gojo finally sits up on the bed- dazedly.

“Woah-” Now sitting opposite him, you steady him with a hand on his shoulder. “Are you okay there, Satoru?”

His cock twitches. For both your dignities, you pretend you don’t see that. 

“You’re fucking asking me if I’m okay—?”

Using that same helping hand you’d lent him- Gojo flips your positions around so that now your back’s facing the creaky hotel headboard. And then you’re both shuffling down the mattress, so that you’re being bent into-

“A mating press.” Gojo grins. His eyes twinkle with something so…dark. “Since I won our little bet, I choose the mating press- oh, and that’s not all.”

To your astoundment, Gojo suddenly stands up and flounces off the bed. He scans for something on the floor- “Give the great Gojo Satoru one second.” And then saunters up to your open suitcases of clothes as though they were his—it doesn’t take long for Gojo to find what he’d been looking for. 

And you’re feeling embarrassment curdled with something akin to an unfamiliar shyness start to rise in your chest. Because in Gojo Satoru’s hands…was his own jersey.

“You had Geto’s jersey.” He smirks. “I knew you must’ve had mine in there somewhere, too.”

“Someone should teach you not to go through others’ things.” You huff, crossing your arms.

“Oh, my apologies.” Gojo says, sounding utterly unapologetic. “How about I make it up to you? Arms up, baby.”

And, well, a bet is a bet.

You’re raising your arms and letting Gojo take off the rest of your clothes. Before you know it, the Gojo 66 jersey on you—one you’d never even admitted to Shoko that you’d bought. In your defense, it was a buy-one-get-one-free deal that they’d been doing for the FIFA World Cup- but you doubt that Gojo would be open to hearing about your transaction history right now.

Not when he’s admiring the look of his name - his last name - emblazoned against your back. The look of his team’s colors rising and falling with every deep breath.

Your hardened nipples looked so pretty against the athletic fabric that he can’t help but reach out and pinch—

“Change of plans.” Gojo grunts- breathless, as if he hadn’t planned to say this. “We’re doing it doggy style so I can look at my name across your back while I hit it from behind.”

You grumble but you’re changing positions anyway. “Ever heard of the story of Narcissus, Satoru?”

“Are you the river because you’re so wet, or…?”

“No, don’t worry- that dried me up enough.”

He temporarily shoves a knee between your legs. “Lies.” Smirking.

You’re on all fours now. And Gojo shrugs off whatever else is left of his garments- and his rock-hard abs press into your back from behind, practically gluuuued skin-to-skin. A line of goosebumps shoot up your spine at the sudden feeling of him pressing into you—and Gojo takes the opportunity to lean down and kiss up your back.

All the way sloppily to your shoulders.

Your neck.

“Mmmm—and this is my win, isn’t it?” He rasps against your skin- there’s a…slightly crazed tone in Gojo’s voice that you’d never heard before. You shiver. You nod. “Mhm- then this is going to be how a winner fucks, sweetheart.”

In the time that you’d been distracted by Gojo’s incredible body, his ruby-reddened cock had slipped between your legs. There, Gojo had been keeping his length cushioned by your pretty, pretty legs.

Only now was he lettin’ his drivelling tip sliiiiiiide down your slit- giving you an experimental stretch along your first rim. “And yer wearing my name, aren’t you~?” It makes him fucking blush - out of everything…this is what breaks him - to see Gojo 66 and the blue jersey against your skin. You can’t help but nod again. “Then you’re doing to- fucking- take it- like a winner, sweetheart.”

Between each word, Gojo pauses to give a thorough slashing of his thickened cock.

He’s not even fitting in all the way at first- just the globular tip.

Just that decadent girth; where his shaft had flared out massively - all blushing red and plastered in precum - and then honing out into a perfect point to just dive right into you. Gojo’s length also had a slight curve reaching towards the top of your cunt—and he was built oh-so-perfectly to itch at your sweetest spots inside.

Not that you were going to admit it, of course.

“Cock got your-”

“You already used that line, Satoru.” You’re grumbling- though it’s a proper task to keep your voice steady in front of him. To pretend you’re not as affected as you really are.

And Gojo notices. Of course, Gojo Satoru notices. “Y’know…you might not be honest.” He titters in your ear. And then he’s shovellin’ in a few more thick inches—you’re feeling the near-spherical end of his shaft slip inside without too much resistance. You just wanted him so badly. “But this pretty cunt sure is. And what do you think she has to say about me?”

“I-I don’t need to—”

“She’s saying…”

Gojo trails off. Though not without reason.

Almost that very instant, he’s un-velcroing his chiselled abs from your back. A soft whimper leaves your lips as you’re startin’ to miss him already. Already.

But Gojo’s merely pattin’ at your utterly stuffed pussy. You only had a few inches of him pushed inside and throbbing inside you, but your cunt still struggles to take him. “Needy girl. Be patient for a fuckin’ minute- sheesh.”

And then he’s tugging at your jersey.

You’re looking up in confusion.

Then he’s pulling at your jersey—

And only too-late are you realizing that Gojo has that hem of your - his - football jersey bunched up. Using just a single one of his hands, he’s twistin’ his fingers around the velveteen fabric and trapping you right along with it—then he’s dragging you- just by the hold he has on your jersey. He falls back on his haunches.

And he’s taking you right along with him.

Now you’ve got your arms lifted off the bed- in a praying position…except Gojo’s fat cock was drilling into you from behind. With your ass cheeks against his pap-pap-papping hips, with his thick meaty thighs kneading into yours.

His hips are pushing and pushing and pushing—wielding his cock into yours so deeply, so furiously, that it’s as if the man’s entire body has been set alight. 

Raw desire runs through his veins instead of blood- and Gojo’s letting out such an animalistic growl- “S’my fuckin’ name on you…”

His mouth waters- waters at the mere notion.

Shit, what an effect you had on him. Maybe all that adrenaline during interviews was…

Gojo’s never felt so utterly drunk than he was in this very moment—pussydrunk. Like the most intense of alcoholics chase their vise, he’s chasin’ the back of your gooey cunt. Every thrust manages to scrape his pumping veins against that snug channel of yours, every thrust manages to push him a little deeper than he already was. What a wonder he’s managed to fit in the first place.

You were just so fucking tight and heavenly that it’s as though you were sucking Gojo’s sanity - and soul - right out of him.

“My fucking name.” He repeats. Breathless. Gojo thwacks! his extremely tight balls against the front slit of your cunt. More beads of syrupy slick end up leaking out of you—n’ they’re pouring down Gojo’s vast shaft. “My fucking number on you.”

“Sh-shiiiiit—” You’re clawing for a lifeline: anything. Your only hope is to bend your arms behind your head- and start clawin’ at Gojo’s own sweaty scalp instead. 

As he rams in again and again and again—your poor ass cheeks were stinging.

Gojo’s almost all the way bottomed-out now. It makes your back arch, and your throat bubble over with moans instead of answers. “Fuck-”

The audacity that he has…no one but Gojo Satoru could have. He’s mocking your moans- “Satoru, fuck~” Before rolling those azure eyes of his and emptyin’ every inch of himself into the back of your pussy. “Yeah, yeah- fucking you is exactly what I’m—oh.”

Oh, was right.

It was exactly right.

Because just then Gojo finally - finally - bottoms out. He’s gotten all of his inches happily trapped between your gorgeous legs.

And it’s not just that.

Just then Gojo’s breath hitches.

Just then Gojo thinks he can’t breathe- his entire upper half collapses on top of yours—and you’re being pushed back into a regular, sloppy doggy position. Gojo’s letting shivers run amok across his skin, Gojo’s letting his handsome features twist into something of pure euphoria as he bottoms out- how can it feel this good?

This fucking good?

And in the time it’d taken the self-proclaimed world’s best striker to shatter on your pussy- you’d gathered yourself up.

At least to the point where you can look at Gojo over your shoulder and smirk. “Pussy got your tongue, Satoru?”

He frowns. “Har har—very fun- fuck, don’t squeeze me like that.” Gojo’s eyes flutter shut- on the edges of his lashes, you think you’re seeing tears. “I th-think I might cum.”

“Just that from a winner?” You’re tutting. “I thought you were the strongest, Satoru.”

“I-I am-”

“Then wouldn’t the strongest also have incredible stamina?” You’re looking at him—Gojo’s peripherals are glazed-over with a thick layer of lust. His hair was a mess. His lips were kiss-bitten. There’s a sort of unleashed hunger within him that makes you wish for him to ravage you…You pout. “And here I was hoping we could go- all night.”

He shivers at the words - cock pulsating deep inside you.

But you’re not done just yet. “But ah…I suppose if you can’t, then maybe Get-”

You don’t get to finish your sentence - not even your thought - before Gojo’s hips are pinning yours down. His upper half is cushioned against you. His bodyweight fully keeps you delightfully trapped- as Gojo’s starting to fuck you like an animal. 

He pushes you into the mattress.

He fucks you into the mattress.

His thrusts deeeeeep and loooooong—all the way from the slick-embellished top of his shaft, and then down, down, down until you’re feeling your cunt struggling around his incredibly thick base. The scruff of Gojo’s white pubic hair pushed n’ pulled against your pussylips-

Grinding.

And before you could even register the different sensation, Gojo already has one of his hands looped underneath you. The calloused tips of his fingers are instantly finding your clit, like magnets find one another, and he’s teasin’ that sweet nub. Again and again—tuggin’. “I c-can’t believe…” Gojo chokes out eventually.

“What was that?” You’re asking with a pointed clench of your sopping wet lips. 

And the man above you instantly shudders. “Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing, girl.” He somewhat snaps- but rather than irritation it’s simply pure need in his words. Gojo pinches your clit. “It doesn’t matter h-hoooooow many times you clench- or just hooooow pussydrunk you’re getting me…”

You’re keening as he swabs your g-spot several times.

“But I- won’t- forget- whose- jersey- is on- you—” Gojo says between thrusts.

Every one of his movements was getting more n’ more erratic by the second- sweat drenched every part of him, and a curtain of his white hair obscured those laser-blue eyes. Locked in on his target: you.

Gojo’s touch is searing as he’s pinching your clit once again—“But just in case this pussy does- heh, get too rowdy…how about you remind me?” Your eyes are jerking open at his words. What does he…“Because it feels fucking gooood wearing the winner’s jersey as he fucks you, huh? Huh?”

Your lips quiver. Pressure was building at the pit of your stomach. “Y-yes…”

“Oh yeah? What does it say, then?” The team captain whispers. He’s using his dexterous fingers to twist your too-sensitive nub, and you’re whimpering.

“Fuck-”

“I already told you before- oh. M’already fucking you.” Gojo’s mirthful grin spreads across his face. He had that pussydrunken look about him as his hips accelerated. Even more. “But that’s not the- hah, question. What number is it?”

“S-six six…” You’re letting out in a defeated gust of air.

“Mmmm, good girl.” Maybe because you’re being such a good girl - Gojo takes the time to lazily and lethargically draaaaaaag his vein-covered cock wherever he felt like you were the most delicate. His zig-zagging patterns were getting outlined deep, deep inside you—and you’re shivering as he inches close to your g-spot. “And what name?”

He can’t stop himself from nudgin’ himself just a little closer and puuuushing down hard and thoroughly on that nerve-covered spot. “O-ohhhhh, fuck, there-”

Gojo’s face contorts - his brows furrow, his jaw drops. “Tell me the fucking name, sweetheart~”

“Gojo Satoru.” Barely even audible.

He leans in with an exaggerated smirk. “What was thaaaat?”

“Gojo Satoru- fuck.”

“And how many goals did I score today, Miss Reporter?”

You’re clawing at the pillows by now. “Th-three—!”

“Oh yeah?” Gojo hums. “M’gonna double it tonight.”

You don’t need to wait too long to find out exactly what Gojo meant- because in mere split-seconds, he’s reeling his hips baaaaack and snappin’ them. Once from the very blushin’ tip-top and down to the hilt. “Goal.” He whispers as he grazes past your g-spot - activating the white-hot pleasure from your cunt to your brain - and striking his target of your cervix. “H-heh.”

“Yellow card for being such a dick.” You whisper.

“Oh, but you love a winner’s dick.” He counters. And it’s barely three seconds later that you’re feeling another forcefield of carnal vibrations that set your teeth on edge—“Oh- and goal.”

Saliva puddles on the pillow in front of you. The hotel headboard has your nail marks on it- dammit.

Gojo repeats- faster this time. “Goal- oh, look at that…a hatrick.” His voice is on the verge of shattering- “Can we make that double hatricks?”

“O-oh my god, Satoru-”

“It’s captain.”

And then he’s pumping out those final few thrusts—hands a blur upon your throbbin’ clit, hips a blur between your legs. That jersey bearing Gojo’s name was drenched in sweat and stuck to you like a second skin- “Goal.” It’s radiating the heat that your body was giving off. “Goal.”

It’s displaying that number and that name so proudly. So fucking proudly.

And for that last and final score of his—Gojo’s bending down until he’s able to press his mouth against the area between where your shoulderblades should be. He kisses that spot. He licks his name on your skin. “Goal.”

And it’s inevitable that you’re crashing into your high as one.

Gojo holds you closely as incredible bursts of pleasure make your cunt convulse- you’re practically keeping him glued to your walls. It just felt too good to let him go, even if it was just to fuck you through your high. And it’s by pushing past that little resistance that Gojo’s managing to probe his rounded tip into you- to press those invisible buttons of yours that prolong your high.

More and more and more. This was an orgasm even better than your last one- and you hadn’t even known that’d be possible (not to boost Gojo’s ego).

Counting underneath his breath, he times the exact moment of your euphoria peaking—and then he’s bangin’ his rock-hard tip right on time. Bruising the back of your pussy.

White-hot pleasure was sizzlin’ just beneath your skin every time he did—and you felt as though your heart was beating too fast for you to keep up with. It’s a pounding drum in your ears, your chest…and your pussy.

Wrapped so vehemently ‘round Gojo’s own twitching cock.

He was pumping out wad after wad of looooong white cum that sticks to the inner lining of your pussy. Groaning. Grinding. Pleasure was tingling at the tips of his fingers, and all around him- soon enough you’re feeling a few tears of bliss splatter down your back. “You’re…” You just barely manage to breathe.

Gojo humps your behind like an animal- just shaking at the sheer force of his high. Gojo hums as he collects the droplets on the tip of his cock, and starts fucking it into your deepest depths- inside. Inside and inside.

It was just so warm and gummy inside you. Spreading. Seeping. 

Overspilling.

There wasn’t to be a single ounce wasted.

Gojo’s fingers alternate between rolling over your clit n’ helping push the excess amount of cum frothing around your entrance back inside. Some of it was currently forming a ring around his hilt, and he’s swiping it away using his thumb—popping it inside his mouth. “N-not bad for a guy you hate, huh~?”

Your eyes are shooting open. “Hate?” You frown. “I’ve never hated you, Satoru.”

And that makes the smile slip off his face. “Huh? But I always thought…you always asked me those probing questions and-”

“Satoru, that’s because I’m interested in you…as a player. Of course.” You’re admitting somewhat shyly. The two of you were past your orgasms by this point, and Gojo had taken to spooning you from behind whilst his cock was still inside. “I thought you hated me-”

“Me?” Gojo gapes. “When have I ever hated you? I flirt with you all the fucking time-”

“You flirt with everyone.” You huff. “But it’s just…that time after you’d gotten your offer for the national team. I don’t know if you remember, but it was my first interview then and-”

“Of course I remember.” He interjects.

Something warms in your chest. “But then- why didn’t you show up?”

“Pardon?”

“You promised you’d do your first interview with me- and I promised you’d be the first athlete I interviewed.” There’s a sadness in your tone - not overwhelming, just missing what might have been. “I waited and waited for you, but you never showed up.”

“You waited for me?” Gojo gasps.

“Yeah? I didn’t want to bother you too much, so I went to meet you at the field-”

“I didn’t want to bother you too much, so I went to meet you at the media room.”

You stare at Gojo. Gojo stares right back.

You sort of want to laugh- no wait, you’re laughing.

And he’s following right after. “I think we have a lot to talk about.”

“Mhmmm, but first how about you pull out, Satoru?”

“Aw, man.”

“And then next I’ll let you put the black card in my mouth while you fuck me.”

“Fuck yeah.”

.

.

.

Eight years ago.

“Are you new here?”

Gojo startles.

The Japan Football Association (JFA) had a meeting room…as Gojo Satoru supposes that all football headquarters do.

He wouldn’t know.

But outside was the waiting room. 

He also wouldn’t know whether other places had such purgatories- but then again, he digresses.

It was a hallway with two rows of chairs pushed against either side of it—gleaming plastic chairs that sat emptily - and strangely ominously - before photographs of some of the JFA’s most famous recruits. Gojo felt a strange sense of pride and fear soar up in him as the only chair occupied—perhaps mirror images of all the great players that had sat in them years prior.

Well, as the second chair occupied.

So focused on reciting his name, his age, and his position to himself - things that should come as naturally to him as breathing, now strangely so foreign in this stuffy waiting room - he hadn’t noticed you until you actually spoke to him. Which…you must forgive him.

Everything tends to slip Gojo Satoru’s mind when he thinks of football: people, places, eating and sleeping. 

And yet…with your soft call- he turns to you. There’s an instantaneous and mad urge for Gojo to flash his best, most flirtatious smile that’d gotten him voted as Most Handsome Boy for every year of elementary school and middle school. And yet, the memories of high school come rushing to him unbidden—and Gojo’s suddenly tampering it down.

Expressionless. “Yes?”

“Don’t do that.” You huff. You looked about his age- and by the uniform you were wearing, it didn’t seem that you were another recruit. He wonders what you were doing in such a place. “That smile of yours is so pretty- did you know that you have a dimple?”

“I…” Gojo watches as you point at the edge of your left lip. He reaches a hand up to feel for that very spot, softly smiling—just for the experiment. “Oh- I suppose I do.”

You shrug. “Win ‘em over with that smile, I tell you. You’re Gojo Satoru—the youngest recruit for the team, aren’t you?”

He feels his heartbeat pick up. “I don’t know…I hope so.”

“Tch- don’t be silly.” And it shocked Gojo just how casually you’d waved away his uncertainties - as though they were mere annoyances, like easy-to-catch mosquitoes, and not blood-thirst buzzards. “The interview’s basically a formality. The entire building’s talking about you. Gojo Satoru: the youngest recruit in Japanese football history, the football prodigy from a small town in Hokkaido, the new generation of Japanese football.”

The more you spoke, the more Gojo’s eyes widened. The more he held his breath.

“You’re like the Luffy of football right now, man.” You smile. “Have some more confidence- you’re Gojo Satoru.”

At the time, he hadn’t known how to respond to that. So he’d simply asked—“And are you…”

“Not a player.” Turning to the chair on your other side, you pulled out a notebook and a pen, an audio recorder, and a camera. “I’m an intern for the sports reporting department- it’s all I’ve ever wanted to do when I was young.” And he watched in something he’d later come to recognize as awe as you stared at the photographs of players in much the same way he did. “All those photographs? All those articles? It’s because of reporters—and if I can’t play on the field, maybe I can write the field’s stories, y’know?”

You sigh. 

And he simply keeps on staring like a buffoon.

“Everything that happens on that field is a tale to be told.” And as Gojo’s awkward silence stretches, your smile turns sheepish. “Or- something like that…I don’t know it’s just-”

“Don’t do that.” He interrupts. This time, there’s a faint smile on his lips—and you could see the dimples. “Be confident, erm…”

You share your name.

He repeats it like a winning scorecard, a legendary play, maybe a last-minute unexpected goal. Extremely unexpected.

And from inside the meeting room, there’s a call of his name. Gojo’s jerking up to his lanky feet and looking at you- you shoot him two thumbs up. He nods.

He turns.

And he’s just about to enter through those doors that could very well change his life—

But, Gojo Satoru turns back.

He looks at you and flashes you that too-handsome smile. The first sight of it seems to shock you. “How about if- when I get back you can be the reporter to get the first-ever exclusive interview with the Gojo Satoru~?”

You blink. “I’d like that.” Surprise melting from your expression and letting you smile. “I’d really, really like that—oh, shit, I should get my good camera for the photos- good luck—!”

And with your cheerful tone echoing down the hallway, Gojo huffs out a chuckle. He’s almost at the meeting room door when he realizes that he hadn’t exactly gotten a time and place for this interview - and who knows how long this meeting will last - but when he’s looking back you’re already disappeared. 

Ah, that’s fine. He supposes.

He’ll find you anyway.

.

.

.

Gojo Satoru’s first-ever professional interview was alongside Coach Yaga with some veteran reporter he now can’t remember the name of.

Your first-ever professional interview as a sports reporter was with the long-retired striker, Gakuganji, who’d taken time out of his busy electric guitar shredding schedule.

The two of you shouldn’t have drifted apart.

But then again, the two of you shouldn’t have found each other either. We are all parallel lines of the same football field; untouching and unceasing—not unless there’s bound to be a—goal

Gojo Satoru was face-to-face with the goal.

He takes a deep breath.

He points.

He kicks.

He scores.

There’s a second of silence before anything happens - like the brief yet somehow deafening pause before a rocket takes off. And just as loudly—the cheers of fans, Japanese and non-Japanese supporters alike, erupt raucously until the very frame of the stadium seems to rattle itself. They were crying. They were jumping. They were cheering themselves hoarse, because—

“Japan has just won the FIFA World Cup! For the first time in history, Japan has just won the FIFA World Cup! Gojo Satoru has done it again—!” 

1-2 to Japan.

To say that the match had been close would be the understatement of the century; but you suppose you’ll write all about it in some exclusive article. Later.

Right now, your gaze was fixated on the flashes of white n’ blue barely discernible through the explosion of confetti. As what seemed like hundreds of members of the audience break through the bars and run to the embracing team, there’s only one that’s untangling himself free from the embrace and running straight—to you.

You’re in Gojo’s strong, sweaty arms before you even know what’s happening.

“And is that Gojo—?! Our MVP Gojo is breaking free from his team- running to the lovely lady, eh? All because of that bet. And here we have more celebrations from—”

His face pushed into the crook of your neck, and his chest hammering against yours- “We did it.” Gojo pants - and you’re vaguely aware of Shoko zooming in on the scene with a cackle. “We did it, sweetheart.”

You’re pulling back slightly from him and smiling. “I always knew you could.”

He kisses you and he’s never meant anything more.

A/N. WHERE’S MY GOJOOOOOOOO?? Anyways ugh I’d been SOBBING during Modrić’s final match.

The cold yet forgiving breeze grazes your skin as you puff away. Streetlights and the neon sign of a local bar flicker. The light reflections bounce off the graffiti-covered alley walls as you stroll. You notice what looks like a glorified drug kit and broken liquor bottles lying scattered on the concrete path.

The further you walk, the more you understand just why Toji was so adamant about you not coming out at night in this area without him. His words ring through your mind. Looking farther down, you can see what looks like 2 drunk men walking in the same direction as you. Even with their presence, you don’t want to turn back now; the night feels good, and if anything happens, you can hold your own. Toji made sure of that.

But, more than anything, you love the thought of pushing his buttons. You drive him crazy with your antics, but you just adore getting a taste of those crude and oh so tempting reactions.

Your footsteps grow slower the closer you get to the two men, but it's like the universe is trying to play a shitty trick on you because you swear you feel eyes peering into your backside. You hesitantly turn back to see– but it's absolutely nothing. You let out a heavy breath as your body reflexes. You weakly chuckle at your apparently unwarranted paranoia, then take another puff from your blunt, eyes glancing in every direction, thinking “Just in case.”

You try to point your mind in a different direction, admiring the art plastered on the walls. Suddenly you hear heavy footsteps treading behind you. Every muscle in your body instantly tenses. You immediately pull out your phone, acting seemingly like you’re busy on your phone– Irrationally hoping that would make them avoid interacting with you.

Back, you sense a voice calling for your attention, muffled out by the music playing through your AirPods. Without a second thought, you scramble through your phone to pause the song, then stop walking. But yet again, nothing, not a sound. Heart pounding, you wearily turn your head, thinking- well, more like hoping it's only a fragment of your imagination.

The moment you turn around, your arms are snatched from your sides and pulled to your back with a swiftness. Your phone and lit-blunt clatter against the jagged concrete floor. Instinctively, your body rebels, but you're abruptly pushed against the brick wall face-first.

The way this heavy and carved body is pressed against your back, forcing you against the wall, makes the rigid hands around your wrists feel inescapable. “Awww, You’re shaking. Now you’re scared?” Gripping your arms tighter as he draws closer to your ear, ”Why don’t you ever fucking listen to me, huh?” That silky yet gritty and guttural voice hits your ears and has your spine melting with relief and satisfaction.

A well-held shaky breath leaves you as a dreary scoff breaks. “Toji…Let me the fuck go.” You know damn well saying that will only piss him off even more, but more than that, you just gave him the green light to do whatever he wants with you.

He keeps your arms bound behind you with one hand while the other roams your body aggressively, tugging your hoodie and pants away as he gropes. “Nahhh, you know I can't do that, Baby.” His nails are sinking into your wrist from the force of his clutch.

It's not that he can’t, he just won’t. Why should he? What fun would that be?

You can feel his throbbing and growing bulge pressing up against your fingers. His hand slips under your top, and immediately he pinches your nipples as he nestles your breast. He’s biting and sucking your neck hungrily. Lush, faint moans escape you as you barely try to break from his grip. That just results in him handling you as if you’re his personal plaything. And well… You aren't too far from it.

“I love that you think you can fight back.” He scoffs, pushing away your hood and licking the nape of your neck. His sinister words send a quaking heat to your sweet spot. You feel like you're being drawn in violently solely off his voice and clutch.

Sure, he’s mad, but ultimately, he just wants another excuse to use your pussy the way he wants, when he wants, and in ways you can’t begin to fathom. As per usual.

He moves his hand from under your hoodie and into your soaking panties. His thick fingers run through your saturated folds and graze your slick center. You can feel his depravity with each sensual touch. “There she is…” Mocking how wet you are compared to how terribly you're trying to fight it. Such a small motion shouldn’t feel so good, but this anticipation has your head doing laps. “You hate to show it, but you’re really fucking desperate, aren’t you, Princess.” You can feel his lips part with a malicious smirk.

A short tantrum-like whimper flows out of you, “Shut— the fuck up..” Meaningless words uttered to a sensually sadistic man just waiting for another reason to exploit your begging pussy.

Not even a second later, he pushes you further into the wall, then rips down your panties and shorts. He starts slapping his leaking tip on your ass and yanks at your held arms, “Bend over.” You coyly shake your head “no”, still trying to pull your arms free. “Don’t be a fucking brat.” He smacks your ass with a heavy hand.

Your body betrays your ploy, and your hips buck back at the feeling. He takes that as an opportunity to swiftly grab your hips and slam you onto his long, hot, and pulsing cock. The air catches in your throat, and your head whips back. “M’wait–!” He starts driving into you with sharp and short thrusts. Filling every inch of your tight and clenching walls so perfectly, with an impact that gives you full-body quakes of bliss.

You’re happily earning every second of the lustful hellscape he's about to send you to, and you’re loving every moment of it.

He lets go of your hip and snatches you by your hair, pulling your head further back. His eyes meet yours. He’s looking at you with glossed-over, heavy eyes and a perverse grin that sends shivers down your spine. “Fuck…I didn’t even get to toy with you first.”

As if trailing you without a word didn’t do enough. And now he’s fucking you against an alley wall with no remorse. He’s such an arrogantly callous man. After thirty seconds, he already has you trembling.

“Now, apologize.”

“No….fuck you.”

You’re trying to savor whatever drops of pride and dignity you have left, but when it comes to him, none of that shit actually matters when all he wants is for you to falter beneath him.

Just as fast as the words leave your lips, his thrusts follow along– His tip pounding and twitching at your g-spot with each deep and rushed slide. Hitting you with hungry and downright shamefully lustful thrusts that echo down the alley.

“Tuh–I think I might’ve fucked you stupid. I said, apologize.” He grabs your neck with a tight grip and starts fucking you like a fleshlight. Back so far arched, it’s like he’s drilling you into the wall. Your knees feel like jelly, entirely weak– buckling every time he slides in and out. Your eyes roll far back as saliva drips down from your slackened mouth. Your mind is going blank, and all you can manage to spit out is, “I- sorry…” He scoffs at your weak and disordered response.

“Louder. You sound way too greedy.”

You can barely even form a proper sentence. The tight grasp around your neck paired with ruthless pounds to your sweet, warm walls…How could you not sound greedy? You don’t even know what the fuck you’re apologizing for; you’re just doing whatever your body or Toji tells you.

Frail apologies that slur into faux begs to “stop” rip out of you. You’ve completely forgotten where you are. Your body feels heavy and weightless all at once. He nibbles the tip of your ear and whispers, “For someone screaming “stop”, your pussy is way too fucking wet.”

If that's what you really wanted, oh best believe you’d be yelling something else completely.

For a moment, he slows down his strokes and slaps his free hand over your mouth. “You can even hear how well you're taking it, Princess…” He grips your neck harder, and without warning, he rails into you mercilessly.

“When you're not fucking whining and yelling.”

Such lovely words paired with ones that feel like a slap to the face…. It's the best of both worlds, and you feel you’re losing yourself in it. It feels so vinous.

You’re feeling ecstasy-filled flutters in your throbbing walls that spread to your lower belly. Every drive from him feels like a manic but methodical punch to your g-spot. He’s fucking your squelching pussy like he's trying to break you in. Purely feral and hungry for nothing else but the feeling of your wet warmth.

Moans and cries push past your lips and break through the hand covering your mouth, needlessly. Honestly, how could he think that would work anyway, given the way he’s railing every and any sound out of you.

He has you spewing out things you've never thought to even utter before. Laughing and telling you to scream louder as if he’s not the one hushing your voice. Then slapping you with a sly and smug remark, “Your pussy’s too good for you to be acting the way you do. I’m sure I can fix that though, real easy.”

You drive your hips down onto his rigid cock rapidly as he thrusts. You can’t even understand what he’s saying anymore; you just need more of him inside you. He fits inside you so well, it only feels right. You can’t help but crumble when he’s mauling at you like this. It feels too fucking good.

The relentless and unforgiving rhythm of his cock finally pushes you off the edge of sanity. The tension in your lower belly snaps into an electrifying and pitiless climax. Your walls squeeze around him violently the more he pushes into you. You feel his tip twitching, cock pulsing profusely, before he splurts hot cum that drips down your leg after a few more strokes.

You love the way he fills you up without question. “Soo..M’goood..” For a long minute, the only sound in the alley is the sound of your ragged breathing and his hips slamming against your ass with short and strict strokes.

He finally eases up and, without other words, he roughly flips you around to face him, slightly slamming your back against the wall. The moment he lets go of your shoulder, your body slumps to the ground.

Sometimes, you forget just how huge and chiseled his physique is. Your eyes trail up, and as soon as they land on him, he cups your jaw aggressively, nails digging into your cheeks. “Clean it up.” He smirks, glancing down at his glistening and overtly thick length.

Looking up at him with eyes that say you’re just begging to be fucked again, you take his shaft in your hand, licking up your mess from the base to the tip, balls and all. His head flicks back and groans that feel like an audible aphrodisiac follow.

“Next time, just listen to me.”

He can say such redundant things for a man who isn't a fan of talking. Even he knows that won’t happen.

You just can’t get enough.

𝘛𝘢𝘨𝘭𝘪𝘴𝘵- @iluvvsatoru @msnoirgirl @mutsu422 @capytala @missingh3r (lmk if you wanna be added!)

MasterList⦮ ⦯

He just let out a dry breath. "Hey."

JJ took that as an invitation, dropping down on the end of the daybed. He rubbed the back of his neck, looking over at Rafe. The line of his jaw was tight, teeth visibly clenched. "You good, man?” He threw out. “...Sofia woke up asking where you were."

"I don't give a fuck what Sofia was asking," Rafe snapped, voice rough and gravelly from lack of sleep. He turned his head, his eyes bloodshot, ringed with dark circles. "And, no, I'm not ‘good’, JJ.” He groaned. “I feel like I'm losing my mind..."

JJ nodded, his expression softening. Although he’d never say it out loud in a million years, JJ was the guy Rafe trusted most. The only one who didn't look at him like he was some kind of ticking time bomb, even when he was.

"I get it, bro," JJ said, leaning forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Last night was…fucked. Nobody saw that shit coming. Nobody, whole house feels empty without her..."

"It's not just empty," Rafe muttered, voice cracking slightly as he shifted to sit up. "It's suffocating. I look around this fuckin’ yard, and every single spot is just a reminder that she's not here. The daybeds, the kitchen, that fuckass fire pit... it's all just her. And now I'm supposed to make breakfast and play nice with the reason she’s gone? Fuck that."

JJ sighed, watching him. "Well, it's the next day now,” JJ starts, careful. “...where is your head at?"

Rafe stiffened, turning to look out over the villa, shoulders dropping as the anger seemed to drain out of him, leaving nothing but an exhausting defeat.

"I'm think I’m jus’ gonna leave," Rafe said quietly.

JJ blinked, sitting up straight. "Wait, what? Leave? Like, leave leave?"

Rafe just shrugged. "Why shouldn't I?" He turned back to him, arms thrown up in a helpless gesture. "I mean, look around, man. There’s nothin’ left for me. Who else have I had even the least bit of interest in since day one? When has my head ever been turned, aside from it being to her?" He shook his head, drawing his lips into a thin line. "Never. Not once. From the second she walked in, that was it for me. You know that. Everyone knows that."

"I know, but—"

"There are no 'buts,' JJ.” He interrupts. “What else would I be here for beside her? The money? I didn't come here for the fuckin’ money," Rafe added, a bitter laugh escaping him. "I have enough money. And honestly? I don't even know why the hell I came on this show in the first place. If you asked me three months ago if I was in the right headspace to find love, I would've told you fuck no. My life was a mess, I was dealing with shit... I just did it because it felt like... like some weird obligation I couldn't shake."

He shifted closer to JJ, eyes wide.

"But now? Being in here with her?... I feel like it was the universe, or whatever the fuck is out there, just pushin' us together. Like I had to go through all this bullshit just to find the one person who actually sees me, who actually makes me want to be better. And if she's not in this villa... then what am I doing?” He scoffs, scrutinizing himself. “Letting my ex hold me hostage on national television?"

JJ sat in silence for a long moment. He wanted to tell Rafe he was being dramatic, but he couldn't. Everyone had seen who Rafe became when he was around you. The sharp edges of his personality softened, the guard he kept up with everyone else dissolved. 

Rafe was in love with you. Whether he knew it or not, whether you knew it or not, whether he said it or not, whether you said it or not. And seeing him without you was like watching a battery die.

"Bro," JJ started, choosing his words carefully. "I hear you. And I respect how you feel right now. But listen to me, just... don't just pack your bags jus’ yet."

Rafe frowned. "Why not?"

"Just... think on it for today," JJ pleaded, standing up to put a hand on Rafe's shoulder. "Just chill for a second. Let your brain process last night without making that big of a decision at eight in the morning. If you sit on it all day, and by tonight you still feel like you're wasting your time here, then fine. I won't stop you. I'll help you carry your bags myself. But…just give it today."

Rafe looked at JJ's hand on his shoulder, then back out at the villa.

"Fine," Rafe muttered, his jaw tight. "Alright, I'll stay. But I'm not sleeping in that bed. Not with her. And I'm sure as hell not pretending everything is fine."

"That's all I'm askin’, man," JJ said, giving his shoulder a firm squeeze. "Just chill. Come down whenever you're ready."

DOWNSTAIRS in the kitchen, the boys were preparing breakfast, per usual. Today, however, it felt like a more like a chore.

Pope was slicing avocados for Cleo, his face focused. Across from him, Theo was flipping pancakes, while Justin carefully plated a fruit bowl for Rima. John B stood by the toaster, staring blankly at the wall as he waited for Kaitlyn’s bagels to pop.

JJ walked into the kitchen, grabbed a blender and began tossing in frozen berries, protein powder, and oat milk. He blended it in silence, the loud whirring of the machine filling the awkward gaps in conversation. When it finished, he poured the thick pink sludge into a cup, grabbed a straw, and turned toward the stairs.

"That for Haja?" John B asked, leaning against the counter.

"Yeah," JJ said shortly. "Peace offering.” He shrugged. “I'm over the drama, man. I don't want any bad blood, but that’s as far as it goes." And he didn't wait for a response, heading up the stairs to the Glam Room.

INSIDE, Cleo, Sarah, Rima, and Kaitlyn were clustered around the vanities while Sofia sat off to the side, aggressively brushing her hair, face dark. Haja was sitting on a stool, scrolling through her villa phone.

JJ walked in, ignoring Sofia's heavy stare, and walked over to Haja, setting the smoothie down on the table next to her. "Jus’ thought to make sure you had somethin'."

Haja looked up, surprised, a small, grateful smile forming on her lips. "Oh. Thanks. That’s…really sweet."

"Mhm," JJ hummed, his tone casual, devoid of the flirtatious warmth he used to give her. He turned his back before she could say anything else, eyes scanning the room. He locked eyes with Sarah, Cleo, Rima, John B who had just walked up behind him with a tray, and Pope, who was standing at the doorway with a plate.

"Yo," JJ said, his voice dropping, disregarding who else was in the room or who might feel excluded. "I need to talk to you guys. Like, right now." He left no room for argument as he walked back out into the corridor, the selected group exchanging bewildered glances before following him out.

Once they were all huddled in the narrow hall, away from the door, Cleo crossed her arms. "What's goin’ on?"

"Guys, it's bad," JJ said flatly, looking at each of them. "Like, really bad."

"What's bad?" Sarah asked. "Are you talking about Rafe? Is he okay?"

JJ just sighed. "I just went up to check on him," he explained, rubbing his face. "...He told me he’s thinking about leaving."

"What?" Pope straightened, surprised but also not. "Why would he leave?"

JJ looked at the man like he had lost his mind. "What do you mean why, Pope? The only girl he has ever cared about in here—the girl he’s most likely in love with—just got booted out of here last night.” He hissed, voice hushed. “Of course he wants to leave."

The hallway went silent. John B looked down at his shoes, while Sarah's eyes pooled with tears. The gravity of Rafe's despair seemed to hit everyone all at once, but before anyone could offer a solution, Rima shrugged.

"Honestly?" She said, voice calm. "Let him."

The entire group turned to her, shock plastered across their faces.

"Let him?" John B repeated, incredulous. "Why would you say that?"

"Because he’s miserable, John B." Rima shot back. "He’s not happy in here. He will never be happy in here, because his happiness left with her.” She deadpans. “He only smiles, he only laughs, he only functions normally when he is with her. And she’s gone.” Rima snarled, like the thought itself offended her. “So why should we force him to stay here and suffer?"

"Rima," Pope argued, stepping forward. "You know how much she cared about him. If she were standing here right now, she would want Rafe to be happy. She’d want him to stay, try to enjoy the experience, and see it through to the end—"

"No, she wouldn't," Cleo chimed in, scoffing and stepping up to back Rima up. "She would want him to do whatever makes him happy, and staying here isn’t it."

"Exactly," Sarah agreed, wiping a stray tear from her cheek. "Their connection is so strong, you guys. We all saw it. It’s not like they’re some random couple that’s going to forget each other in two weeks. This won't be the end of the world for them if he walks out. They’ll come back together."

Rima nodded, crossing her arms over her chest. "That's exactly my point.” She gives the boys a tight-lipped grimace. “So if he wants to leave, let him leave. I truly believe, with every fiber of my being, that he’ll be ten times happier outside of this place than sitting in here without her.” She emphasizes with her hands. “To be completely honest, I expected him to walk out last night. I think the only reason he didn't is because he was just too emotional and overwhelmed to even remember that he’s not a prisoner, that we can choose to leave at any point."

The boys stood in the quiet of the hallway, the weight of the girls' words sinking in. 

"...Yeah," John B admitted, a heavy sigh escaping him as he scratched the back of his head. "You guys are right. And plus, there’s really nothing left we can do to convince him otherwise if his heart isn't in it."

"I did tell him to just think about it for the rest of the day, though," JJ added, looking down the corridor toward the stairs. "I told him to just take it easy, breathe, and if he still wants to leave by tonight, then that’s that."

"That's fair," Cleo said, her expression softening, letting the silence hang before attempting to change the subject to something else. "... So did none of you make Sofia breakfast?"

The boys all looked at each other, unapologetic smirks spreading across their faces.

"Hell no," John B muttered, scoffing. "Why the hell would we do that?"

"Yeah, absolutely not," Pope laughed quietly. "My culinary skills are reserved for people who don't ruin couples for fun."

A brief burst of laughter rippled through the group, a fleeting moment of levity in an otherwise heavy morning. But as quickly as the laughter came, it died down.

"...Damn," JJ murmured, his voice cracking slightly. "I still can't believe she's actually gone. Like, it's just crazy."

"Yeah," Pope agreed, leaning his head back against the wall. "I know in some way, we all want to be the ones to win this, obviously.” He sighed, shaking his head. “We all want to make it to the end. But if I'm being honest... I think we all had our bets on them.” He throws out casually. “We all thought Rafe and her were going to take it."

"They've been through so much, since day one," Sarah said, her voice thick. "And every single time something happened, they always came out on the other side better than they went in, even if it was messy.” She smiled softly to herself. “We all came here to find love, but those two found it and so much more."

"I miss her, man," Cleo said softly. "The whole vibe of the house is wrong. And you can see it in Rafe... the light she gave him? It’s gone.” She says sadly. “From his eyes, from the way he speaks, from the way he used to jump out of bed at the crack of dawn just to make her breakfast exactly how she liked it… He looks miserable."

"Alright," JJ said, straightening his shoulders and clapping his hands. "Here's the plan. Make sure someone is keeping an eye on him at all times, keeping his spirits up, but not smothering him, y’know? We all know he can get a bit...snappy.” JJ jokes, light laughter washing over the small group. “He’s down, bad, so let’s just make sure he knows he’s got us."

BY mid-afternoon, the unrelenting heat of the sun was violent, and a sharp ping echoed from Cleo's phone, signaling a text as everyone moved to gather around.

"Islanders, it’s time to find out what the public really thinks in today’s challenge…Mean Tweets! #NoFilter #CaughtInTheNet #SpillTheTea"

When they walked out to the challenge area, there was a clothesline across the lawn. Hanging from the line were various paper cutouts shaped like pieces of clothing—brightly colored underwear, t-shirts, bras, and socks—each bearing a tweet from a viewer with the names completely blanked out.

The rules were simple—an islander would step up, read the anonymous tweet off the clothesline, and then decide who they thought the public was talking about. Once they made their guess, they would grab a giant bucket of ice cold, soapy water and dump it directly over that person's head before peeling off the sticker to reveal the name.

If they were right, they scored a point for their team—Boys versus Girls.

"This is gonna be a bloodbath." JJ muttered to Pope as they lined up on their respective sides, the soapy water already smelling strongly of citrus.

And he wasn't wrong. 

The public had been watching 24/7, and they had collected a massive amount of ammunition. And, while almost everyone was slated to get their fair share of criticism, it became clear within the first ten minutes that three specific people were the primary targets of the public’s wrath—John B, Haja, and Sofia.

Sarah was up first for the girls, stepping up to the clothesline as she pulled down a cutout shaped like a pair of boxers and read it aloud.

"____ is a literal wolf in sheep's clothing. He puts on a good nice guy act but he's actually a master manipulator and a liar. And it doesn’t help that he’s just easy."

Sarah didn't hesitate. She grabbed the heavy blue bucket of soapy water, walked straight over to him, and dumped it over his head with a splash that soaked his frame. John B sputtered, wiping water from his eyes as Sarah walked back to peel off the sticker. 

Sure enough, his name was underneath.

The tweets kept coming for John B, each one more devastating than the last.

Rima stepped up next, reading a tweet from a paper t-shirt.

"The _____ hate train is departing the station and I am the conductor. I called him not being shit and all my friends called me crazy. Yet here he is flirting with his ex and showering with another girl. He is a nasty, desperate little ogre."

The villa erupted into gasps and laughter. "An ogre?" Theo snorted from the back, covering his mouth, shoulders shaking as he laughed.

John B just stood there, drenched in soapy foam, jaw tight as he took hit after hit, his behavior during and after Casa Amor coming back to haunt him in the most public way possible.

But he wasn’t the only one. The public hadn’t forgotten Haja’s behavior during Casa either, especially her back-and-forth antics with Miles before he was dumped. 

Cleo stepped up to the line, pulling down a cutout of a tank top.

"___ is the biggest bird, it’s actually embarrassing to watch. A total bitch who acts like she’s innocent but she’s literally community at this point."

Cleo winced at the harsh wording. "Oof. I think... Haja?" She winced. “Sorry.”

Cleo didn’t look particularly happy, but she grabbed a bucket and walked over to Haja, dumping the soapy water over her with a quiet muttered apology. 

She peeled the sticker off, revealing Haja’s name, the other islanders revealing more tweets directed towards her as the game went on—pointing out the hypocrisy of her sleeping with JJ but then letting Miles grope her, labeling her behavior as sneaky and disrespectful. 

Haja stood there, eyes blinking against the soapy water, lower lip trembling as the harsh reality of public perception hit her.

And JJ himself didn't escape unscathed, though his hate was minimal compared to the others. 

Somewhere halfway during the challenge, Sofia stepped up and read a tweet targeting him.

"I don't even feel bad for ___. He’s so easy, he literally did this to himself because he let his dick do all the thinking."

Sofia smirked, huffing to herself before dumping the water on JJ, who just shrugged, shaking wet hair out of his eyes. "Fair enough," he muttered. "They’re not wrong."

And because no one was perfect, the rest of the islanders had their fair share.

Pope stepped up and read a tweet about Theo.

"___ is so two-faced. He was playing Y/N from the first day of Casa. The second they got that video, he swooped in like a vulture and utilized her emotions against her just to secure his spot."

Justin was targeted next, with a tweet calling him ‘insecure’ and accusing him of ‘using Rima as a safe option and a scapegoat now that Cleo is back into Pope’s arms’. 

Kaitlyn's turn brought a brief moment of comedic relief when Cleo read a tweet that made everyone cringe.

"___ is just so boring. She contributes nothing to the villa. She’s the equivalent of the soggy ass pickle on a cheeseburger."

But Kaitlyn just threw her head back and laughed, genuinely amused. "Honestly, that’s hilarious." she giggled, shrugging the comment off as she took her bucket of water with a choked back laugh.

Then Rima was hit with a tweet that read…

"___ came into the villa thinking she was the shit, but she couldn't bag a single guy. When that failed, she turned this shit into Ex Island."

Rima rolled her eyes as the soapy water hit her, flipping her wet hair over her shoulder.

Sarah was called out next, the tweet labeling her as ‘airheaded’ and declaring that her taste in men was ‘probably the worst palette the world has ever seen in human history.’ Sarah just sighed, accepting the downpour of water, eyes casting a dark look over at John B.

Cleo's tweets consistently called her ‘incredibly indecisive’, accusing her of only bringing Justin back from Casa because he was ‘Pope 2.0’, which made both Pope and Justin look incredibly uncomfortable.

And Pope's tweet was a hit to his pride as Kaitlyn read it out from an underwear cutout.

"And ___ is such a loser LMAO. 'I've always felt like the second option'... maybe because you act like one?"

Pope's face hardened as John B dumped the water over him. He wiped his eyes, clearly stung by the public’s perception of him.

But the worst of the storm was reserved for Sofia. 

The public was ruthless regarding her arrival in general, her behavior towards you and Rafe, and most recently… her role in your elimination.

Sarah stepped up, eyes flashing with a dangerous spark as she pulled down a paper t-shirt.

"____ is the definition of a desperate, pathetic, male-centered idiot. She’s the real homewrecker, acting like an insecure child and embarrassing herself on national television."

"Oh, this is definitely you," Sarah said, her voice dropping all pretense of friendliness as she lifted the bucket and turned it over, drenching Sofia, leaving her gasping for air.

And the hits kept coming, a tweet in reply to someone defending Sofia reading,

“____ literally 'forgot' Y/N’s name on purpose to be petty, and it's been openly admitted that she used her ex in the past?? She is not that girl. Even if it did come down to pretty privilege, your fave is not taking it."

Sofia stood there, water dripping from her hair, hands curled into tight fists at her sides.

But the final tweet of the challenge was for Rafe. 

"Since Y/N is gone, all of the other islanders need to take cover or something, because ___ is probably about to Godzilla the villa."

It wasn't super mean, but it was clearly a dig, and Rafe just shrugged as the water was poured over him, not caring but also not even interested in these games anymore.

And as the challenge ended, the already fragile state of the villa shattered even further.

As they were walking back to rinse off the sticky soap, Sofia snapped. She turned around in the center of the lawn, wet hair clinging to her face, eyes wild with humiliation and rage as she looked at the circle of people.

"Are all of you happy now?!" She yelled, voice screeching. "Getting to humiliate me like you have some kind of personal vendetta—"

Sarah stopped in her tracks, her expression turning ice-cold. "It is a personal vendetta.” She seethed. “You got what you deserved."

"What I deserved? For what? Getting your friend kicked out?” She scoffed. “I was doing what I had to do!" Sofia defended herself, voice shaking as she gestured wildly.

"You didn’t have to do anything, you had a choice," Cleo stepped up, voice booming as she closed the distance between them,. "And you chose the wrong one. You should’ve gone home.” She hissed. “But instead you ruined probably the best connection here because your own ego couldn't handle the fact that Rafe doesn't want you."

"You did it out of spite," Rima chimed in, crossing her arms, brown eyes boring holes into her. "So don't sit here and cry about the consequences of your own actions, now."

JJ stood, arms crossed, watching the confrontation with a cold, unbothered expression. Theo and Justin were watching as well, not really knowing how to feel. John B and Pope remained silent, mentally agreeing that Sofia brought this on herself.

Haja and Kaitlyn had planned on not being involved, but they were watching from the balcony now.

And Rafe, well Rafe had disappeared long ago. He’d been moving like a ghost around the villa—you see him and, if you blink, he’s gone.

"You know what? I don't give a shit!" Sofia shouted, snarling, stepping right into Cleo’s face, her chest heaving. "I came here for myself! I didn't come here to make friends with any of you bitches!”

“Bitches?!”

“Who the hell—”

“I’m going to do exactly what I came here to do, and if you’re all so damn mad about it, then you can go crying and running after your fucking friend!" She let out a harsh, mocking laugh, eyes sweeping over Sarah, Rima, and Cleo.

"Honestly, I’m surprised you all aren't hanging from the fucking plane she’s on by now, considering how far up her ass you all have been!” She mocks, looking them all up and down. “Get a grip. She's gone, and she's not coming back."

With that final, bitter declaration, Sofia turned and stormed off toward the villa.

THE fallout from the Twitter challenge had left everyone exhausted by the time night rolled around.

Everyone was either getting settled into bed or getting ready to get settled—Pope and Cleo were in bed, whispering and giggling. Theo was in his and Sarah’s now shared bed, her right next to him as they flirted mindlessly as John B glared from the edge of the bed he was now sharing with Kaitlyn. Justin and Rima were still getting ready while Haja tucked herself onto the far left side of her and JJ’s bed. 

And before heading out to Soul Ties to sleep by himself, again, Rafe was cornered by the boys near in the outdoor kitchen while grabbing a drink before bed—JJ, Pope, and John B standing in a loose semi-circle around him.

"Yo, Rafe," Pope said quietly, breaking the silence. "Just…checkin' in one last time tonight, man.” He edged carefully. “Is it... are you really still planning on leaving?"

Rafe stopped and looked at his friends, expression resolute.

"Yeah," Rafe said, voice flat and steady. "I think so. I’ve spent the whole day thinking about it, and...there’s just no point.” He shrugged. “There’s nothin’ for me here."

JJ stepped forward, putting both hands on Rafe’s shoulders, looking at him.

"Listen to me, bro," JJ said, his tone softening. "We get it. We…understand, and none of us are gonna try to force you to stay if you don’t want to. But…do us one favor,” JJ started, glancing back at John B and Pope who nodded before turning back to Rafe. “Just give us one last day. Spend tomorrow with us."

Rafe groaned, shaking his head. "I’m not—"

"No, listen," John B interrupted, stepping in. "Just one last day where you aren't down in the dumps.” He threw his arms out. “Leave this place on a good note. And then, by tomorrow night? You can walk right out those doors, go find your girl, and get her back. Alright? No pushback. We promise."

Rafe looked at the three of them before he let out a long, slow breath, shoulders dropping.

"Fine," Rafe muttered, the faint ghost of a smile touching his lips. "One last day. And then I’m gone."

MORNING arrived with a strange, yet bittersweet, speed.

The first half of the day moved at a kind of fast-forwarded pace. The boys went through the usual motions—making breakfast, lounging around —but the energy was centered around making sure Rafe had a memorable final day.

And he was genuinely trying his best to engage—he spent an hour in the pool playing catch with JJ and Pope, throwing a beach ball back and forth until his shoulders ached. Later, he sat on the daybeds with Cleo and Sarah, playfully gossiping, or rather, mocking their gossip before they shooed him away.

The guys had told the girls about Rafe’s decision and of course, they respected it.

But during the quiet lulls—the moments when everyone else was pre-occuppied—Rafe would slip away.

He spent a long time sitting on the beanbags by himself, his phone held in both hands. He scrolled through the camera roll, thumb lingering over the photos of the two of you. There were pictures of you both laughing, candid shots JJ had taken of you two napping on the daybeds, and the very last photos you had taken together in the photo booth—him taking a picture of the pictures, just in case.

A deep ache settled into his chest as he stared at your smile on the screen. He missed the sound of your laugh, the way you looked at him like he was the only person in the room, the touch of your hand against his skin.

Just a few more hours, he thought to himself, jaw tightening. Just a few more hours in this place, and I'm coming to find you.

BY afternoon, the calm of the villa was interrupted by that familiar text tone.

Everyone turned their heads as Sarah grabbed her phone from the kitchen counter, her eyes widening as she read the message. 

"Islanders! It’s time to get cozy and messy in today’s challenge….Slumber Party! #BlindLuck #WhosWho"

Before heading out to the garden for the event, everyone changed into the mandatory dress code— styled in pristine white for the challenge, the boys wearing crisp white shorts, while the girls looked stunning in matching white silk and lace lingerie sets, leaving the boys breathless.

Everyone was fairly excited to see a massive, oversized bed in the center of the garden, complete with dozens of plush pillows and white silk sheets, and, of course, Ariana standing by it all with her signature poised smile.

The boys were handcuffed to the bed while the girls were sat off to the side, sleep masks atop their heads and pocket-straps full of paint.

"Hello, Islanders," Ariana greeted them, eyes twinkling. "Welcome to the best Slumber Party you’ll probably ever have.” She teases. “Boys, as you can see, you are all going to be handcuffed to the headboard of this gigantic bed. Girls, you are about to be blindfolded and armed with your own specific color of paint."

She gestured to the satchels of paint each woman had.

"One by one, the girls will dip their hands in their paint, climb onto the bed, and feel their way through the boys. Your mission? Recognize the guy you are coupled up with, and then handcuff yourself to him.” She throws out casually. “Boys... you must remain completely silent. No speaking, no whispering, no giving hints. And girls, once you shackle yourself to a boy, you must keep your blindfold on until everyone has completed their turn.” She says firmly. “Let's see who truly knows their partner..." She drawled. “Girls, please lower your blindfolds.”

The boys were lined up and securely handcuffed to the humungous headboard, one of each of their arms stretched out, leaving them vulnerable and at the mercy of the girls. Rafe sat near the center, relaxed, treating this as the final thing before he was out of here.

The line of girls each lowered the sleep masks over their eyes, giggling as they did so as Ariana put her index fingers in front of her lips, reminding the men to stay quiet as she approached the girls, guiding Cleo up to the bed first.

Cleo stepped up, dipping her hands into her pocket full of royal blue paint before carefully climbing onto the bed. 

She moved across the line of boys respectfully, careful, light touches of her palms against their chests and shoulders as they flinched from the chill of the paint and tried to hold in their laughs as she crawled around. When she reached Pope, her hands lingered on his jawline and shoulders, recognizing his frame almost immediately as she smiled blindly before straddling him, kissing him deeply before securely handcuffing herself to him.

Next, Ariana helped Sarah onto the mattress, her hands covered in vibrant yellow paint. Unlike Cleo, Sarah had zero shame or reservations. 

She giggled, touching her way through the boys, running her hands over their abs and arms, even kissing her way through the line like there was no tomorrow. The boys tried their best to stifle their laughter as she managed to snog Pope, JJ, Justin, and Theo before, unfortunately for her, in her confusion, she mistook John B’s broader build for Theo’s and handcuffed herself to him. 

John B looked confused, but satisfied, while Theo, sitting right next to him, raised his eyebrows in shock. The rest of the boys were wide-eyed, exchanging frantic, silent glances. JJ bit his lower lip to keep from bursting out laughing, pointing wildly with his free fingers at John B's smug face, while Pope winced hard, knowing the hell that was going to rain down once Sarah took that blindfold off.

Rima was next, hands coated in purple paint. She used a similar strategy, kissing her way through the boys with a playful confidence until she reached Justin, hesitating just a bit. Having been in a long-term relationship with him, she was pretty familiar with his body. 

Her hands traced his chest, a confident smirk spreading across her lips as she found his wrist and locked the handcuffs into place.

Then, Haja stepped up, bright orange paint dripping from her fingers. And she took full advantage—kissing her way down the line up of boys, lingering on their lips. She was clearly having her fun, taking the kisses far past what would be considered necessary. And when she reached JJ, she recognized him, handcuffing herself to him. But JJ didn't even react, his face remained flat as he stared blankly over her head at Pope, looking over this whole thing.

Kaitlyn followed, her hands covered in bright white paint as she decided to just have fun with it. She giggled, smearing white paint on her lips and planting kisses on several of the boys' cheeks and chests before eventually navigating her way back to John B, handcuffing herself to him. Of course, this created an incredibly awkward setup, as John B was now shackled to both Kaitlyn and Sarah, though neither girl could see it yet.

And finally, with Ariana’s help, Sofia navigated her way onto the bed, hands dripping with thick green paint. And she wasted no time.

She was aggressive, messy, and frantic—smearing green paint all over the boys' bodies and faces as she felt around. She moved down the line, seemingly...unable to pinpoint Rafe. The guys were confused but also amused—wondering why she behaved so wildly for a guy that she couldn’t even pick out blindly.

And as Rafe sat, watching her go back and forth between all the guys, he couldn’t help but think about you—how you would’ve recognized him almost instantly, how you would’ve known by any part of him. By his jawline, his chest, his hands, his buzzcut that you loved to run your fingers through—hell, he was sure you could’ve recognized him by the way his breathing always changes when you’re around.

But as Sofia was still blindly groping her way across the mattress, failing to recognize Rafe, it was then that boys noticed Ariana’s eyes focused somewhere far behind them, waving someone over softly.

All of their expressions twisted, heads turning, jaws slightly agape as two figures sauntered into the villa, dressed in white lingerie sets.

They couldn’t see their faces at first, just the bodies of two people that were clearly women—hips swaying as they got closer. And when they got close enough to see the full picture, their jaws dropped. 

JJ’s eyes went wide, and Rafe—who had been sitting back with a bored expression—went entirely frozen, his heart hammering.

It felt like the universe had clicked into place, shifting on its axis just for him. For a guy who had spent his whole life feeling like a screw-up, the one who never got what he wanted, Rafe suddenly felt like that helpless little kid who used to look up at the night sky and wish upon a star—except, for the first time in his life, his dream had actually come true. The weight that had been suffocating him since your dumping lifted, replaced by a comforting warmth. 

You were here. 

It was you.

His real saving grace was walking right back to him, and everything else faded into static. And for all the times he called you that nickname you loved so much, he would protest that you looked like a true angel right now, nothing short of.

You were walking into the garden, looking radiant, that familiar soft smirk on your lips as everything seemed to move in slow motion for him as you blinked, turning slightly to the side as your eyes connected with his, a sparkle in them. 

And walking right next to you was a brand-new bombshell—sun-kissed beauty with long, messy beach waves, mismatched silver rings on her fingers, minimalist tattoos littering her skin, and a killer suntan.

Both of your hands were covered in thick red paint, dripping on the wood of the deck as you approached, taking your places next to Ariana.

Sofia was still blindfolded, still oblivious, and currently still feeling around Theo’s chest a few feet away.

The boys were itching to scream, to jump out of their seats. 

JJ was literally buzzing, not only at your return but at the mere sight of the girl next to you, eyes locked onto her as she offered him a slow, wicked wink. 

And Rafe was breathless, speechless, his eyes flooding with tears as his jaw clenched, his entire body shaking as he realized he wasn't dreaming, and that the girl he was about to leave the villa for was standing right in front of him. 

And he thought about how much he’d owe JJ for the rest of his life for convincing him to stay just one more day.

When Ariana gave you and the new bombshell the silent go ahead, you fought a smile as you both climbed onto the bed. You missed Rafe, more than words could ever attempt to convey, but it wouldn’t be you if you didn’t decide to tease him, just a little bit. 

You started at the right end of the bed, while the other girl took the left, and paced yourself down the line, lightly running your red-painted fingers over the other boys’ shoulders, making them grin as they knew what you were doing. The newest bombshell, however, had zero reservations—she went down the line from her side, passionately kissing every boy like her life depended on it.

And while she was busy kissing the rest of the lineup, and Sofia was still struggling to pinpoint Rafe, you crawled your way onto the mattress, moving toward him.

And nothing made this sweeter than the fact that, right next to you, Sofia had finally fumbled, failing to recognize Rafe as she mistook Theo's structure for his and handcuffed herself to him instead.

But Rafe didn't even notice Sofia, he didn’t care. 

His world had narrowed down to you.

He kept the rules in the very back of his mind, struggling as he didn’t allow himself to say a word. Instead, the second you reached him, he leaned forward, as far as his handcuffs allowed, his one free hand reaching up to grip the back of your neck as he practically yanked you into a kiss that was so desperate, it felt like he was drowning.

You kissed him back just as hard, your red-stained hands wrapping around his shoulders, smearing the color across his skin. Rafe was kissing you like the exchange would grant you both immortality, chest heaving as he held you in place, refusing to let you go as his fingers dug into your skin. A single, stray tear slipped from his eye, tracing a path down his cheek as his shoulders shook, the man forcing himself to hold back a sob of the most relief he’s ever felt in his life.

The kiss went on much longer than intended, or maybe not, breathtaking and deep, on the center of the bed while the rest of the men watched in awe. 

And when signaled by Ariana, you reluctantly pulled away, breathless and smiling as you used what little time you had to smear a heart on his chest before wrapping a paint-drenched palm around his neck, pulling into one more bruising kiss, leaving your handprint around his throat, before rising to your feet, looking down at his dazed face, and wiggling your red-painted fingers at him in a playful goodbye as you and the other girl exited the challenge area until you were to be called again.

Rafe sat there, his free hand trembling above his heart, a dazed smirk on his face as he stared out at nothing. He looked down at the red handprints, surrounding the messy heart, on his chest, wondering again if what just happened was even real.

As you and the other girl rounded the corner, mischievous smiles on your faces, Ariana spoke up for the first time since the challenge started. "Okay…that was wild.” Ariana cringed. “Alright ladies," her voice boomed. "You can take your blindfolds off."

The sound of rustling sheets filled the air as the girls lifted off their blindfolds, eyes examining who was where.

Cleo looked down, thrilled to see herself next to Pope, her paint splattered on his chest. "You look sexy in white," Pope whispered, a smirk playing on his lips as his free hand rested on her hip, pulling her closer against him.

"You look sexy in blue," she flirted back, pecking him on the cheek.

Rima gave Justin a smug smile, satisfied. Haja offered JJ a small smile, but his blue eyes were glued to the scenery in front of him, not wanting to make eye contact or make her think his feelings had changed at all.

But the real drama was on the other side of the bed.

Sarah looked up at her handcuffs, her face twisting in fury when she realized she was locked to John B. "You’ve got to be fucking kidding me," she hissed, throwing her head back.

John B tried to offer a weak smile. "Long time no see." He attempted to joke, but Sarah just narrowed her eyes at him.

"Shut up. You’re not funny." She snapped, face flushing with embarrassment as Kaitlyn remained awkwardly silent on the other side.

Meanwhile, Sofia looked up confidently, expecting to see Rafe's blue eyes looking down at her when instead, she found herself staring directly into the face of Theo. “...What the hell?” She muttered under her breath, confused.

She froze, her jaw dropping as she looked down at her green paint smeared all over Theo's chest, very few places untouched. She looked over at Rafe, who was sitting a few feet away, covered in red handprints and lip marks, looking disheveled and dazed and somewhere planets away.

Ariana stepped forward, a dangerous smirk on her lips. "It seems that, for some of you, your chemistry led you right back to each other.” She starts, hands clasped together. “However, for others, it seems that some things got lost in translation…” She drags out, eyes on Sofia and Sarah.

She turned her eyes to each of the miscoupled girls. "Sarah, how do you feel about choosing John B?"

Sarah rolled her eyes hard, slumping where she sat awkwardly beside the boy. "I’m pissed at myself.” She scoffs. “It doesn’t mean anything, though.” She quips, eyes flashing to the boy beside her. “I think it’s just because we spent so much time together, it’s probably muscle memory, nothing else."

“John B?” Ariana turned.

The boy in question just shrugged, a bit smug. "I’m a happy man."

Both Sarah and Kaitlyn just rolled their eyes in disgust as Ariana turned her attention to Sofia, who was trying her best to hold her head up high. "Sofia... you missed your mark with Rafe.” She says casually. “How does that feel?"

"I mean..." Sofia cleared her throat, trying to sound indifferent. "Rafe and I have been apart for a long time, so obviously it’s a bit tricky.” She shrugs, though you can tell she’s humiliated. “I’m not too embarrassed about it, but it obviously doesn't feel great. I’m just... I’m really hoping I didn't hurt Rafe's feelings by it."

Ariana turned her head slowly toward Rafe, who was more present but still had a far away look in his blue eyes. "Rafe... did Sofia hurt your feelings?"

And Rafe didn't even look at Sofia, just let out a short breath.

"I don't give a fuck," Rafe said through a breathy laugh, a lopsided smirk on his face.

The girls all gasped at Rafe’s brutal honesty, fighting smiles, a few of them covering their mouths to hide their grins as the guys lowered their heads to try and do the same, knowing that Sofia was the last thing on Rafe’s mind.

Sofia’s face turned an ugly shade of crimson, eyes flashing with anger as she stared at him, a snarl on her lips.

Ariana huffed, trying to shake her own amusement before she spoke again. “Now, let’s take a look at all the evidence.” She begins. She stepped closer to the edge of the oversized bed, her eyes scanning the multi-colored chaos smeared across the sheets and the boys' skin. "Who was responsible for the purple and blue paint?"

Cleo and Rima both raised their hands with confident smiles. Ariana nodded. "You two seem to have the least amount of paint scattered on the bed and all over the guys. It looks like you found your men pretty easily. Was it hard or easy trying to track them down blindly?"

"Honestly, it wasn't super difficult," Cleo explained, glancing fondly at Pope. "When you spend time with your partner, you just learn the little things about them—how their shoulders feel, the shape of their jaw. If you actually pay attention, it makes it easy." 

Rima nodded in agreement, chiming in, "Exactly. You just know their frame. If you lock into your connection, you don't need eyes to know who's in front of you."

Ariana smiled, turning her gaze down the line. "Alright, who’s yellow, white, and...orange?"

Sarah, Kaitlyn, and Haja all slowly raised their hands. Ariana raised an eyebrow, letting out a soft chuckle. "Now, you girls have a good amount of paint all over this bed,” she taunts”...and it clearly looks like you had some serious difficulty finding your guys. So, tell me—was it just genuinely that hard to find your partners, or were you all just using this as an excuse to have some fun?"

Sarah sighed, casting an embarrassed look at John B before speaking up. "I mean, it was definitely a little bit difficult because I haven't known Theo for that long, so I wasn't sure how to pick him out from some of the other guys. But... yeah, I'm not gonna lie, I was definitely having a bit of fun down the line, too." 

Kaitlyn broke into a wide grin, shrugging her shoulders casually. "I was one hundred percent just having my fun, I don't think that's a secret to anyone here." 

Haja flipped her hair, offering a playful smirk. "I'm always going to have my fun no matter what the challenge is, but honestly, it was still really easy for me to recognize JJ when I got to him."

Finally, Ariana's gaze landed on Sofia, her expression turning unreadable. "And lastly... Sofia. You have green paint smeared across almost every single spot on this bed, and obviously, you've handcuffed yourself to the wrong guy.” She tells her. “It's safe to assume it was a struggle for you out there. What was so difficult about distinguishing Rafe from the other men? Especially considering you two shared a relationship outside of the villa before the show…"

Sofia cleared her throat, face tightening as she tried to maintain her posture. "Rafe and I have been broken up and apart for a very long time. When you're disconnected for that long, it's obviously a bit tricky to remember things perfectly."

But the rest of the islanders weren't buying her excuse. JJ scoffed from his spot, being the first to speak up. "Bro, come on, I don't think it's that hard," he said, throwing his hand up. "Every one of us guys watched you go down the line, going back and forth, literally touching every single one of us from head to toe. It shouldn't be that hard to tell the difference between a fuckin’ buzz cut and a full head of hair." He muses, rolling his eyes

The girls chime in, murmuring and nodding in agreement, while Rafe just let out a loud laugh, shaking his head. He didn't give a shit about Sofia's excuses, he was just ready for his girl to come back out. 

But eventually Ariana had to calm all of them down once they started to get a little bit too loud, when Sofia jumps in, "I didn't even get around that bad,” She mutters, slumping. “There’s literally red paint everywhere.” She scoffs, curling her lips. “So, who’s red?"

The guys all struggle to contain themselves while the girls now grow aware of the extra color all over the sheets, growing confused as their eyes scan everyone and everything.

"Wait," Ariana smiled,. "Who is responsible for all the red paint?"

At her words, the girls all groan, shaking their heads with bitter smiles.

“I fucking knew it,” Rima shakes her head, a grimace on her lips as Justin contains a grin.

“Should we tell ‘em?” JJ chokes out, holding in a boisterous laugh.

“Should we tell ‘em,” Cleo mocks, plucking the blonde’s forehead.

“I heard so many people kissing, I knew it.” Kaitlyn throws in casually, leaning back.

“Wait, when?” Sarah leans over, confused as Kaitlyn faces her.

“Towards the end.” She says. “You didn’t hear it? It sounded like an orgy, I swear.”

“Oh, my bad…one more thing,” Ariana laughed, stepping back to center stage as the girls all sighed. "You weren’t the only ones getting up close and personal with the boys…” She dragged out, looking all too happy as she continued, the islanders’ heads already turning back towards the entrance. “Please welcome your newest bombshells…”

“Bombshells?!” The girls all said in unison, emphasizing the plurality of the word as Ariana just grinned.

“Talia…” She called, taking a long pause before a genuine smile spread across her face. “...and Y/N.”

“What?!”

"Oh my God!" Sarah shrieked, as she shifted to sit on her knees on the mattress, whipping around to face the ‘Love Me Not’ sign, shaking. Cleo and Rima were screaming at the top of their lungs, squealing, clapping frantically despite the handcuffs as everyone broke their necks to watch as you and Talia walked into the villa, you for the second time, smeared in red paint as you strutted towards Ariana. 

The girls were loud for you as Sofia sat frozen on the bed, her jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might break, her eyes boring into your face with an expression of pure hatred and solemn defeat.

Confessional : Talia "Hi, I'm Talia,” she smiles widely at the camera. “I'm twenty-one years old, from Fort Lauderdale. If I'm not in a bikini surfing, I’m taking photos, creating digital designs, or working out. I am someone who detests drama and just loves to keep the vibes fun and wild.” She squeals. “My last relationship was a total disaster because he was way too uptight and tried to control me, so I walked away.” She shrugged. “Now, I’m here looking for a guy who can actually match my pace, who isn't afraid to be a little adventurous, a little crazy, and who makes me feel safe just being myself."

As you and Talia came to a stop next to Ariana again, the host smiled warmly at you. "You two have already made quite an impression.” Ariana smirks. “Y/N, welcome back. How are you feeling returning to the villa as a bombshell for the second time?"

You looked around the yard, your eyes locking onto Rafe's form, before you looked back at Ariana with a confident, slightly snarky smirk.

"I’m happy to be back," you said, your voice steady and full of the life it lacked just two nights ago. "To be honest, I really thought it was over for me. But...I guess you just can't get rid of me that easily." You shrugged, eyes locking onto Sofia with a certain dominance and spark that had her scoffing, looking down.

Ariana then turned to Talia. "Talia, welcome to the villa for the first time.” She muses. “How are you feeling?"

Talia stepped up, her bubbly energy evident. "I think this is the most excited I’ve ever been in my life." She smiles from ear to ear like a kid in a candy store. “And... I already have my eye on a few people…” She teases, peering at JJ through her eyelashes.

"Well, bombshells," Ariana said, reaching into her pocket and pulling out two shiny silver keys. "As you can see, our islanders are still locked down. I’m handing you the keys to set them free.” She says, an undertone to her words as she places a key into each of your palms. “It's been fun, but it's about time for me to. I'll see you all soon." She winks. "Maybe much sooner than you think..."

With a final wave, Ariana exits the garden.

You both exchange wide smiles before stepping onto the large bed, splitting the line of boys down the middle to unlock them, you deliberately teasing Rafe by saving him for the very end.

You walked over to Pope and Cleo first, sliding the key into their handcuffs, and the second the lock clicked open, Cleo threw her arms around your neck, pulling you into a rib-shattering hug. "I can't believe you're back!" she gritted, swaying side to side with you in her arms as you giggled, sharing the sentiment.

Next, you moved over to the trio that was John B, Sarah, and Kaitlyn. As soon as you clicked Sarah free from the chains, she threw her entire body forward, pulling you into the biggest bear hug, crying into your shoulder. "Oh my god, I thought you were long gone," She sobbed happily, squeezing you tight. "Ohhh God, I hate you for this but I love you so much." She said softly as she pulled back.

Kaitlyn gave you a casual, soft hug and a warm smile before she got off of the bed while John B offered you a warm, grateful smile and a slight hug. You didn’t even see JJ coming as Talia had unlocked him and he sprinted across the mattress, tackling you into a bear hug as you struggled underneath him.

By the time you finally got over to Rafe, he was jittering with impatience, sitting on the bed, jaw tight, his blue eyes wide, bouncing slightly on the mattress as he looked up at you.

You were kneeling above him, smirking down at him as you made no moves to, well, move.

The man groaned underneath you, desperate. "C’mon, don't make me wait," Rafe begged, his voice a low, rough growl that was entirely unapologetic. "Seriously.” He tried to be firm, setting his eyebrows into a hard line before it fell, a plea on his face. “You’re gonna to do this to me after everything?"

You let out a soft laugh, holding the silver key just out of his reach. "I don't know,” you taunted. “You look kind of cute like this."

"I’m not playin’ with you," he muttered, an amused but desperate grin breaking through his exhaustion. "You’re seriously gonna make me beg?"

"Maybe," you teased, leaning in slightly.

Before you could even slide the key into the lock, Rafe’s free hand shot forward, wrapping around the back of your neck as he pulled you down into a teeth-clashing kiss right there in front of everyone. You laughed against his lips, trying to speak through the exchange, but Rafe wasn’t letting up. "Rafe... hold on... you have to let me unlock you first—"

"It’s probably best if I stay handcuffed for your sake, really," he mumbled against your lips.

All you could do was giggle as you finally managed to guide the key into the lock, clicking the cuffs open. And the second his hand was free, Rafe wrapped both of his long arms around your waist, pulling you down onto his lap on the mattress as everyone watched, jaws dropped, clapping and cheering for the both of you. His hands slid down to grip your ass between his fingers, lifting you higher and dragging you in impossibly closer as he made out with you like there was genuinely no tomorrow, quite literally stealing the air from your lungs.

He was mumbling frantically in between each small gasp for air, his forehead resting against yours as he gripped you like you were dangling off the edge of a cliff. "I missed you so much... God, I was about to leave. I didn't know what the fuck I was gonna do in this place without you."

"I missed you too," you whispered, your heart swelling with an overwhelming warmth as you wrapped your arms tightly around his neck, burying your face in his shoulder. “I’m glad you decided to stay.”

The rest of the islanders were cheering incredibly loud, chanting your and Rafe's names in perfect sync as he stood on his knees with you in his arms, tossed you just high enough to lock your legs on top of his shoulders before leaning forward, letting you drop and pinning you to the mattress beneath him, kissing you breathless.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa," JJ shouted from the grass, laughing as he covered his eyes. "Jesus, guys, save it for the Hideaway!"

"Get a room, man!" Pope yelled, pumping his fist in the air. 

"Well, guess we don’t have to worry about him leaving anymore." Rima muttered quietly from the back, nudging Cleo and Sarah’s shoulder, a relieved chuckle escaping her.

Confessional : Cleo She was creaming and squealing, jumping up and down in her seat. “My girl is back, ahhhh! I am over the moon!” She emphasized, eyes wide and excited. “The baddest bitch has returned to her throne, and the look on Sofia’s face was worth every second spent without her.”

Confessional : Rima “I am so happy, right now.” She smiled, wiping on stray tear that feel. “Fuck it, I’m rooting for them to win the whole damn thing. Their connection is so unbreakable, and tonight really proved it to everyone in here and pretty much everyone watching.”

Confessional : Sarah “I so thought she was gone. Like, for real.” She laughs lightly, wiping tears from her eyes, though a grateful smile remains on her face. “I missed her so much. We all did. Those two days without her felt so weird.” She says. “And seeing the light come back into Rafe’s eyes the second she came in... it had to be the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen in my life.”

Confessional : JJ “Let’s fuckin’ go, dude!” He shouted, punching the air with a grin so wide it had his cheeks red. “My girl is back in the building!” He exclaims. “Having her back feels great, man…And Rafe, man,” He sighs, shaking his head. “That’s my boy right there. We’re back in business, baby!”

Confessional : Sofia  “...What the fuck?” She was sitting straight up, arms crossed, face dark with anger. “I mean, what was the point?” She laughs bitterly, eyes narrowing. “If you all were just going to bring her back fourty-eight fucking hours later, why even give me the option?” She criticizes. “Like, was it just because it was her? If I had gotten anyone else dumped, would you have brought them back?” She grows increasingly more agitated. “This is pathetic, it’s unfair, and honestly, I’m disgusted. Not only by the clear favoritism here, but the sight of Rafe’s tongue down her throat.” 

When you and Rafe finally pulled apart, you were still lying flat on your back against the pillows, trying to catch your breath with Rafe hovering over you, his hands resting on either side of your head as he stared down at you with an expression of unwavering adoration.

As you lay there upside down, you cast your eyes among the crowd of people and noticed Sofia standing a few feet away on the grass, far behind everyone else but still visible, staring down at you with a look of pure rage.

A slow, satisfied smile spread across your lips. You lifted one hand, giving her a petty, cheerful little wave.

Sofia’s jaw clenched so hard a vein throbbed in her neck as she turned without a word and stormed off toward the villa, leaving you and Rafe laughing softly on the mattress as he scooped you up and tossed you up into the air, over and over, catching you each time you came back down as your friends all cheered and chanted around you.

Happy that he was happy, and happy to have you back.

A half-hour later, the girls had crowded around you and Talia, dragging the two of you up to the Glam Room so you both could unpack your things and get settled. 

You didn’t realize how much you’d missed this.

Before you’d even entered the room—Cleo, Rima, Sarah, and Kaitlyn had all thrown themselves at you in a group hug, pulling apart just to join hands and start jumping around like pre-school kids on a playground. 

Now, you and the girls were sat around the makeup room, some of them helping Talia organize her makeup at her vanity as the other half helped you reclaim your closet space.

"Talia, you’re so pretty," Sarah said, leaning forward with a warm smile. "Talk to us! We want to know all about you."

“Oh, you’re all so sweet,” Talia laughed, flipping her hair over her shoulder, blushing. "I’m twenty-one, from Fort Lauderdale, and I’m pretty much just a typical beach brat.” She shrugs sheepishly. “I live in bikinis, I surf every single day, and I hate drama.” She groaned. “I just like to have fun."

Cleo’s eyes lit up. "Ooh, a Florida girl!” Shooting the rest of you a knowing look. “Love that. Do you…have your eye on any of the boys in here yet?"

Talia immediately looked over at you, a slightly shy smirk forming on her lips, remembering the conversations you two had shared in the car on the way to the villa.

“...She’s interested in JJ,” you stepped in for her, a grin breaking across your face. "And I, for one, am convinced they would be perfect together."

"JJ?!" Sarah gasped, her hands flying to her mouth in excitement. "Oh my god, yes!"

"Right?!” You threw in, equally as excited. “She's from Florida, loves surfing, same sense of humor... and I swear she speaks his language.” You hype the bombshell up as she listens, warmth creeping up her cheeks at how warm and welcoming you all were. “And I’d argue she’s his physical type— dark hair, the tan, and her personality matches his so well—wait, why am I talking about you like you’re not here?" You catch yourself, turning to the girl.

“It’s alright,” Talia laughs, her cheeks flushing slightly. "But I hope you’re right. Seeing him from the outside, I don’t know, I just felt like he had this wild, fun energy that I like in a guy. I really want to get to know him..."

Before the conversation could go any further, the door of the room pushed open.

Rafe stood in the doorway, chest heaving, face still flushed as his eyes swept past the girls and locked onto you.

"Uh, hey can I…?" Rafe asked, throwing a hand out in your direction, his voice rough and pleading as he looked at the group of girls.

Cleo threw her head back and laughed, waving her hand dismissively. "Boy, go ahead and take your girl before you spontaneously combust." She threw out, everyone in the room laughing along as Rafe shot her a playful glare.

Rafe didn't wait for another invitation as he walked forward and grabbed your hand, his fingers intertwining with yours as he pulled you out of the room, Sarah letting you know that she’d finish unpacking your things for you, before the man led you down the hallway and out toward Soul Ties.

The moment you reached the secluded area, Rafe turned around and wrapped his arms around you. He pulled you against his chest, burying his face in the crook of your neck, groaning and squeezing you so tight you could barely breathe. All you could do was laugh, wiggling in his crushing embrace.

He began kissing you all over—your neck, jawline, cheeks, your lips— hands moving restlessly across your back, clawing at it. It was the display of a man who had felt hopeless only hours prior.

"Fuck," Rafe whispered against your lips, loosening his grip just enough to allow you wrap your arms around his neck, closing his eyes to take a moment before opening them again. "I almost left.” He says, eyes wide like it just hit him. “If you hadn't shown up, I would’ve been gone by tonight. Hell, I would’ve been gone by this morning, but JJ kept begging me to give it one last day, everyone saying they wanted me to 'leave on a high note'."

He shook his head, a soft, self-deprecating laugh escaping him as his thumb traced your lower lip.

"But it didn't even matter. Because you are my high note. I’m only happy when I’m with you, angel,” He whispered. “That’s what I wanted. That’s all I care about."

You fixed him with a downwards smile moving to hold his face in your hands, looking into his eyes. "I’m back now, Rafe. And I’m not going anywhere." You assured, kissing his cheek.

LATER, after everyone had showered off all the paint and changed out of their lingerie, you walked down into the main yard. Everyone was mingling in small groups, the soft neon lights reflecting off the pool water.

You noticed JJ sitting by himself on the edge of the pool staring out over the water, looking uncharacteristically quiet.

You walked over and sat down right next to him. "Hey, stranger."

JJ turned his head, his face lighting up with that crooked grin. "Hey,” he smiled, leaning over to pull you into a hug before pulling back, hands on your shoulders. “Still can't believe you're back." His eyes were tearing up just a fraction before he blinked it away with a sniffle, letting his hands slide from your shoulders. "We came into this place together, you know? It felt wrong doing this without you."

"I missed you too, J," you smiled warmly, bumping his shoulder with yours. You looked over at the lounge area, where Talia was chatting with some of the guys, before steering the conversation. "So... how are you feeling about the new bombshell? Have you talked to her yet?"

A shy, bright smile spread across his face, a wide contrast to the checked-out look he had been wearing practically all day.

"We, uh…we actually had a conversation not too long ago," JJ admitted, rubbing the back of his neck, his voice turning uncharacteristically soft. "And I think I could really like her.” He tells you. “She’s beautiful, first of all. But even personality-wise, we have the same taste in music, the same hobbies back home, we’re from the same place so that wouldn’t be an issue... she loves surfing, she’s really bubbly, she’s just the kind of girl I always saw myself with...” He smiles, playing with his hands.

You watched him, satisfaction settling into your chest. For the first time since entering the villa, JJ wasn't talking like a typical player. He wasn't discussing just looks or cracking sexual jokes like he usually did. And sure, he’d done somewhat the same thing with Kiara—they had talked about normal things—but you had never heard JJ discuss common interests, personalities, or the prospect of going back home with a girl. 

"I'm happy for you," you said sincerely, squeezing his arm. "You deserve this."

JJ smiled, but then his eyes dropped to his hands, his expression turning serious as he leaned closer. "Yeah.” He breathes. “And, at least now, I can be done with Haja." He scoffs. "I’d be lying if I said I didn't have a small thought to try and make things work after Miles was dumped. But honestly? If Miles hadn't been dumped, I think she’d still be doing the same thing with him."

He let out a bitter breath, looking out over the pool.

"Even when we had a conversation about it, she never even apologized to me. Not once.” He shakes his head. “She just kept saying she was 'exploring her options' and ' enjoying the experience.' She didn't see any part of what she did as wrong. And that really hurt me, man.” He slumps next to you. “Because I liked her. But seeing how she handled it? It just broke all the trust. I don't feel bad about walking away anymore, especially now with Talia here.” The soft smile returns to his face. “...I’ve never felt so naturally drawn to someone before in my entire life."

You smiled, patting his back firmly. "Then follow that.” You encourage. “You deserve it.”

JJ shot you a grateful smile, opening his mouth to thank you when a loud ping echoed from his pocket, both of you looking down then back up at each other.

“I got a text!” He shouted, pulling out his phone as everyone whooped, cheering for him to read it.

"Islanders, sorry for the late night interruption. We know tonight has been full of surprises, but tonight, there is one more. Please, gather around the fire pit. #JudgementDay"

YOU were all sat around the fire pit, most of you in your couples, with a few exceptions of course—Cleo was with Pope, Rima had Justin’s arm over her shoulder, Sarah was leaning on Theo, JJ and Talia were sat comfortably next to one another, you were tucked into Rafe’s side, while Kaitlyn sat a weird distance from John B, Haja and Sofia sitting next to each other and relatively far from everyone else. 

Footsteps echoed down the wooden walkway, and Ariana emerged from the shadows for the second time tonight, wearing a striking dress, per usual. She smiled as she spotted you all, “Hello again,” she greeted, taking her place at the center of the fire pit as you all greeted her in return, her eyes sweeping over the nervous faces.

"Islanders," Ariana started, her voice calm. "It’s been a rough couple of days,” she added, nodding along with all of you, meeting your and Rafe’s eyes specifically. “Relationships have been tested, hearts have been broken, all while we are nearing the final stretch of this experience." She says matter-of-factly. “We’ve hit the halfway point, and things are about to start getting a lot more brutal.”

She paused, her eyes locking onto you and Talia before she gestured with her hand. "Talia, Y/N... please, come and join me."

You and Talia stepped forward, you leaving Rafe with a kiss on the cheek as he squeezed your hand, his heart racing as you and Talia stood on either side of Ariana, facing your fellow islanders.

Your heart was thumping, dread settling into your stomach from the last time you had to stand up here.

But, at least this time you know. Though, it still hurt, because you couldn’t tell anyone else.

They were blindsided, no idea what was about to happen.

"Islanders, I have some important information to share with you all regarding the arrival of tonight’s bombshells," Ariana explained, looking directly at them. "Originally, Talia was supposed to be the only bombshell entering the villa tonight…and her arrival was supposed to result in the elimination of one islander." She tells them, the group muttering. 

She turned her head to look at you, her expression serious.

"However... because Y/N was given the opportunity to re-enter the villa, she was also handed an ultimatum.” She drops, some eyes locking onto you, confused as you let your head fall slightly. “Y/N was told that she had a choice. She could decline the offer to re-enter the villa, which would keep the elimination limit at one. Or…” Ariana dragged. “She could accept the offer, re-enter as a bombshell for the second time… at the cost of an additional islander being dumped."

A gasp rippled through your friends, exchanging wary glances.

"What this means for you all tonight," Ariana announced, "Is that, because Y/N chose to follow her heart and return, two islanders will be dumped tonight instead of one.” She finally announces, everyone cursing under their breath, nervous—they were overjoyed to have you back, of course. But it didn’t diminish their fear of going home. “Furthermore, tonight's dumping was originally supposed to be a collective, unanimous vote where everyone decided which islander would go home. But, because there are now two bombshells standing here, that counts for two eliminations. And we only found it right to divide that responsibility amongst two groups."

Ariana’s eyes narrowed as she took a deep breath. "Tonight, all of you sitting before me will be responsible for sending home one girl and one boy based on who you believe has made the least amount of progress in this villa so far.” She explains, everyone’s eyes wide as you tried your best to not show just how bad you felt or how nervous you were. “Girls... you will be responsible for deciding which boy to send home.” Ariana tells them. “Boys... you will be responsible for sending home a girl."

She clasps her hands together, a sorrowful smile on her lips. "You will have five minutes to discuss and come to a decision.” She throws out, turning back to the pair of you next to her. “Y/N and Talia, you two will have no say in these decisions.” She says casually, and you both simply nod as she turns to the islanders, face serious. “Your five minutes start now."

The islanders stood up, swapping places so that the girls were on one end of the couch with the guys on the other.

You stood next to Talia, holding her hand for comfort. You could tell that she felt as guilty as you did, in some sense—your hands trembling slightly as you watched your friends silently argue, shooting looks across the deck. 

God, what have I done? you thought, cursing your own selfishness, your mind racing through the all the possibilities. By choosing to come back, you might’ve possibly just signed the eviction notice for one, or two, of your closest friends.

You were terrified for Cleo and Rima. Rima’s romantic journey had been undeniably stagnant—coupling with Pope who gave her no true effort, stuck in a platonic coupling with Rafe, her recent return to Justin having the potential to be seen as safe rather than progressive.

Cleo was trapped in an exhausting cycle of back-and-forth drama with Pope, constantly branching out to other people but always running back, and they had just settled down.

And you were terrified for JJ. He had made a connection with Kiara that failed, moved way too fast with Haja which blew up in his face, and was currently single and vulnerable—right at the exact moment a bombshell basically custom-made for him had walked through the door. 

If the girls voted him out now, he would never get his chance.

And in the back of your mind, a faint fear for Rafe lingered. Aside from you, he hadn't made a single romantic effort in the villa. If the girls viewed his lack of exploration as a lack of progress, they might use this as a reason to dump him...

You didn’t realize you’d been staring at a blade of grass, consumed by your own thoughts, until Ariana’s voice boomed in your ears, your head shooting up.

"Islanders, your time is up," She announced, cutting through the whispering. "It is now time to reveal your decisions…and who is going home tonight." The air was silent and tense as everyone sat back, eyes on the three of you standing before them.

"Girls, we're going to start with you," Ariana said, her eyes scanning the row of women. "Who have you chosen to speak on behalf of the group?"

Sarah stood from her seat, shoulders back as she smoothed her dress down.

“Sarah, please tell us what boy you all have decided to dump from the island?”

"...I want to start by saying that this really was a hard decision," Sarah began, her voice clear but carrying a distinct edge. "But, we have decided to send this boy home tonight because…we feel that he’s been completely disingenuous to everyone here.” Her voice drops, everyone’s eyes going wide at her switch in tone. “From my personal perspective, I believed our connection was real, and, at the very least, it was real…on my part. But after Casa, it became pretty clear that nothing he ever said to me was genuine."

She cast a brief look back at Kaitlyn before continuing.

"Even this boy’s ex-girlfriend agrees that he is still the same self-serving guy he was before he entered this villa. He’s just been hiding behind a nice-guy persona the entire time.” She snaps, standing straighter, her hands clasped behind her back. “Therefore, the boy we are deciding to send home tonight... is John B."

A shocked silence fell over the fire pit, mostly emanating from the boys’ side. 

“John B,” Ariana started. “Please, come join me.”

John B didn't look surprised—a bitter smirk crossed his lips as he stood up from the bench and walked took his place next to Ariana, arms clasped tightly behind his back.

"John B," Ariana said, turning to him. "The girls believe you've shown the least amount of progress. How do you feel about their decision?"

John B let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head. "Honestly…I think this decision was made based off of some kind of popularity contest rather than who actually made the least progress here.” He shrugs. “I disagree with them. I’m not the same person I was years ago, or even the same person I was walking in, and I feel like the girls are letting one mistake blindside them to the growth I have actually shown.” He scoffs. “But... whatever. It is what it is.” He nods, a grimace on his lips.

The girls all scoffed, laughing under their breath as John B locked his eyes on Sarah, narrowing them at her. She didn’t know if he was showing some kind of silent remorse or trying to intimidate her, but either way, Sarah lifted a hand to wiggle her fingers at him, mouthing ‘bye bye’.

Some of the islander caught this, snickering under their breath, even the guys, as John B just rolled his eyes, a snarl on his lips.

Ariana nodded before turning her eyes to the opposite side of the fire pit. "Boys... it is now your turn.” She starts. “Which girl have you decided to dump from the island?"

Surprisingly, Rafe stood up, his blue eyes absent of anything warm as he started speaking.

"We're deciding to send this girl home tonight because, quite frankly, we don't believe she should have ever made it back from Casa in the first place." He starts bluntly, gasps washing over the fire pit as he stands with the most satisfied smirk on his face you believe you’ve ever seen. "We feel like this girl is chasing ghosts," Rafe explained, his voice steady, cold. "And in the process, she’s let her own bitterness cloud this place with negativity. She’s spent her time here creating an environment that sucks for everyone, being god awful to people who don't deserve it at all, and, personally speaking, has actively tried to ruin, what I believe to be, one of the best connections in here—Y/N and myself."

Rafe stood proudly, voice dropping as he turned and looked directly at Sofia.

"You told me the other day that you don't think I’ll ever be a good person.” He starts, voice flat. “And I don't accept that. I know I can be a better man. And there is one girl in this villa who actually sees me, who actually believes in me, and who makes me want to be better every day.” He shoots a glance at you, eyes softening almost instantaneously before he slowly turned his blue, icy gaze back to Sofia, who was sitting with her jaw clenched, hands balled into fists in her lap. “You’re stuck in the past, and you’re just dragging everyone else down. So…” Rafe turns, eyes on Ariana. “I think it’s no secret that the girl we are sending home tonight…is Sofia."

Sofia scoffed, the sound coming out more like a deep breath or choked sob she’d been holding in as her eyes flooded with angry tears. 

“Thank you.” Ariana nodded at Rafe, a silent signal that he could sit as she turned her eyes to the girl in question. “Sofia,” Ariana spoke up. “Please, come stand next to John B,” She ordered, everyone watching as she stood and marched across the fire pit, her heels clicking against the wood as she took her place next to John B, chest heaving.

"Sofia," Ariana said softly. "The boys have made their decision. How do you feel?"

Sofia let out a shaky breath, a tear escaping down her cheek as she looked at Rafe, voice trembling with a bitter kind of pain. "There’s no point in playing nice up here.” She shrugged, face red. “These people were looking for any opportunity to get me out of here and you all gave them one, humiliating me in the process.” She criticized. “And I would be lying if I stood here and said I wish Rafe and Y/N the best. I don't.” She snapped, eyes slitted. “I was with Rafe through the worst of the worst. I saw the ugliest, most broken side of him, and I stayed. And I can't believe that standing here in front of him all this time later... it all counts for nothing to him." She scoffs, tears running down her cheeks.

She wiped her cheek swiftly, a nasty smirk forming through her tears as she looked at you.

"I still truly believe deep down that Rafe and I are meant to be.” She grits out at you. “I was his first love, and you can't erase that.” You just stare at her, the faintest form of a smirk on your face as she looks down at her feet. “What they have in here isn’t real, it doesn’t mean anything. So yeah... I’m leaving, but I’m leaving knowing exactly who he is." She laughs bitterly before turning to you one last time. “And I can’t wait for you to see it once you leave this place.” She bites, the words sounding like some kind of threat.

Sofia glared at you, but she had nothing left to say as the silence settled.

"Well...John B, Sofia," Ariana announced, her voice carrying. "You are now single, vulnerable…and dumped from the island.” She tells them with a slight frown. “You may pack your bags and prepare to leave the villa. The rest of you... you are safe, and I’ll see you all soon."

THE goodbyes in the villa were split down a line.

Upstairs in the bedroom, none of the original girls went up to help Sofia pack her things. Only Kaitlyn and Haja walked over to Sofia’s wardrobe, helping her fold her dresses and close her suitcases. They weren't particularly close with her, but as fellow Casa girls, they simply didn't want to leave her alone during her final moments, even if that was the system she set up for herself.

Down in the main yard, the original girls looked on with understanding, but they shared zero sentimentality. Sofia had treated you terribly from the second she arrived, and they believed she had earned every single bit of the cold shoulder she was receiving.

With John B, however, the vibe was a bit different. All of the guys—JJ, Pope, Theo, Justin, and Rafe—gathered around his bed, helping him pack his things, and carrying his luggage down the stairs. The guys hugged him, dragging him to take photos before his departure.

While the girls were gathered on the outdoor couches, Cleo looked over at Sarah. "Are you planning on saying anything to him before he leaves?"

Sarah sighed, looking down at her hands, a look of quiet sadness clouding her face. "I think I have to.” She shrugged. “I mean, despite everything that happened... I really liked our connection while it lasted. I genuinely had hope that we would have made it out of this villa and been something real in the outside world. So, it hurts to see it end like this, but it’s just what it is."

She looked up as Kaitlyn walked down the steps beside Haja, both having finished helping Sofia. As they reached the bottom of the stairs, Haja and Sofia stopped to hug and chat while Kaitlyn made her way over to you all. "Kaitlyn, are you gonna say goodbye to him?"

Kaitlyn shrugged, relaxed. "Yeah, I'll give him a hug or something. But I’m not too worried about it.” She says casually. “We run into each other at the same spots all the time, so I know I’ll see him in a couple of weeks anyway. It's not a big deal."

A minute later, John B and the guys returned to the yard, looking over at the group as you and the girls walked over to join everyone.

Sarah took a deep breath, smoothing down her dress, and walked over to him. "Hey. Can we talk for a second?"

"Yeah, ‘course," John B said quietly. 

They walked a few paces away, standing near the edge of the pool deck away from the rest of the group.

Sarah was the first to speak, her voice dropping all the previous anger. "Despite what you may believe... tonight's decision wasn't spiteful. It wasn't us girls being bitter, sitting in a circle saying 'oh, he hurt me, so he has to go.' It wasn't a revenge plot."

John B listened quietly, his eyes fixed on her face.

"It was just... what you did at Casa really showed us that there was no real growth from your past mistakes," Sarah explained softly. "And you don’t have to agree, but even Kaitlyn agreed that it felt like the same old patterns.” She explained. “You were the same person when you came into this villa, the same person during Casa, and now the same person leaving."

John B nodded slowly, a genuine look of regret washing over his face. "I understand, Sarah. Honestly, I do. I wish I could've had more time in here to make up for it and show you that I can change, but... I think deep down I know we would have never gotten back to that same level we were at before Casa happened.” He accepts his defeat. “I get it. I just... I really hope you can forgive me some day."

"I forgive you," Sarah said, a small, sad smile touching her lips as she stepped forward. "I do. I wish you nothing but the best, John B...but our ship has sailed, and that's okay."

They pulled each other into a warm hug, holding onto each other for a moment before walking back together toward the main exit where the rest of the islanders were waiting.

Confessional : JJ “Although I’m happier than ever to see Sofia walk out those doors tonight…I’m not gonna lie, I’m pretty upset to see my guy John B go.” He sighs, trying not to get too emotional. “He made some terrible decisions at Casa, we both did, and I see why the girls made the choice they did—I agree with it.” He admits. “But at the end of the day, that was still my dawg, y’know? It sucks to see your boy leave.”

Confessional : Pope “Damn, seeing John B get the boot hits hard.” He drags a hand down his face. “I felt like him, JJ, and myself were a real trio in here, so seeing that broken up is tough. But I agree with the girls' decision. A big part of why he’s leaving is because of what went down at Casa, and you can't blame them for holding him accountable.” He says honestly. “Casa is the ultimate test in this villa... and John B failed it. Terribly.”

Confessional : Kaitlyn & Haja They were sitting side by side, Kaitlyn speaking first. “Look, we’re not best friends with Sofia or anything, we never really got to know her on that deep level we would have hoped for to build a friendship...” “Yeah,” Haja nods. “But at the end of the day, we were all Casa girls. We just wanted her to have at least a decent memory of us helping her pack her bags and seeing her off, so she didn't feel alone."

Confessional : Cleo, Rima, & Sarah They were sitting clustered, trying to contain their laughter when it came out, all three of them doubling over. “Bye!” Cleo exclaimed through her own amusement as they gathered themselves. “We don't give a fuck that she’s gone.” Rima deadpan, still reeling. “What did you think was gonna happen?” “I mean, look, I feel a tiny bit bad for her on a human level.” Sarah cut in cautiously. “I’d be pretty pissed off too if I got the worst version of a guy years ago, and then he goes and gives the best, most loving version of himself to another girl later down the line because he finally decided he wanted to be a good person.” She explains, not defending Sofia, but acknowledging her outlook. “Okay, would we be pissed? Yes.” Cleo throws in. "But would we come onto a national television show and make that new girl’s life a living hell because we're bitter? Absolutely not. You should be mad at the guy who put you in that situation in the first place, not the innocent girl. So yeah, we feel bad... but we also don't." Then a brief moment of silence fell over the three of them before they turned to the camera in sync, waving. “Bye Sofia!”

Confessional : You & Rafe He had an arm around your shoulders as you looked up at him. “I’m a little bit sad to see John B go tonight.” You admitted. “I think we were kind of close—not the closest, but we were good friends I would say—but…he made his bed at Casa, and he had to lie in it.” You shrug.  “Yeah,” Rafe nodded, scratching his chin. “He wasn’t too beat up about it either. But, I think the girls made the best choice.” He shrugs, looking down at you with a smirk. “I’m jus’ glad it wasn’t me.” You giggled, opening your mouth to speak again. “But Sofia?” You edge, eyes on Rafe before bursting out laughing as he held you, a satisfied smirk on his face. “I could literally throw a fucking party, right now.” You breathe. “I do feel a tiny bit bad still about everything that came out, you know, her reasoning for acting that way…” You peered up at him carefully. Rafe groaned, dropping his head. “I apologized to her so many times and even tried to break up with her after!” He defended. “But she wanted to stay and keep trying, I didn’t—” “Rafe, it’s fine, I know,” you placed a hand on his chest, chuckling. “You’re a different person, You’re a better person, okay?” You reassure, leaning up to kiss his cheek before turning back to the camera. “Hopefully, when she gets back out into the real world, she’ll go seek the help she clearly needs.”

Standing right in front of the giant, glowing "Love Me Not" neon sign, John B and Sofia stood with their suitcases in hand.

John B let out a heavy breath, a peaceful smile breaking through his sadness. “Love you guys. All of you. Even if I sucked at showing it.” He chuckles. “Take care of each other." He raises his hand in a final wave as he turns and begins walking away.

Sofia doesn’t say a word, just grabs her suitcase and marches behind John B, both of them disappearing around the corner.

Confessional : John B  "Leaving tonight is...something, man.” He drops his head. “It hurts to walk out right at the halfway mark, but I'm just grateful for the experience and for meeting everyone that I did. I really want to say to Sarah that I am sorry and I'll forever cherish the connection we made in here, even if it ended like this. And to the boys—JJ, Pope, Rafe... those are my guys, since day one. Even when I messed up and made some bad decisions, they didn’t defend my mistakes, but they never threw me to the wolves either, and I gotta love ‘em for that.” He laughs to himself. “I'm going to miss JJ's unhinged jokes, I'm going to miss Pope spewing random, useless facts early in the morning, and I'm even going to miss seeing Rafe turn into the guy he wants to be each day. I admire him for that." He adds. "Love them all."

Confessional : Sofia  "I'm pissed off.” She starts. “I came her for Rafe. I have always been the one chasing him, begging him for the bare minimum, and it makes me sick to watch him give everything I ever asked him for to another girl. And the girls in there are nothing but a bunch of mean girls. I never felt welcome for a second.” She scoffs in disgust. “If I had to name my only true friends in that place, it would easily be Miles and Haja, and honestly, they treated those two pretty terribly, too. So, I guess I was just getting along with the other outcasts.” She rolls her eyes. “This entire thing was a waste of my time and nothing but an excuse for people to humiliate me on national television."

As the sound of the car driving off sounded, the remaining group turned back toward the villa, the air feeling lighter and only just a bit heavier at the same time. 

Rafe walked over to you, hand sliding around your waist, pulling you against his chest as you both walked back toward the villa, safe, united—every hurdle jumped—and actually ready for whatever the final weeks had in store.

next chapter>

do y'all love me again? (this chapter was so lazy)

And there it was - Megumi’s tiny, seemingly mindless slip-up that got you into this mess in the first place. One that had poked some raw, primal part of Toji so dangerously awake.

The one that had Toji splitting you in half with his aching cock, hips pressing so hard against yours that it almost hurts. Fucking into you in slow, languid motions of his hips, while he drinks in your sobbed out little, “Ah- Hngh- Toji, s’too much I-” 

Lazily, he thumbs open your folds even more, watching in awe at the way his seed dribbles and oozes down your thighs, seeping into the mattress. It takes him a while to form the words, too hazy from how warm and sloppy you were inside. 

“Too much?” he drawls, with the audacity to sound genuinely taken aback. “I don’t think it’s enough, ma.”

It’s the only warning you get - barely - before he laces his fingers on top of your head to take him deeper, snapping his hips harder. Sloppier. Sensitive cock stinging with sensitivity, balls squeezing painfully. It hurt, but it hurt so good. And Toji wasn’t even sure if he could cum again. But he was milking his cock on your pussy like he was gonna fill you up until he physically couldn’t anymore.

“B-but m’so full.” you babble, mouth dropping into a fucked-out little oh! as you look down at the way you were swallowing him up so well. “Dunno if I can’t hngh- t-take anymore.” 

Oh shit, had he said that out loud? Ah, who gives a fuck. Because Toji was chuckling in surprise, stuck on the way you could still form coherent sentences - he had to fix that, of course. 

“Shhh. Don’ worry about it. Jus’ need to fill you up- ah, fuck a baby into ya, ma.”  he gently kisses away those big, fat tears rolling down your cheeks. “All you gotta do is sit there all pretty n’ take- it-” 

Hand snaking down to toy with your swollen clit - frenzied, barely-circular motions just to get you off. Because shit he can’t just stuff you full of his cock without getting the mother of his future kids off, right? And he let you know, of course. Maybe he was whispering sweet nothings in your ear - probably it was just promises of how he was gonna fill your pretty lil’ cunt till morning comes and Megumi was gonna be the best big brother and-

“-m’gonna make ‘em breakfast. And you’ll dress ‘em up. We’ll read oh- them bedtime stories and-” he’s babbling so pathetically into the crook of your neck now. “-an’ tuck ‘em into bed- Oh, fuck fuck fuck.” Drunk off your pussy and the heavenly feeling of his heavy balls squeezing so dangerously, letting his hips go out of control now. “And then- hngh, and then-”

“T-then what?” you let out such cute sobs into his open mouth, seeing stars behind your eyes each time he ravages you.

“Ya really wanna know, ma?”

Somehow, his words have you squeezing around him so good. Enough that it’s almost difficult to move inside you. Enough that Toji doesn’t even realize that he’s cumming and cumming so hard that you’re bloated with his seed. Squelching out of your quivering pussy and soaking his cock as he doesn’t even think of stopping even as you keen at your poor overfilled pussy, teeth latching onto your earlobe as he holds you still for him. 

“And then…” Toji’s hot breath fans your face, voice guttural and sounding like he was losing a little bit of his sanity with each thrust. Hips moving again and again to fuck his cum deeper into you. “And then m’gonna fuck another one into you.”

♡ NANAMI KENTO - Lonely? No problem!

“Aww, m’sorry. Did I make you feel lonely, my love?” Kissing your lips softly, running his hands all over the pretty lil’ lace covering your body - just barely, of course. “Did I leave my pretty lil’ wife all alone in this big house?” 

You give him a pouty little nod, and oh does that do something to Nanami’s heart - and his achingly hard cock. And he can’t help but pull the drenched fabric of your panties further to the side, greedily honing in on the way you glisten and clench around him. 

“Well, we should fix that, right? So that my pretty baby is never alone in here.”

You would be reassured by his answer - had it not been for the way Nanami doesn’t even wait for your reply. Instead, looking straight into your eyes while he pushes his thick cock deeper inside you. Not even fucking preparing you as he usually would.

“Oh! Oh, mm fuck-” And it’s all you can do to buck into his touch and just fucking take it while he grunts at the slight resistance. For once in his life more concerned about trying to fuck desperately into your dripping cunt than whether or not your poor pussy would hurt herself trying to take him. 

That merciful, practical little part of his brain going slow to let you adjust to his massive cock - because, well, he couldn’t break the mother of his future children. Now, could he?

But oh how you’d beg to differ with the way Nanami fucks into you in languid , shallow grinds of his hips. No matter how many times Nanami stuffed you full of his cock - his size never failed to disappoint. Stretching you out, fingers swiping at your clit, expertly grazing against all the right spots he knew so maddeningly well. 

“Two or three?”

It takes you a second to register that he’s waiting for your answer - too delirious with the way your husband’s splitting you apart deeper and deeper on his cock. Leaving neat crescents of his nails on your hips as he holds your slutty pussy still. 

“W-what?”

“Two or three?” Nanami gives your pulsing clit a little smack! as if to get your attention, hips stuttering ever-so-slightly at the way you squeeze his thick cock in surprise. “How many babies am I fuckin’ into you, my love?” 

Oh. Oh, shit. You weren’t making it out alive.

But were you really complaining? No.

Swallowing thickly, “Ah! Fuck, Kento- wan’ two.”

And maybe you’re a mastermind, maybe you’re an idiot. Because nowhere is the gentleman that you married, Nanami’s spitting on your quivering cunt once. Twice. Watching like a predator stalking his prey at the way it misses - purposefully, splattering against your inner thigh.

Smearing it all over your pussy and your panties - which he was too impatient, too starved - to remove. Messy. 

It’s all Nanami needed to do before he’s bottoming out completely. Pressing his forehead against yours in such a sweet motion, even though his hips were so mean. Drinking in your delirious whines as his heavy balls smack your ass. Over and over-

The duality making your head spin as he fucks his cute lil’ wife dumb, part of his sanity dancing away with his restraint every time your slutty hole sucks him up so deliciously. 

“Shit. More?” he grunts, sounding absolutely wrecked. Moaning at the way you tug at his hair, legs wrapping around his toned waist as if to urge him to go faster. Deeper. Begging. Begging him to ruin you. More more more- 

And, of course, what his girl wants - she gets. Because Nanami’s dragging his weeping tip across your swollen folds, all the way out till he’s collecting your sweet juices on his head. “Better take it like my good wife then.”

Then he’s pushing and pushing inside your tight pussy, but not like he was before. Jagged, desperate grinds of his hip - no adoration, no warmth. Just fucking you like his little slut, high off the idea of fucking his cum into you till you couldn’t walk. Till you were so full of him that he’s all you could think of. “We’ll have such beautiful babies, my love.” 

“Shit shit shit, Kento- yer gonna ruin me-” you’re whining, body torn between arching into Nanami’s unforgiving cock and running away. 

As if you ever had a chance - he was holding you so bruisingly by the hips, gasping into your mouth. “Shhh, that’s the point.”  Fucking you so filthy, each word punctuated by his out-of-control hips, so harsh and unfocused with lust that those tufts of blond at his base scratch your sensitive nub. And the feeling is so fucking obscene that you barely hear the words that follow. “You jus’ focus on taking care of my babies, n’ m’gonna be the one to ruin this pretty cunt- The one to fill you up- fuck. ”

Nanami throws his head back as you squeeze the soul out of his throbbing cock, so pent-up and needy that you’re creaming all over his cock already. And of course, Nanami isn’t any better - because with a strangled groan of your name, he’s cumming. Hard. almost painfully so. 

“N’ you’ll never be lonely, cuz everyone’s gonna see you and see me. I did that.” 

Jolts of electricity going all the way from his heavy balls to the thick, hot ropes of cumming filling your dripping pussy. Painting it all a desperate, desperate white.

And shit was Nanami an entirely different man tonight. Pulling out ever-so-slightly, only to admire his seed gushing out of you - so lewd and his. 

“Y’know what, my love, I don’t think two will be enough after all.”

♡ GETO SUGURU - Pretty (and his)

“Awww, pretty baby.” Geto purrs, in such a dangerously low voice, smacking his tip - so red, and angry - all across your swollen folds. He bites his lip at the way his cum spills down your legs, pooling onto the hardwood floor with a deafening tap! tap! tap! “Y’want it so badly, huh?”

“Shit- hngh- please!”

You don’t know what you’re begging for - maybe release. Maybe mercy. Maybe to be anywhere but here - shoved against the wall right beside the front door, dress hiked up, almost your way to go clubbing with your friends before your beloved boyfriend had caught you. And stuffed you full of his cum, at least.

Whatever it is, Geto only gets messier, teasing your sloppy hole by slamming in - just barely grazing that one spot. And pulling out completely, watching you clench and glisten in the dim lighting. In. And out. In and out in and-

“Sugu!” you squeal, tired of the way he was having way too much making such a mess of your pussy. Swiping at your slick, and shoving his seed back into you - smirking at the obscene mess. 

“Mhm?” he nods absent-mindedly. Eyes flitting between your ravaged pussy and that absolutely adorable pout on your lips. Chuckling, “What~? If I cum in this cute pussy one more time, you’re sure to get pregnant, y’know.” 

Scoffing, “Shoulda thought of that when you came inside me the first time.”

Geto rolls his thumb over your sore clit - just as a little punishment - breath hot against your ear as he whispers raggedly.  “And are you complaining, gorgeous?”

“N-no…” 

“Then?”

He’s licking little circles at the crook of your neck now, in time with the maddening, frenzied patterns on your cunt. Enough friction to keep those pretty lil’ whines spilling from your swollen lips, but still teasing you just enough to have you bucking and keening onto his aching cock for more more more-

“Please! I jus’ want your cock, Sugu-”

All it takes is your broken little whimper, and it’s like something snapped - because Geto’s plunging into your plushy walls completely. Finally giving you an ounce of that friction you’ve been craving for so long. Only half the man he was once before while fucks into you deliriously. 

“F-fuck. Love it when you’re so messy f’me.” he’s hissing lowly, as if you could be anything but messy. As if he’s not pulling you back by the hair to bounce you like some slut, hips snapping mercilessly. As if he isn’t absolutely ruining you.

And maybe if you were in any better state of mind you’d have said something about the pure disrespect in his cock. Fucking you nothing like the sweet sweet whispers he was muttering in your ear, ragged and hoarse with desire.

“Gonna fill you up, huh? Give me some cute lil’ babies?” he groans,nibbling on your earlobe, fingers pressing down around your throat so the only response he gets are wet gurgles. Ones that go straight to his twitching balls, as Geto keeps running his mouth pussydrunk. “They better have your personality, don’ wanna share my pretty girl. Isn’t that right?”

So mean. Just babbling like you rarely get to see him - usually the ever-graceful Geto Suguru. Now, drunk on your tight pussy and the image of you with a little baby with black hair and him - there for it all. His perfect little family. 

“Gonna be the perfect momma, huh?” 

Geto only gets a broken little whimper in response - one that almost makes him want to go easy on you. Almost, instead, he settles for breathing out a ragged, “Fuck fuck fuck, yeah, gorgeous. Squeeze me s’tight like that - jus’ like that jus’ like that-” 

Trailing such a delicate finger up your legs, Geto pools that sinful mixture of your slick and his cum on his fingertips - before shoving them unforgivingly in your mouth. The slightly salty taste was so addictive on your tongue - and, hell, you aren’t even mad that you’re running late to meet your friends.

Smirking as you gag and mewl around him, he only gets sloppier. Faster. Licking a long, languid stripe up your neck, just knowing that he’s gonna cum inside your cute pussy harder than he has his whole life. Have your poor pussy bloated with him him him- “Now, yer gonna go to that lil’ party of yours jus’ like this. And everyone’s gonna know who you belong to.”

♡ CHOSO KAMO - Can’t help himself

“N-no, swear-” Choso lets out a broken little whimper into the crook of your neck. Feet flat on the bed, hips bucking up mindlessly over and over to where you were splayed out so prettily on top of him. So messy and dripping all over his glistening cock. “Gonna ngh- be the last one- I s-swear.”

You’ve heard this broken little mantra before - and you knew it wouldn’t end well for your poor pussy. Especially not with Choso bullying his weeping cock back into your snug cunt. “But, Cho!” you gasp, “We’re out of-”

He knows you’re out of condoms. But, really, does it matter?

Because shit were you like the gates of heaven spread wide open for him. And, well, here he was - completely pussydrunk, two rounds and a still rock-hard cock later. The only thing on his mind from then on was to not paint your pretty pussy white with his seed, no matter how much he wanted do. 

“Last time, baby. Promise I won’t cum inside.” And then he’s batting this long lashes so unfairly up at you. So fucking beautiful with his dark hair untied, lips swollen, eyes-half-hooded and miles away. And, well, how could you say no to that?

And you’ve barely gotten out your delirious little nod before Choso’s wrapping two strong arms around your waist, pulling you so intimately closer like he worshipped you - while he fucks your hot cunt like anything but. So hard that you knew it would leave marks - your nails on his chest, his balls on your ass, fingers on your waist. 

God, you were squeezing so desperately around him and he just thinks he might just cum right then and there. So fucking perfect that Choso knows he’s never buying another box of condoms ever again. 

“F-fuck, feels s’good. Love having you so deep n’ messy inside me.”

You were going to be the death of him.

“Hngh- fuck fuck fuck, yeah? You like that, baby?” he groans lowly. Abs burning and flexing each time he rams his cock into your tight pussy, absolutely loving the way you were leaking his cum all over the sheets. 

“Shit- I-” 

“Yes, Cho~?”

Face burning in embarrassment, choking pathetically on his words, Choso instead lets his hips do the talking. Strained whimpers of your name leaving him each time he bullies his painfully twitching cock through your plushy walls.

Voice cracking almost-embarrassingly at the end as he rambles, “Oh my god- y’feel so fucking good wrapped around me, baby. Wanna- hngh-” Trying his very best to sound like every cute lil’ whimper didn’t make his thoughts steer into the dangerous territory of how pretty you’d be with his kid. Of a little girl with dark hair and your eyes and-

You. His hips speeding up now, so sloppy with now rhyme or rhythm. How round and glowing you’d be with his kid. You, how everyone would know that he was that ruined your pretty pussy n’ got you this way. You, you, you-

“Wanna cum in this cute pussy, baby.” He finally confesses. Hips getting so messy - mindless, quick little jabs that have you keening on top of him, balls squeezing painfully. “Wanna fill y’up until you can’t take it anymore, fuck you so full until we have a pretty baby. Can I, baby? Please don’t say no please please-”

And at this point all you can do is whine and buck your hips to meet his merciless cadence, letting Choso crane his neck and kiss you senseless. “Fuck yeah. Thought you’d never ask-” you mutter, muffled around where he was sucking on your lips, like they were his favorite candy. “Want you to cum inside me, Cho.”

Well, you didn’t need to tell Choso twice because no sooner have the words left your lips before he’s giving you one harsh thrust. Veins throbbing against your gummy walls, again and again. 

Tears pricking his eyes as he cums with such a guttural grunt of your name. “Gonna have a pretty lil’ girl.” Both white-white pleasure and the image of you and him and his daughter flashing behind his eyes. “She’ll look just as beautiful as you, baby. N’ have your cute smile.”

Your own orgasm is nothing more than a few tingles, overstimulated and limp on top of Choso as stuffs you full of his seed. Thick, white ropes that gushing all the way out of your snug pussy, smearing all over his twitching balls. 

You could get used to this.

And it’s such a heavenly feeling that Choso barely registers his hips moving again, as if on instinct. Fucking mindlessly into you again. Again and again. Gasping, breath hot against your ear. 

“Only one more, baby. Promise.”

♡ RYOMEN SUKUNA - A reward

“F-fuck, woman” Sukuna grunts, fingers so bruising on your hips as you slide down his throbbing erection. Inch by fucking inch, keening at the delicious burn. “Y’act so innocent but you’ve got such a slutty lil’ pussy, huh?”

As expected, the only response he gets is an incoherent babble of agreement. Your eyes watering, drool dripping down the corner of your mouth as you struggle to take him. And his sharp eyes narrow in amusement at the sight of his painfully inexperienced consort’s pretty cunt sucking him up so eagerly. Hips stuttering and leaking your sweet, sweet so sloppily juices all over his thighs.

Humans were always such interesting little creatures.

“Tch.”

Slow ones, too, apparently.

Because immediately, Sukuna’s stuffing himself into your sloppy pussy as far as it would go. Groaning at the resitance, a large hand pumping his cock slowly - enticingly - as he fucks his hips in quick, shallow little thrusts, just to fit himself inside your snug cunt. 

And you needed to breathe in and out maybe, relax your plushy walls, but Sukuna wasn’t going to wait. Why would he? He had his favorite woman - not that he’d ever let you know - sat on his lap, legs spread so shamefully and bouncing on his thick cock.

“F-fuck.” his jaw falls slack ever so slightly, groaning at the feeble resistance against his massive cock. Still only half-inside you but still pushing relentlessly. “S’like your pussy was made f’me, brat. Milking me so well.”

“Shit shit shit- hah- ‘Kuna, feel s’good-” you gasp, thighs quivering with the pressure to meet his rough cadence. And Sukuna huffs out a low laugh at your audacity to call his name, feeling charitable enough today to forgive this transgression. 

Instead toying with your pretty clit, pinching and rolling between his thick fingers, loving the way you buck and squeal his name. 

“Hmm, feels good?” he hums dangerously, amused at your barely-lucid little nod. Fucking into you like his personal fucktoy - his favorite one. “Good ‘nough to give me an heir?”

At this your eyes snap open - but not for long because you just have to screw them shut again with Sukuna finally bottoming out in a quick, harsh thrust. Splitting you apart deeper and deeper on his cock, veins throbbing a maddening little bump! bump! bump! matching your heartbeat. 

You barely have the time to breathe out a sigh of relief before he’s fucking into you. Unforgivingly. Like the monster he claims to be. All the blood draining into his achingly dick at the idea of fucking his cum into you until you couldn’t walk. 

And he tells you - chuckling at the cute lil’ ah! ah! ah! leaving your mouth each time his fat head hits your cervix. “Y’want that, my little slut? To be my cute plaything to breed? Help m’make the next king of curses?”

Fuck, you don’t know if you’re reeling more from the way he was ramming his cock into you or the way he was talking to you in that mean little tone. 

“Mmm- yes! Yes yes yes!”

“Use your words.”

“Wan’-” you hiccup, batting your lashes at him so tearily, in a way that makes Sukuna’s heart thump so strangely. An uneven little beat matching the led rhythm of his hips. “Wan’ your cum- gonna give you a kid.”

So cockdrunk and delirious, you barely register the way he wrestles your arms behind your back, using it like leverage to bounce you harder and harder on his cock. Only looking up at him with such cute lil’ heart eyes as Sukuna uses you as he pleases. 

“Fuck- fuck fuck fuck yeah?‘ he gasps into your open mouth. Teeth latching onto the crook of your neck, biting down right over your pulse. Dangerous. “Gonna make me an heir so powerful. Have him treat you like a queen n’ kill everyone that doesn’t? Ya like that, my lil’ slut?”

“Shit- ah- I want that s’bad, ‘Kuna.”

Knock! Knock! Knock!

And oh how pretty you look, cunt clenching and all surprised at the knock on the door - some lowly human here to beg for their life, maybe. But it doesn’t matter, because Sukuna’s only licks away the big, fat tears streaming down your cheek, hips burning while he breeds you like some animal. Hard, and almost violent.

So it only makes sense that your orgasm was the same, breathless and shaking on Sukuna’s lap while he fill you with his hot seed. Thick and intoxicating. Hips unstopping, just animalistic little movements from such a carnal part of himself. Over and over-

And you’re so fucking drunk off of your lord’s cock that you barely even realize when he’s thumbing your ravaged cunt open. Letting his cum drip all the way down to his gaudy throne, on full display for whoever was about to-

“Come in.”

It’s adorable how you try to scramble off his lap, trying - and failing - to cover yourself up as the door cracks open. 

“Not yet, woman.” Sukuna grasps you in an iron-hold grip, dangerously sharp nails tethering right at your throat and your hips. Starting to drag you up and down on his swollen cock once more with no concern or care for whoever was about to enter. “Gotta make sure it takes.”

It was filthy. 

Completely debauched. And exactly where you wanted to be. You and your lord - and maybe your future heir, too.

♡ GOJO SATORU - Give ‘em what they want!

“Hah- f-fuck imagine- Imagine I fucked the next s-strongest into you right now.”

Oh. 

You knew by the look in his eyes that something was off - that something hadn’t gone well in that meeting with the elders. Really, it was a miracle he attended in the first place, but somehow you had an inkling that this was the type of something that would have you needing a miracle.

That was three hours ago.

And fuck did you need a miracle - because Gojo had you splayed out on top your office desk, his cum spreading in a pool beneath, you throbbing cock stuffing in and out of your snug cunt while you try not to alert the entirety of Jujutsu High about how needy the great Gojo Satoru was being right now.

Gojo’s ramming his swollen dick into your poor, overstimulated pussy like he was drunk off the sight of you all cockdrunk and in a tight mating press. Moaning at the sting of painfully hard erection twitching inside you, and your nails running down his back. 

Not even bothering to let you adjust this time before he’s fucking you again and again and-

You think it’s a bit unfair, really. Because who were you against the strongest? Well, the pretty lil’ wife who’s going to give him his successor, apparently. 

“Shit- wouldn’t that be funny?” he lets out a humorless laugh, wrestling your legs further and further apart. Eyeing the way you suck him up lewdly, “If I made my kid the strongest n’ just wiped these old fossils out?”

“T-Toru- we’ll get ca-”

“Caught? Who fuckin’ cares, they want a Gojo successor n’ they’re gonna get one.”

He’s letting out his frustration in the way he chases both your highs for the - well, you lost count which orgasm it was at this point. Letting you stain all over the expensive desk as he yells out little curses into your mouth.

And oh how you want to kiss that little furrow in his brow, to whisper away his stress - but, no, the only thing getting Gojo out of this bad mood was to fully and thoroughly ruin his girl’s cute lil’ cunt. 

But Toru-” you sob into his open mouth, hips bucking wildly for more. “What if I can’t give you the strongest…” You know you’re babbling deliriously, little insecurities you didn’t even know you had coming to the surface as it really hits you that shit this is your Gojo. And he’s here. And he’s fucking you until he’s sure you’re pregnant.

“Who gives a shit?” he licks away the big, fat tears streaking down your face. Salty on his tongue while he plays with your pretty clit, rubbing quick, tight little circles on it. 

As if to emphasize his point, Gojo brings his fingertips to his mouth with a lewd pop! So blissfully wrapping his lips around them. Darkened blue eyes rolling to the back of his head at the taste - it only spurs him on more. 

Fingers immediately back down on your clit. Frenzied - like he couldn’t wait any longer, like it killed him to not see you cum again. Body bowing into yours, hand digging and bruising on your hips as he holds your filthy pussy still on his cock, 

“Fuck, gonna give it all to you, sweetheart. M’gonna train them to be the strongest n’ protect their pretty mommy.” 

Sloppy, he was so fucking sloppy - such a mess of teeth and spit and pure desire to paint your walls white. 

“Gonna have my eyes, huh? N’ your hair. Fuck they’re gonna regret bringing this up.” Babbling little nonsenses that drove you mad. He sounded so fucking pathetic, crazed with lust. “Ooooh they’re gonna regret it.” Overstimulated enough that it hurt.

Kissing the side of your ankle beside his head, lacing his fingers together to pull you further and further down his rock-hard cock. Sloppy and moving with no rhyme or reason. “Because they fucking hate me. All of ‘em will look at our kid n’ you - so round and pretty and see me. All me.” 

Now, you’ve heard of orgasms that come out of nowhere - ones that have you convulsing and gripping onto Gojo - the desk, his shoulders, his hair. And this was no different. “Ah! Hngh, Toru m’cumming m’cumming oh-”

Delirious, white-hot pleasure cracking behind his eyes, Gojo’s pumping hot thick, hopes ropes of cum into your poor, overfilled pussy. And shit no thrill of taking out the elders could compare to watching the way his seed drips down the side. Slow, and thick, pooling at his quivering balls as he fucks you like an animal. Over and over and-

“Hey, sweetheart, y’think if I cum in you again, they’ll come out twice as strong?”

“...”

He had picked up your books, though. Once everyone was done laughing at the whole ridiculous spectacle and moved on, he’d grabbed your discarded books from the floor. A fat textbook and your cute binder with all the flower stickers and shit. Your name spelled out in swirly cursive pink pen on the front. So fucking cute, it made his insides hurt. Why the fuck did you have that effect on him?

“Is that your girlfriend?” One of the girls asks, looking at your name on his phone screen.

“You’re not getting paid to talk,” he growls, pushing her head down to his crotch. And he pretends it’s you, of course he pretends it’s you. With your pretty lips wrapped around his cock, crying and choking because he’s so big and you’ve never sucked cock before. And he’d coax you gently, stroke your hair back and tap your cheek condescendingly, tell you what a good girl you are for taking him like this. So brave and pretty, his good little girl. And you’d cry and cry, looking up at him with scared, devoted eyes…

He kicks the girls out the moment he’s finished with them. Tucks the cash into their underwear and sends them packing without another word. One of Ward’s friends had a high-end escort service. Rafe never really felt the need to indulge in it before, since he didn’t really have a problem hooking up with girls. But he’d been on edge and wanted a quiet distraction, a quick fix. It had not worked.

Rafe: Hey. I’m sorry about what happened the other day. I think we should talk.

His thumb hovers over the send button. He wonders if he’d be able to sweet-talk you into forgiving him. Because yes, he wants you to forgive him. He wants you to be his in every way possible, and to achieve that, he needs you to like him again. Fuck his friends and the stupid bet.

He sucks in his breath and presses down on send before he can stop himself. Waits one second, two, three, four, five. Heart lurches to his throat when an error message comes up:

Your message is unable to be delivered to the recipient.

White hot anger chokes him like a vice. You had blocked him. Fuck. Motherfucking shit.

Rafe’s always had issues with his anger. He couldn’t control it most times, and as a result he’d explode like a fucking volcano. He’d try to contain it, but the rage always found its way out. And he throws his phone across the room, where it crashes against the wall with a loud smack. How dare you fucking block him? How dare you? Who the motherfuck did you think you were?

Blindly, he searches his drawer for his coke. Hands shaking, he pours it out into a small heap and snorts it straight up, his heart already racing with an all-consuming rage. Fuck you for blocking him. Didn’t you know Rafe owned you? You were his property, and he had to have access to you whenever he wanted, however he wanted… He had to.

He makes a snap decision. Grabs your books and his keys, his actions fuelled by pure rage and drug-induced adrenaline. Stuffs his phone – now with a shattered screen – into his pocket and wipes any white residue from his nose. He was losing control of the situation. And that just wouldn’t do. He had to fix it. Now.

And Rafe wasn’t anything if not proactive.

Unfortunately, he runs into Ward on the way out.

“Rafe. We need to talk.”

“Not now, dad. I’ve got shit to deal with.”

Ward’s got a newspaper in his hands which he’s undoubtedly reading performatively, and he takes a moment before he folds it down on the kitchen island. “Shit to deal with, huh? Like trying to fuck every girl on the island?”

Rafe sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose, “I’m not doing this right now.”

“I’ve got business partners, investors coming in and out of here. Doesn’t look great when there’s coked out hookers limping out of my son’s bedroom every other day.”

“Your business buddies all do the same shit, dad–”

“Yeah? Well I don’t give a fuck what they do. I’m talking about you. I’m trying to push a clean, family-man image here–”

Rafe snorts. Ward ignores him.

“You’re getting too old for this shit, Rafe. You’re graduating soon, then you’ll take over the family business. You need to get your shit together, find a nice girl and settle down.”

Rafe rolls his eyes. He knows what’s expected of him. Knows his father wants him married sooner rather than later. Probably to some spoilt kook princess that he wouldn’t give two fucks about, a marriage built on connections and maximising power for the Cameron business. He figures being married wouldn’t be much different from being single. He’d still sleep around with the Pogue girls like he always did. But his mind’s too occupied by other things to really focus on this redundant conversation with his father.

“Look, dad, I have to be somewhere right now, so…”

“Who was that one girl you had over the other day? In the cute dress?”

Rafe stops short, feeling like he’s been injected with a dark, poisonous, all-consuming dose of sudden, icy-cold jealousy that winds him from the inside out. “What?”

“I was looking over the security footage. You had her on the patio. Cute, innocent looking girl. Now someone like that would be much better for your image, Rafe.”

Rafe’s jaw tenses, his fists clenched to his sides. He doesn’t want to react in front of his father, but it’s hard. The mere mention of you by another man – even if it was just his fucking dad – was making his blood boil. Boil in a way it never had before. He feels like choking someone the fuck out. Nobody was allowed to look at you. Jesus fucking Christ, what the fuck had you done to him? Now he’s even more determined to fix things with you, have you safely under his wing again so he could protect you from the lecherous gazes of other men.

He leaves without another word.

He takes his motorbike. It’s his preferred method of transport anyways. Quicker, less attention drawn to him than when he’s in one of his big cars. And he deliberately leaves his helmet behind, needing to feel the air whip on his face. Maybe it would snap him out of whatever crazed spell you’d put him under. He feels like ripping his fucking hair out – how dare you fucking block him? He was your only friend.

Rafe’s feeling no less crazy when he finally pulls up to your street. If anything, he’s even more incensed. His girl. His property. And he’d lost you? All because of some stupid shit he’d said to his dumb idiot fucking friend group? Fuck them – it was all their fault for making up that bet. All their fault for badgering him for private pictures of you. Fuck them.

He’s still reeling with rage when he knocks harshly on your front door. Which is why he’s caught off guard when someone opens it immediately.

At first, he thinks it’s you. No, this woman looks older. Not much older, though. It’s your mother.

“Is everything alright? Can I help you?”

He forces himself to calm down, running a hand through his hair to get it out of his face. Switches on the charm, smiles down at the woman who gazes at him with an unreadable expression.

“Hi. I’m Y/N’s friend from school. Is she at home?”

Your mother blinks, doing that thing that he knows people from The Cut do. Takes in his expensive clothes, the Rolex on his wrist, his signet ring that gleams in the afternoon sunlight. People like her looked at him often with clear disdain simply because of his family’s wealth and where he came from. It was a good thing Rafe did not care much for what a Pogue thought about him.

He tries again when she doesn’t immediately respond; “I’m very sorry to show up unannounced, ma’am. She left her books on campus and I thought I’d return them.”

Your mother clears her throat, “I’m sorry, she’s not at home right now. But you can give her books to me.”

Rafe hesitates, not wanting to give up your things just yet. “Where is she? When will she be back?”

“Who are you?”

He tells her his name, watching as her eyes widen slightly. That was the usual reaction he got. The Cameron name was well known in Kildare. His dad’s company – soon to be his – was global, but notoriously well known around the Outer Banks.

“Thank you for bringing my daughter’s things back, Mr. Cameron.” There’s an air of formality in her tone as she takes your books.

“That’s okay. When did you say she’d be back?”

There’s a long pause.

“I don’t think it’s a good idea for her to be seeing you.”

It takes him aback, the frank way in which your mother speaks. He feels shock, and then a wave of anger.

“Well, I think that’s up to her, isn’t it?”

Your mother’s jaw twitches, and she steps back slightly, inching the door closed as if shutting him out. He gets the message but does not care.

“Look. My daughter hasn’t been the same for the last few days and it doesn’t take a genius to figure out it’s because she got involved with the likes of you.” She sounds cold, distant, almost resigned. “I don’t know you personally, Mr. Cameron, but I know people like you. And I know my daughter is sweet and unassuming. So please, leave her alone.”

It takes everything in him not to lose it. He knows it’s best not to get into it with your mother of all people, and yet he hates when people assume shit about him. Nobody knew him, least of all some nobody-Pogue from the Cut. He wasn’t like Topper and them, but he couldn’t expect this woman to know that.

He forces a smile, “Just returning her books, ma’am. I’m her only friend.”

“As I said, thank you for bringing her things back.” She sniffs, closing the door till it’s only open a crack, “But please stay away from my daughter. It would be best for you both.”

The door slams in his face.

He has to physically retreat before he kicks your fucking door in. Her fucking audacity. As if she didn’t fully understand who the fuck he was. One meeting and a deal is all it would take for Cameron Development to buy this fucking dump of a street where your house was situated in. He’d like to see her slam her fucking door on his face then.

He does that thing his therapist taught him, breathes in and out but it doesn’t calm him down in the slightest. Instead, he clenches his fists by his side, his blunt nails digging into his palms till he knows he’s drawn blood.

Before he really knows what’s doing, he makes his way to the back of your house where he knows your bedroom window is. But the curtains are drawn. Fuck. Were you actually not at home? Or was your mother lying? He bets she was lying. If only he could get to you–

“What are you doing here?”

Rafe whips around, heart lurching to his fucking throat because it’s you. Standing right there in front of him. And he almost can’t believe it. Out here in this seedy little street on the Cut, dressed in a pair of tiny denim shorts and a tank top. Face devoid of any emotion, stripped of any kind of makeup. Lips downturned and pouty, eyes narrowed yet still so big and pretty.

For a moment, you take his breath away.

“Go away, Rafe.”

Promptly, you turn on your heel. Well, you turn in your scuffed white converse, speed walking away from him faster than he can even wrap his head around what’s happening. You’ve got your earphones in, your arms crossed in front of your chest, going as fast as your legs can carry you. Down this dangerous fucking street, dressed like that.

Rafe catches up to you in two strides.

“Wait, I came to talk to you–”

“There’s nothing left to say… LET GO OF ME!”

You scream it so loud, he drops your hand like a hot coal. Taken aback by your fire, but he recovers quickly. Walks around till he’s facing you and blocking your path. Tries to catch your gaze but you look anywhere but at him. Your chest rises and falls, your lips pressed into a thin line as if your emotions are getting the better of you. He’s always seen you as pristine and perfect, but now you’re dishevelled, upset, won’t even look at him. Still so fucking beautiful though.

“I didn’t mean all those things I said, okay?”

You swallow harshly, “I’m not stupid, Rafe.”

“It’s my fuckin’ friends – hey, listen, it was my friends, okay?! They kept goading me about you. I had to say something to get them off my back.”

Finally, you meet his eyes. A look of incredulity on your face.

“You… You told everyone that you slept with me, Rafe! You lied! About everything!”

He sighs impatiently, running his hands through his hair, “I know, fuck, I know I lied, okay? But they kept asking. You need to understand that I only said those things to protect you.”

Silence. You just stare at him. He thinks he sees something break behind your eyes. That same look you’d had on your face when he’d locked eyes with you the last time he’d seen you on the campus courtyard. As if you’re looking at a stranger, and he hates it.

“I had to protect you, okay?” He repeats, trying to ignore how hollow and wooden his words sound, “they all want to sleep with you. I had to tell them I had, so that they knew that they couldn’t–”

You shake your head slowly, “Y-You can’t even accept responsibility for what you did…”

“Fuck, this is me accepting responsibility, don’t you get it?!”

He lowers his voice when you flinch. But he’s so fucking desperate, wants you to understand what he’s trying to say although even he doesn’t understand it. He feels fucking insane right now, and you’re seeing it all unfold first hand. “Look, I didn’t mean any of it. You need to understand that. Hey, hey don’t walk away from me!”

“I feel disgusting, Rafe!” You burst out. And he really sees you then, sees your face crumple up and yet you try to keep this false bravado, chin up, eyes blazing. “I-I trusted you. I did things with you that I… that I’ve never done before. And to think this whole time, it was all just a joke for you. I told you about my dad, and I told you all those things because this whole time I thought you genuinely wanted to be friends, and I trusted you.”

“You can still trust me–”

“No, I can’t! You were lying the whole time.” You swallow again, and through your glasses, he can see the tears welling in your eyes, “I was nothing more than a bet for you. And I… I can’t believe I fell for it, that I let you…”

Your voice breaks, and you wrap your arms around yourself, almost like you’re hiding your body from him. Like you can’t bear the thought of him even looking at you now, can’t bear the thought that you ever let him look at you. Makes him feel like a goddamned monster.

“I wish I’d never called you that night,” you whisper, “I wish I’d never let you see me like that. I wish I could… I wish…”

“You don’t mean that,” he reaches out, doesn’t know why but just wants to hold your arm, but stops himself when you flinch once more. You’re far away, lost in your own broken thoughts, and yet you step back when he tries to touch you. Like you’re scared of him, and it kills him, because you were the only one who wasn’t.

“I feel dirty,” you say, voice thick yet pitiful, “I-I feel like… Like I can’t get myself clean no matter how hard I try.”

It’s Rafe’s turn to swallow, and he’s got a huge lump in his throat, and it makes it harder for him to speak. Like there’s a boulder on top of his heart, weighing it down to the fucking pits of his stomach. Guilt and frustration like flames licking and growing inside him.

“You’re not dirty,” he says softly, wanting, willing you to look at him but you don’t. And he wants you to say something, anything. But you don’t. Like you’re done. And he can’t have that, he fucking can’t. The control is slipping out from under his fingertips, and it’s an all-consuming feeling that he hates.

“I like you,” he tries again, but he’s never been good with his fucking words. His mind’s screaming ten different things for him to say, brain feels like it’s about to explode with frustration because he knows no matter what he says, it won’t be the right thing. How could it be? When he’d done what he’d done and there was no way around it? “I never lied about that. It started out as a bet but I always liked you.”

“You don’t speak about someone like that if you like them.” You look defiant and deflated all at once, angry yet upset, those fucking lips of yours downturned in this crestfallen way that hits him straight in the chest. “I hate myself for being so stupid. Trusting you when all this time, you were probably just laughing behind my back, thinking I was beneath you because I’m just a Pogue.”

“I wasn’t.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“Jesus fucking Christ, why can’t you just understand that I’m telling the goddamned truth?!”

He doesn’t mean to raise his voice. It just happens. It happens a lot with him, and he regrets it instantly when he sees your face morph in fear. Again, you flinch away from him, and he wishes to God you’d stop doing that. Stop being afraid of him because couldn’t you fucking see how insane you made him?

“S-Stay away from me,” you back away towards your house.

“Wait! Shit, I’m sorry, I– hey! Come back! Please, come back!”

You ignore him. Don’t even look back. In fact, you break into a run, as if you can’t stand being near him. And he can tell you’re crying in earnest now, with how your hands reach up and snatch your glasses off your face to blindly wipe away your tears. He calls out again, but his voice is lost in the wind. Fists clench to his sides again, and he hates how helpless he feels. The control he had, it’s dissipated like a cloud of fucking smoke and he hates it.

“Fine! Don’t fuckin’ listen!” He wants to punch something. The frustration of being unable to explain himself is slowly morphing into rage like how it often did. And he doesn’t know what to fucking do, and he’s trying to control his breathing, and he’s itching for a line, anything that’ll make him stop feeling whatever it is he’s feeling right now. “You think I can’t walk away from this shit too? Well, fuck you! I’m done too.”

Your front door slams shut. You don’t even look back once.

***

It’s a whole week before Rafe sees you on campus again. And in those seven days, he’s convinced himself that he doesn’t care. That you didn’t matter. That this was it. Whatever the fuck he’d thought he’d felt for you was clearly not real. And it never had been. He was just a fucking idiot who’d had a lapse in his judgement. Let a stupid Pogue fuck around with his feelings. Never again. Never fucking again.

And yet his heart skips a beat when he sees you. It’s been a whole week of you not showing up to classes, and a part of him had thought you’d transferred out. But there you are, bright and early on a fucking Monday morning. Books and binder clutched to your chest. In a blue top and matching skirt, looking every bit as cute as you always did.

For some reason, he’d half expected you to show up sad and forlorn, in a big hoodie or some other equally unflattering item that chicks wore when they felt depressed. Clearly not.

Rafe himself feels like shit and has all week. He’s got bags under his eyes and stubble he can’t be bothered to shave off. And he hates it, hates how he’s spent the past seven days at home, listlessly staring at his chat with you on his phone. Reading over your old messages again and again. Back when he still had control over what you thought of him. He also keeps staring at the pictures he took of you. He knows he should delete them but he can’t. You were his after all. He had every right to have those pictures on his phone. And you were so fucking hot…

“Look, it’s your little girlfriend,” Kelce snickers, and his entire group turn their heads in your direction. You’re trying your best not to make eye contact, quickening your pace as you speed-walk across the field.

It takes everything in him to keep his cool. “Change the fucking subject, man. If you know what’s best for you.”

They all straighten up, cough, look away. Like fucking clockwork robots responding to their puppet-master. They’d calmed down about the whole debacle, stopped begging for the pictures of you after Rafe had made it clear he wasn’t going to show them. Now, he just wanted to move on. Forget about it all. Pretend like he didn’t know you, just like he did with every other girl he fucked.

It was difficult, though. When you looked so fucking beautiful.

Rafe can’t help but try to meet your gaze, but you don’t look at him even once. And it incenses him. He knows he’s supposed to forget about you, discard and move on like he did with all the other girls he’d been with. And yet…

“Hey man, did you hear what I said? What do you think?”

Rafe blinks, forcibly peeling his eyes away, and trying his best to suppress the wild, innate desire to follow you, keep tabs on you, make sure he knows what you’re doing at all times.

Topper waves his hand in front of his face, “Rafe?”

His eyes narrow in irritation, “What?”

“The party. Saturday night. It’s at this abandoned beach house in the Cut. I’m pretty sure Sarah’s gonna be there, and–”

“No.”

Topper sighs, “I mean, I think you should go, man. There’ll be plenty of other Pogue girls there if you’re looking to hook up.”

The thought of that makes him sick.

“I’m not going to some Pogue-infested crack house on the Cut, Topper.”

“But I think the best way for you to get over her is to find someone else–”

“Get it through your thick fucking skull,” Rafe grabs him by the collar, a sudden rage coursing through his veins and he can’t even pinpoint why, “I’m not trying to get over shit, okay? There’s nothing to get over. Don’t fuckin’ project your shit on me just ‘cause you can’t get over my bitch of a sister.”

“Jesus Christ, alright!” Topper shakes him off, backing away and raising his hands in the air, “You shouldn’t speak about Sarah like that.”

“Shut the fuck up.”

Everyone’s staring at him again. Like he’s the crazy one or some shit like that. Fuck them all. His nose twitches, and he wishes he’d brought some coke with him. But the last time he’d been caught on campus with drugs, Ward had to pay a shit ton of money for the faculty to forget it ever happened. Doesn’t help now, when he feels like he’s gonna implode. A part of him wishes he could go to you, because you’d make him feel calm and in control again. But that isn’t an option, and so he tries to control his breathing. He can’t.

Fuck.

Get you back or forget about you. Something had to give.

***

It’s on impulse, really. He doesn’t even remember doing it till it’s done. It’s after he’s spent a good twenty minutes lying on his bed and staring at your pictures on his phone. Fuck, you were so sweet and hot. He still remembers it, waking up next to you on your tiny pink bed, an assorted range of your stuffed animals surrounding you both. You, naked and in his arms. Right where you belonged. Sucking his thumb like you were his baby, and you trusted him with everything.

Before he realises what he’s doing, he orders a Chanel bag. A light pink one with a gold chain. Puts in your address so it can be delivered straight to you. He’d grown up with two sisters and a stepmother obsessed with shopping and designer labels, so he has an idea of what women like. And he’s used to girls from Figure 8, who’s love language was gifts and money. You were different, though, but he still can’t help himself.

He imagines you dripping from head to toe in gifts bought by him. Cute little designer dresses, all in pink or light blue or yellow or some pretty girly colour like that. Fur jackets and dainty, expensive jewellery. And he’d give you an allowance, hell he’d make you save his credit card details on your phone. And he’d pay for you to get your nails done, and your toes too. Pretty, gleaming white polished toes.

He’s jacking off now, picturing it so clearly in his head. He’d move you into his house, and you’d look at him with glowing eyes, so thankful that he’d saved you from the poverty you’d been so used to. And you’d be his little princess, draped in the gifts he’d shower you with. And in return, you’d let him do anything to you. Because you were his. Only ever his.

And he’d push you onto his bed, press your legs up against his chest while he fucked you so good and hard. Came inside you, filled you up till the brim, till his cum was leaking out of you. And even then, he’d push it back inside, stuff you so fucking full of him that you wouldn’t know how to act, and you’d cry and be confused. You’d beg him not to, but he’d do it anyways because he owned you. And if he knocked you up? Fuck, he wouldn’t even care because it would mean you’d be bound to him forever.

He cums at that last thought, the visual of it too fucking hot for him to even fully wrap his head around. High off the fact he’s bought something for you. It gives him a fucking power trip like no other. You were his. Completely and utterly his. He knows he’s supposed to forget about you but fuck it. Maybe, just maybe, he could buy his way back into your life.

It’s only two days later when he’s leaving his car in the campus parking lot that he feels a little tap on his shoulder.

“You can’t do things like this.”

It’s you. Looking all tiny and cute as ever, a fiery look on your face that’s about as intimidating as one of your stuffed animals. Your face that’s half hidden by the big Chanel box you’re carrying in your arms.

“Hello to you too.”

“You… You need to take this back.”

Rafe squints down at you, running a hand through his hair and trying to act nonchalant, “It’s rude to return gifts.”

You look genuinely upset. Distraught, even. It confuses him.

“I don’t want any gifts from you, Rafe. Why can’t you understand that I want nothing to do with you?”

Didn’t he know this would happen? He knew you weren’t materialistic like the girls he was used to. And yet he’d still done it. But at least you were speaking to him again.

“I thought you should have it,” he says. “I was thinking about you.”

“Stop. Don’t.” You swallow harshly, your chest rising up and down as if you have so much you want to say. “Please. Just take this back and leave me alone.”

I CAN’T! He wants to scream, but he knows he can’t risk scaring you away again.

“Take it as an apology,” he says, take a step closer to you except you instantly take a step back, a fearful look in your eye that he hates. “Look, I know I fucked up, okay? Let me make it up to you.”

“You’re unbelievable,” you whisper, “You lied, and now everyone thinks that we…” You gulp, pressing your lips together and trying to push the box into his arms, “My mom saw the bag. She-She thinks I’m sleeping with you in exchange for gifts.”

Rafe blinks, “Why would she think that?”

You gape at him incredulously, and he can’t help but think how cute and hot you look. All weepy and indignant, acting all upset but all it does is get him hard. The Chanel box is almost as big as you, and it makes you look even tinier. And you’re wearing this little buttercup yellow top trimmed with white lace. So fucking hot. He wants to grab you and push you into the backseat of his car. Lock the doors and have his way with you. Fuck you dumb, fuck that indignance straight out of you, till all you can say is thank you daddy for the pretty purse and the orgasm while you cuddle and cry into his chest.

When he doesn’t take the box back, you huff and drop it at his feet.

“I…I don’t care about expensive gifts, Rafe. And if you think you can just throw money at me and expect things to go back to how they were, then I guess we never really knew each other to begin with.”

Rafe sighs, reaches out to grab your wrist, “Look, wait–”

“D-Don’t touch me!”

There it is again. Don’t touch me. It’s the second time you’ve said that to him, and he watches as you flinch away from him again. Like you’re scared. Of him. And he fucking hates it so much, it’s like he can’t breathe.

“Wait–”

You scurry away without looking back at him even once. When all he can do is look at you. Like you’re a drug and he’s an addict. He can’t rip his gaze away. He feels so out of control of the situation, it makes his palms itch and his head hurt. He feels like throwing up. Like fucking punching someone. He wishes you’d just understand him, and he hates himself for not being able to explain himself to you. He’s so fucking obsessed with you, it’s insane.

How the fuck was he supposed to get over you?

***

His eyes follow you wherever you go. He memorises your schedule, your classes, everything. He doesn’t mean to, exactly. It just kind of happens. It’s like he has this innate need to know exactly where you are and what you’re doing. You’re his property after all, so it was only natural.

And Rafe watches you all the time. Whenever he can. He knows it’s unhealthy as shit, this growing obsession he has with you. But he’s been like this as long as he can remember. Hyper focusing on one thing until it consumed him completely. His dad’s approval. Drugs. Alcohol. You.

And you’re putting on a brave front, walking around campus acting like everything between you and him never even happened. But Rafe likes to think he knows you, despite only interacting with you for a week. He knows it’s all an act, and on the inside you’re feeling just as shitty as he is. He watches you smile, nod, hang around the outskirts of some Pogue girl group who barely pays you any attention. And it’s sick of him, but he likes how you don’t have any true friends. All you had was him, and he was hell bent on getting you back no matter what it took.

Which is why he feels this cold, numbing feeling of pure rage when he sees you leaving your last class of the day walking side-by-side next to a boy. Talking to him. Laughing with him.

Rafe’s hands curl into fists.

He doesn’t want you speaking to any other man. Even what looks to be some sorry ass Pogue nerd who’s in your class. No, you were his. You weren’t allowed to even look at another man unless he approved of it. What the fuck could this clown give you that Rafe couldn’t? Nothing. What the fuck.

He waits till you part ways with the boy and make your way out of the building. That’s when he grabs him by the shirt and slams him into a locker, not giving a fuck who sees.

“What the fuck?!” The boy struggles, but it’s extremely easy to overpower him. Rafe’s used to being bigger than most people.

“Shut the fuck up, Pogue. I just want to talk.” Rafe shoots him a wooden ass smile, although it’s taking everything in him not to punch the shit out of this fucking guy. As quickly as he’d grabbed him, he lets him go, straightening him up and smoothening his shirt while the boy stares at him like he’s insane. He’s used to that too.

“Why were you speaking to her?” He asks softly, keeping his tone cold and calculated.

“I don’t know what you’re taking about– OUCH!”

Rafe slams him against the metal lockers again before smirking, “Try again.”

The Pogue scrunches his eyes shut for a second before exhaling loudly through his nose. When he speaks, his voice shakes, “She’s in my class, man. We were put together for a project.”

“Mm,” Rafe’s thoughtful for a second, “You know who I am?”

“Y-Yes.”

“Who am I?”

When the kid doesn’t respond immediately, Rafe takes his head and slams it against the hard metal behind him. He cries out in pain, coughing with a stricken look on his face like he’s about to piss himself.

“You’re Rafe, OK?! R-Rafe Cameron! Please don’t hit me again!”

Rafe smiles, patting his cheek, “Relax, Pogue. You know who my friends are?”

“Yes!”

“Then you know you won’t speak to her again. You won’t even look at her again. Or else I’ll personally come after you. And my friends will too.”

“Look, I don’t know what this is about! We were just discussing our project, it’s worth a lot of credits–”

“You’ll do it yourself,” Rafe fixes the boy’s collar slowly, “You’re not going to say another word to her. If you do, I’ll know.”

The boy gulps, “O-Okay.”

Rafe smirks, patting the boy’s cheek again, “Good boy. And you let your pathetic little Pogue friends know too. She’s off limits to all of you. If any of you so much as look at her, I’ll personally break your fuckin’ legs myself. Got it?”

“Yes, I-I understand.”

Rafe lets the boy go before he pisses himself in fear. He knows the threat will be enough, and yet he still feels so fucking angry. Like he can’t believe you’ve found another man to talk to. He was supposed to be your only friend.

He hates this feeling of desperation that’s only heightening within him as the days go by. A pretty girl like you were bound to find someone else unless Rafe took action.

But what the fuck could he do?

***

He’s still stewing over it when he gets home that day. He’d threatened the kid but would it be enough to keep him away from you? Rafe bets that dumb fucking Pogue had requested to be partnered up with you, thought it’d be an easy way to get in your pants. He thinks back to you in all your cute, sexy outfits, flouncing around campus like you were a free piece of ass. Suddenly acutely aware of just how many men probably wanted to fuck you just like he did…

Over his dead fucking body.

In frustration, he whips out his phone and opens to your chat. He was still blocked. A wave of pure rage completely throttles him, and he throws his phone against his bedroom wall. Again. He’s surprised the damn screen doesn’t completely shatter from the impact.

You’re fucking losing it, he thinks to himself.

After snorting a few lines to calm his nerves (it doesn’t work) as well as downing half the bottle of Gray Goose that he’s got stashed under his bed, Rafe decides to pay you another visit.

“Rafe, we need to talk.”

He’s about to leave the house when Ward’s booming voice halts him. Jesus fucking Christ.

“Not now, Dad,” Rafe mumbles, running a hand through his hair in frustration.

“Yes, now. Come here, son.”

He resists the urge to roll his eyes, entering his father’s study. “Look, Dad. I need to be somewhere.”

“Yes, Rafe. You always need to be somewhere.” Ward is unperturbed as usual, stoic as he sits behind the grand desk of his study, barely even looking up from the papers he’s sifting through. “I don’t care where you’re going. But I need you to be here Sunday. I’ve got someone coming over to talk business.”

His ears perk up, “I get to sit in on a deal?”

“If you want. But he’s bringing his family over for brunch. He’s got a daughter your age whom I’d like for you to meet.”

Rafe loses interest immediately, not giving a fuck about whatever spoilt Kook slut his father was trying to set him up with this time. Instead, his mind wanders back to you again. He wonders what that slimy little dweeb in your class had said to you. Had you been impressed by him? Surely not, he couldn’t offer you what Rafe could. Why the fuck had you been talking to him? Laughing with him? God, he needs to see you now. Set the rules straight: you weren’t allowed to talk to any other man. He doesn’t give a shit if you’re mad at him, you’d still need to follow his rules, and–

“Are you listening to me, Rafe?”

“Mm.”

“I said it’s about time you settled down and got serious about your future. Cameron Development has always been a family-orientated business. There’s a certain image you need to build up and maintain, son.”

Ward drones on and on about “settling down” and “eventually starting a family” and some other bullshit along those lines. Rafe’s too busy thinking about you to listen. What if that stupid Pogue fuck didn’t listen to him? What if he was at your house right now? Using the excuse of “project work” to get close to you? In your bedroom? When the only one who’d been in your bedroom was Rafe, and he intended to keep it that way.

“Sure, Dad. Look, I’ll talk to you when I get back.”

He leaves, ignoring Ward shouting his name and calling him back. Usually, he’s pretty good with listening to his father but right now he couldn’t be fucked with it. He has bigger priorities to deal with.

And he knows he probably shouldn’t drive after he’s just inhaled half a bag of coke and chased it down with half a bottle of vodka. Which is why he takes his motorbike again, hoping the roads would be empty at this time of night.

He gets to your house in record time. He’s got the route memorised at this point.

He doesn’t bother with the front door. Knows if your mother answers, she’d probably call the cops on him or some shit like that. When really, she should be calling the cops on that dumb fucking pervert Pogue from your class.

He makes a beeline for your bedroom window at the back of the house. Luckily, your curtains aren’t drawn, and he can see inside. Your bed’s all made, pristine pink sheets with the same stupid stuffed animals arranged meticulously on your pillow. The memory of him on top of your naked body while you quivered underneath him is fast fading, which he hates. He can’t believe you still haven’t forgiven him. He’d give anything to have you look at him like that again, look at him with stars in your eyes as if he’s your saviour, your hero, your god.

“Leave me alone, okay?! Stop telling me what to do all the time!”

For a moment, Rafe thinks you’re talking to him. He steps back, allowing the sidewall to conceal him yet still having a perfect view through your window. You’ve got your back to him, dressed in this fucking insane pair of pink pyjama shorts that make your ass pop. You’ve got your hands on your hips, facing out your bedroom door.

“It’s that boy, isn’t it? Didn’t I warn you not to get mixed up with people like him?” Your mother’s voice.

“Why can’t you just trust me, mom? I’ve always done what you’ve asked, but it’s never good enough!”

You look so petulantly pretty, and it’s a side to you he’s never seen before. Sure, he’s seen you angry, hurt, upset. At him. But this is different. You seem… frustrated almost.

“You can’t afford to get distracted by boys who will just hurt you. You need to keep your head down and mind your own business.”

“That’s all I ever do!” You cry, stomping into your room and he gets a flash of your face, indignant and upset. “I just want to be normal, mom! I just want that normal college experience that everyone else talks about! And I want friends, I want freedom–”

“You’re too naïve.” Your mother appears in your doorway looking grim, “I don’t know what that boy did to you, but maybe now you’ll learn your lesson. Most people at that school are not your friends. You need to remember that, and be smart, and–”

“This isn’t about him!” You look helpless, as if you know whatever you’ll say won’t have any type of effect on your mother’s view. Rafe gets it, has that same problem with Ward. “I’m just so sick of being so good all the time. I hate that everyone thinks I’m so naïve, I-I wish I could show them I’m not.”

“You are.” Your mother says impassively. “And you will stay that way. I forbid you from talking to that boy or anyone like him.”

An incredulous pause, and then:

“JUST LEAVE ME ALONE!”

You slam your door shut and throw yourself on your bed, crying your little eyes out into your pillow. And admittedly, it touches him a little bit. How sweet and soft you look, crying like that with such abandon. Thinking no one’s watching you, thinking no one understands you. Well, Rafe does. And ironically enough, he feels like he’s the only one who could comfort you when you’re like this.

And, despite how sick it sounds, a part of him likes how you’ve fought with your mother. If anything, that distance would only make you more likely to fall back into Rafe’s arms. As long as he was patient and bided his time.

Patience, however, has never been his strong suit. But even in his drunk and high current state, he knows that making his presence known to you right now probably wouldn’t be the best idea. You look equal parts upset and angry, if he added himself to that mix you’d definitely bite his head off. He’d find it hot though, but nevertheless…

He leaves, feeling slightly better. He doesn’t even fully understand why. Maybe it’s because he’s seen you now, and you’re not doing project work with that worm from your class. In fact, he’s not on your mind at all, which was reassuring. Or maybe it’s because the fight with your mother meant you’d slowly come back to him.

Maybe.

***

“Hey Rafe, you spoken to your girl lately?” Topper asks him the following day on campus.

Rafe frowns, “Why are you asking me that?”

Topper shrugs, looking oblivious and gormless as usual, “I don’t know, just asking.”

“Well, don’t.” He doesn’t like when other men talk about you, including Topper. Lately, he’s gotten a lot more paranoid about who’s watching you, who wants to fuck you. Which, he guesses, is most likely every male at this college. Makes him even more eager to publicly claim you, make it be known that you weren’t up for grabs. Sure, his friends knew better than to talk to you or look at you, but he wanted everyone to know. And he didn’t have time to go around personally threatening any man who looked at you.

“Look, there she is now.”

Topper cleanly points at you. Rafe slaps the back of his head and shoots him a dirty look.

“Don’t fucking do that.”

You’re standing on the fringes of that one Pogue girl group that you hang around with sometimes, pretending like they’re your friends. The same ones you were standing with the first time he’d ever seen you. And that was weeks ago, and yet your friendship with them hasn’t seemed to progress. They still ignore you, and you still stand there like you know you don’t fit in, but you try your hardest anyways.

“So anyways, it’s gonna be at this abandoned beach house.”

“Yeah, and Brittney, it’s still OK if we all get ready at your place, right?”

Their stupid chatter doesn’t interest him. But then you speak up.

“What’s happening at the abandoned beach house?” You ask politely, like you’ve rehearsed the line a million times in your head to make sure it comes out right. Tinged with nervousness, afraid they might ignore you as if you hadn’t even spoken.

There’s silence for a beat or two, and Rafe doesn’t miss how some of the girls smirk and exchange looks before one of them answers.

“It’s a party. We would’ve told you but… well, we know you probably wouldn’t be allowed to go.”

“Oh.” Hurt clouds your features for a moment before you force a smile, “I-I’d be allowed to go.”

One of the girls raises an eyebrow, “Really? You? Have you ever even been to a party before?”

They all burst into giggles. You join in too, despite the fact they’re all laughing at you and he bets you know it.

“I have.” You say, sticking your chin up so cutely. And Rafe knows you’re lying through your teeth, and wonders why you feel the need to impress these stupid Pogue sluts who were clearly being mean to you because they were jealous. Couldn’t you see that?

“Okay, well, then you should come too,” one of the girls says, her lips quirking up into a smirk, “Although I doubt Rafe Cameron’s gonna be there, if that’s why you want to go.”

Your face morphs in disgust, “I…I… No, I don’t care about him. I should’ve listened to you guys, you were all right about him.”

Stupid Pogue whores, spreading lies about him to you as per usual.

“Well, we warned you.” One of the girls says, looking like she’s about to burst into a fit of laughter, “But I guess you got a bit overexcited, and thought he was giving you attention because he actually cared about you.”

“Which he doesn’t,” another one chimes in, “I mean, let’s make that clear.”

You giggle nervously, but he can tell you’re hurt.

“Yeah, I mean no offence to you, you’re just so sweet and innocent,” one girl pats you on the shoulder condescendingly, “He probably went for you because he knew you’d be an easy target.”

“No offence,” another one emphasises, although the smirks they all exchange say otherwise. “But yeah, you should totally come to the party on Saturday. We’ll take care of you.”

It’s when they’ve all dispersed and you’re on your own, that he corners you before he can stop himself.

“You shouldn’t go to that party.”

You stare up at him in disbelief, “Get away from me, Rafe.”

“It’s not the type of place for someone like you.”

“Someone like me,” you echo, a cloud of hurt crossing your features for a split second before you cover it up with a brave attempt at a glare, “Y-You don’t know me.”

“I do. And those girls are not your friends.”

“Stop.”

“I’m just trying to help you.”

“They didn’t lie to me and pretend to be my friend,” you hug your books close to your chest like they’re a fucking shield against him or something, “that was you.”

You say it so quietly, in such a resigned way that it kills him. And then you turn and leave, and again you don’t even look back once. And he can’t take his eyes off of you.

He doesn’t waste time in texting Topper after that.

Rafe: Send me the location of that party.

***

Rafe fucking hates the Cut. Disgusting place filled to the brim with disgusting people. For the life of him, he doesn’t understand how Sarah had chosen this life over Figure 8. The beach house – if it could even be called that – is all rotting wood and peeling floorboards. And yet the Pogues here were acting like it was some kind of VIP beach club and the party of the century. Fucking losers.

Topper is all smiles, though. Scanning the crowd for Sarah and her little Pogue group. Rafe’s already surveyed the whole sorry property for you, but you weren’t here. And a part of him is relieved, because maybe you’d taken his advice after all. He’d give it another fifteen minutes before leaving.

“You think Sarah decided not to come or something?” Topper asks, plopping down on the couch next to Rafe and handing him a beer.

“Do I look like I know what goes on in her head?”

“Jesus, man. It was just a question.”

“You both need to get a grip,” Kelce leans forward, a scantily clad girl already in his lap and a drink in his hand, “There’s too much fresh meat here for you to still be hung up on anyone else.”

“I’m not hung up on shit,” Rafe seethes.

“Prove it, bro.”

“Shut up before I knock you the fuck out.” He’s not in the fucking mood for this bullshit. The girls here all looked like typical Pogue sluts. Of course, you wouldn’t be here. Either you’d come to your senses, or he’d gotten through to you, or hell, your mother probably didn’t give you permission.

The music is loud and pulsating, making the creaking floorboards vibrate. This beach house might have been considered luxurious once upon a time – by 1960s standards probably – but now it lies in complete desolate disrepair. With way too many sweaty bodies filled to the brim inside. Rafe can’t believe he made the mistake of coming here.

He’s getting up to get the fuck out of here, and that’s when he spots you at the entrance.

And he almost doesn’t recognise you. Yet at the same time, it’s like his heart does because it does this weird fluttery shit the moment he sees you. Walking through the door with that Pogue girl group, except you stand out from them in so many ways, and he knows he’s not the only man in the room who notices.

You’ve got some smoky black shit on your eyes. That’s the first thing he sees, because you’ve never done that kind of makeup before, and you’re not wearing your glasses either. It looks… different. Still so fucking hot, though. Like black eyeshadow smeared over your eyes in the sluttiest way, and your cheeks tinted this sexy, flushed pink with glitter. Lips glossy and berry-coloured, lined with something darker – something else you’ve never done before.

And your dress. It makes him clench his beer so hard he’s surprised the bottle doesn’t shatter. It’s the sluttiest thing he’s ever fucking seen, and it’s almost like the sluttiness of it is amplified because you’re the one who’s wearing it. And he’d never pictured you dressing like this, he didn’t think you could or ever would. In his head, you were the perfect picture of innocence in your cute pastels and flowery prints.

But this. It’s like you’ve taken a dress from your mother’s closet and cut it as short as you possibly could, and he can tell that’s what you’ve most likely done, because the bottom looks slightly frayed, like it’s been cut last second with a pair of kitchen scissors. Barely reaches the bottom of your ass, and it makes him want to audibly growl. Make his way over to you and tug it the fuck down, and then drag you out of here for daring to look so slutty.

You look like you’re cosplaying as a goddamned whore.

But it’s still you. And he can’t tear his eyes away. Like you’re so fucking compelling, so different from any other girl in here. Like there’s a spotlight on you and just you, and you look so deliciously uncomfortable. Like you know you don’t belong here, like you know this dress and that makeup just isn’t you, and yet you smile and try and act confident. But he knows you. He knows you better than anyone here.

“Who the fuck is that?” Some guy Rafe doesn’t know whistles loudly, “Never seen her before.”

And suddenly, it’s all around him. The whole fucking room buzzing as if they all see you like how he sees you. Like every man in here has his eyes on you and solely you. Like you’re some type of fresh meat, a beautiful girl who looks innocent enough to manipulate into hooking up with, despite what you’re wearing.

He’d beat the shit out of anyone who tried.

For a moment, he just watches. Watches as you follow your little girlfriends into the kitchen. To the counter where all the booze is. He notes how your eyes widen, how you take a deep breath before smiling and accepting a drink some fucker offers you. And Rafe’s hands are shaking with rage.Half of him wants to cause a scene right the fuck now, let everyone know who the fuck it is you belong to.

But he knows it would be best if he kept his cool. Figured out what to do in a calm and calculated manner.

“Sarah’s still not here,” Topper’s whining snaps him out of his rageful thoughts.

Kelce groans, “Man, stop talking about Sarah for just two seconds. There’s so many other options here, you know how easy these Pogue sluts are.” He snickers, “Rafe definitely knows.”

“Shut up.” Rafe says warningly, his eyes still locked on you.

“Bro, just get on top of another one to get over the first one. They’re all the same anyways–”

“Shut the fuck up, there’s nothing for me to get over.” He doesn’t know how many times he has to tell his friends that.

Kelce shrugs, “If you say so.”

He knew so. And yet, it doesn’t stop him from making his way over to you, pushing past the crowd and not missing how he’s definitely not the only one staring at you right now.

“That’s some dress.”

He comes up behind you, and you jump despite him making a conscious effort not to touch you. Your eyes widen, but he thinks he detects a brief flicker of relief, as if you’re happy to see a familiar face.

“R-Rafe, what are you doing here?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

“I came with my friends.” You gesture loosely, but it’s clear as day your little girl group has already dispersed without a trace, all but throwing you to the wolves. “Uh, I think they went to the bathroom or something.”

Rafe snorts, but the look on your face pulls at something inside of him, makes him want to just grab your hand and take you back home and keep you happy in a way he knows only he could. If you’d let him. But then it’s like he can’t stop himself:

“Well, homeschool, I barely recognised you in this little outfit. Maybe your friends don’t either.”

You blink up at him with black-rimmed eyes, and he sees a flash of hurt glimmer within them. And he wishes he hadn’t said it, sees how you shrink in within yourself, step back and cross your arms over your chest protectively. Tug your dress down except it’s so short it didn’t even matter.

“Homeschool,” you repeat softly “I used to think you called me that as like a cute nickname. Now I know you were just making fun of me.”

“I’m not. I wasn’t. Look, I–”

“Please, just leave me alone.” You try to push past him.

“I’m surprised you were allowed out of the house in that. You’re a walking target here with a dress that short,” He moves to block your path.

“Well, it’s a good thing I can take care of myself!”

“Yeah? How’re you gonna do that when you can’t even see? With all that black shit smeared all over your eyes?”

He wants to kick when he sees the hurt on your face. It’s like he’s so used to being the asshole version of himself that everyone knew him as, like it’s so easy to slip that mask back on now that things aren’t going his way. Fuck, why couldn’t you just give in and stop fighting him?

“I can take care of myself.” You repeat, although your voice wavers and your lower lip quivers.

“You can’t do shit dressed like that,” he runs a hand through his hair in frustration, “Look, trust me, this party sucks. Just let me take you home.”

You push past him without another word, and it fucking angers him so bad he wants to punch the goddamned wall. Instead, he watches you with dark eyes as you weave through the crowd. How naïve of you to think you could take care of yourself. When every single man in here was staring at you like you were some hot fucking commodity. Well, he was officially done trying to help you out.

“What’re you doing here, Rafe? Thought this was beneath your country club ass.”

Rafe watches you join back up with your girl group before forcibly turning away, “Barry. Tell me you got some shit on you right now.”

“Is that how you say hello to all your friends?” Barry grins, “You look like shit by the way.”

“You obviously do have some, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”

“You sound like an addict, country club.”

Rafe rolls his eyes, looking beyond Barry’s shoulder at you sipping on another drink. Who’d given you this one? How many had you had? Jesus fucking Christ, was he going to keep tabs on you all night? He felt like he had to, and it’s putting him on edge.

“Who’re you lookin’ at?”

“None of your business,” Rafe snaps, “Just…Please, if you have anything on you.” He wants to snatch the drink from your hand, scold you for accepting drinks from anyone that wasn’t him. Instead, he watches helplessly as you sip it, scrunching up your nose all cutely because he bets it tastes awful. Like cheap liquor and dollar store soda.

“She’s cute,” Barry says.

“Shut up.”

“Her brothers would kick her ass if they knew she was here.”

That catches his attention, “You know her?”

“I know her brothers.” Barry snickers, patting him on the shoulder, “You might be a little out of your depth with this one, country club.”

Rafe doubts it. Pogues did not intimidate him in the slightest, and he doubts your brothers would be any different. Hell, they could be military-trained mercenaries and it wouldn’t stop him from making you his.

“I wasn’t out of my depth when I fucked her.” It comes out before he can stop himself. He just needs Barry to know. Hell, he needs everyone here to know. Even though it’s technically a lie, but he may as well have fucked you with how close he got.

Barry whistles lowly, “And yet here she is, clearly unclaimed.”

Rafe clenches his fists, eyes trained on you once more. He’d looked away for barely a minute and now you’re surrounded by men. Like a bunch of sorry ass losers vying for your attention, and it’s like you don’t even know how to react to it. You keep looking down, opening your phone, sipping your drink, pulling at your dress. Smiling awkwardly. Reaching up to adjust your glasses before realising you’re not wearing them. Fuck, you were so cute. So different from all the other girls and so fucking cute.

“Hey country club, do all the girls you fuck act like they don’t know you?”

“Don’t fuck around with me, man. I’m not in the mood.”

He runs a hand through his hair, watching like a hawk as you tug your dress down again. God, the way it hugged your ass was insane. You look so fucking hot, and despite the less than stellar interaction he’s just had with you, he still can’t help but think of fucking you. In that slutty fucking dress, but he’d push it up to your waist, rip your panties off and pocket them before jackhammering his cock inside you with such force just so you’d know never to wear something like that in public again. Maybe he’d drag you to his car, maybe one of the rooms upstairs. Or maybe right here in front of everyone while you cried because you were shy but he wouldn’t give a fuck because he’d be showing you who you belong to.

Maybe that’s what you wanted, maybe that’s why you’d dressed like this.

Barry pulls out a baggie, “You wanna push this to your preppy crowd?”

Rafe snatches it up quickly, “Sure, whatever.”

Just then, he sees you being cornered by some idiot who’s talking all animatedly with you, pushing you away from your friends, clearly trying to get you alone. Rafe sees red, pushing Barry aside and making a beeline for you.

“Hands off, asshole.” He seethes, physically putting himself between you and the guy.

The guy raises an eyebrow, “What are you, her bodyguard?”

“Meet me outside and I’ll show you exactly who the fuck I am.” Rafe grabs the guy’s shoulder when he tries to leave, “No, no, where you going, pussy? Come outside with me.”

“Rafe, stop! You’re acting insane.”

Your voice cuts through all the other noise, and the guy takes that moment to scurry away into the crowd like a little rat.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought, fuckin’ pussy ass bitch.” Rafe barks out a hollow laugh before turning back to you. “Are you okay?”

“Why did you do that, Rafe?!.”

He scoffs, “Are you kidding me? He had his hands all over you.”

“No, he didn’t! And even if he did, I could’ve handled it.”

Rafe pinches the bridge of his nose in frustration. Were you deliberately being obtuse just to make him out to be the bad guy again?

“Just stick with your girlfriends. You shouldn’t be talking to these kinds of men anyways.”

You look up at him indignantly with engorged pupils, clearly already half tipsy when you’d barely had a drink or two, “Stop it. Please. You’re not my dad!”

That’s not what you were saying when I was in your bed, he wants to shoot back spitefully. Instead, he rolls his eyes, “I’m the only one here looking out for you.”

“And I’m telling you; I don’t need you to do that. I can look after myself so just leave me alone, okay?”

“Stop trying to be something you’re not,” Rafe hears himself say, gesturing loosely at your body, “This… This shit isn’t you.” 

Again, hurt flashes across your face. 

“You don’t know me, Rafe. You never did and you never will.”

You push past him and rejoin your girlfriends and whatever group of men they’re talking to. Making him look like a gormless fucking chump when he’s the one who was trying to save you. Well, fuck you too then.

That’s how he finds himself back with his friends, at a table snorting up line after line like it’s his fucking job. It’s a distraction really, from all the conflicting thoughts swimming around in his head. Fuck you, protect you, forget about you. You, you, you. He needs this escape. He needs to stop thinking completely.

“Some for me?” a girl sinks down on his lap, her cleavage right in his face. He feels numb to everything, barely even registers her. But nods anyways, pours out a neat line for her. She’s all over him after that, but it’s like a blur to him. The music, lights, this girl’s lips on his, his friends cheering him on. He bets this slut would let him fuck her right here on this couch in front of everyone. And what was stopping him?

She’s pressing kisses down his neck, her hands up his shirt when he opens his eyes almost on intuition. Looks straight across the room and locks gaze with you. The shock is frozen on your face for just a moment or two, before you quickly look away.

The mask was truly off now. You knew who he really was.

Forcibly, you turn away from him. And he wants to look away too, just fuck this girl to forget all about you. But then he sees you bump straight into the chest of someone else. Some stupid fucking punk ass Pogue, different from the other one. More intimidating, larger too. He grins at you, his hand pressing down on your lower back. And it plays like slow motion in front of Rafe’s eyes, and he feels like someone’s put his heart through a fucking shredder.

He pushes the girl off him, gets to his feet. The guy’s talking to you now, talking to you like he knows you. Rafe’s hands shake; he balls them into fists. Shoves his way through the crowd of bodies, keeping his eyes glued on you. The drugs in his system have made him a bit sluggish, but he can still make out the two of you, how the guy’s got you cornered against the wall now. He sees you laugh nervously, and the punk tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear.

That’s when Rafe sees him start moving you. Towards the stairs. And he sees your face twist in fear; sees you swallow and try to act brave. Sees you looking around for your friends but they’ve ditched you again. The guy’s gripping you tightly by the arm, no doubt sweet talking as he pulls you up the stairs. Rafe sees your chest rise and fall rapidly; sees you try and talk your way out of it. But he also knows how men think, knows how much stronger they are, and the guy keeps pushing you up the stairs.

Rafe feels like he’s a million miles away. By the time he gets to the stairs, the two of you are long gone. There’s this tightness in his chest, and it won’t go away. He pushes people out of the way, takes the stairs two at a time. Gets to the first-floor landing and grabs some fucker by the shirt.

“Where’d they go? The girl in the black dress and the guy?”

“What the hell!? I don’t know!”

He throws the guy aside, stumbles into the first door that opens. Empty. Then the second. Not them. Fuck.

He finds you behind the fourth or fifth door he throws open. And it’s almost like an out of body experience. He’s not sure he’s ever felt such visceral rage before. The guy’s got you up against the wall, trying to kiss you. His hands all over you. Your tiny fists trying to push him off, and for a split-second Rafe feels like his chest is about to explode.

He doesn’t think before he throws him off you.

“What the fuck, man?”

“Get out.”

The guy snorts, “How about you get out? We were in the middle of something.”

Rafe’s not in the mood to fuck around. He looks at you, sees you sniffle, readjust your dress. Your face is usually expressive, but he can’t read it now. And usually, beating up on Pogues like this guy is an amusing pastime for him, maybe even a hobby. There’s a certain satisfaction that comes with it, a certain rush of adrenaline. But one look at you, and he knows now isn’t the time for that.

“Get out. I won’t ask you again.”

The guy – all tattoos and burly chest – chuckles, tries to grab you again, “I ain’t leaving bro. Hell, you can stay too if you wanna watch.”

That’s when Rafe pulls his gun out.

You gasp. The guy stops short. Holds his hands up.

“Hey, c’mon man, it’s never that serious–”

“You don’t want me to ask again.” Rafe points the barrel straight at him. The coke’s coursing through his veins, pumping through his blood. He’s never entered the Cut without his gun, and in the state he’s in right now, he’d risk getting thrown in fucking jail because he can’t think of a reason why he shouldn’t shoot this fucking pervert right now.

“Okay, okay, I’m going.” The fucking pussy leaves quickly after that. Once he’s gone, Rafe tucks the gun into the back of his waistband. He feels completely calm in the moment. Eerily so, but he knows it’s that certain type of calm that only comes before a storm.

He locks eyes with you, and there’s a moment of absolute silence. All he can hear is your shallow breathing, short and rapid. Glistening eyes looking up at him in what he could only describe as fear. Or reverence. He can’t tell, and it bothers him.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” He’s trying so hard to keep his voice level, but it almost shakes with anger. Anger at the situation, at what he’s just seen. Anger at that punk that he knows, he knows, he’s gonna take out on you.

You swallow, “I…I…”

“You realise what the fuck would’ve happened if I hadn’t been here?” He takes one step towards you, for once not giving a fuck when you flinch. “I know you’re innocent but you can’t be that fucking stupid.”

Hurt flashes across your face, “I could’ve taken care of myself–”

“You wouldn’t have been able to do shit.”

You shake your head, “Yes, I could! I can handle myself just fine, and my friends knew I was up here, they saw me, so they would’ve come–”

He stares, incredulous as it dawns on him just how naïve you actually were, “they’re not your fucking friends.”

“Neither are you!”

“I saved you.”

Your face crumples up like a piece of paper, your chest rising up and down. Like you’re trying your hardest not to burst into tears, “I’m not some naïve little girl who needs saving, Rafe.”

“Yeah? Is that what you were trying to prove tonight?”

“No! I wasn’t trying to prove anything, I just… I just…” your lower lip quivers, and yet you still will yourself not to cry, “I’m just… I’m not naïve, okay? I’m not some stupid little girl that men just... take advantage of.”

He runs his hand through his hair, “Do you even realise what you’re saying? He was going to take advantage of you.”

“I wouldn’t have let him!” Your eyes are wet with tears, and it’s smudging the black makeup, making it smear and run and you look so hauntingly beautiful like this, “Not how I let you.”

And there it was. It all came back down to Rafe. He was always the bad guy in everyone’s eyes, even yours. Even after he’d saved you. He was evil, through and through – isn’t that what he always knew deep down? Isn’t that what his father saw when he looked at him? And his stepmother? And Sarah? Even now, you look scared like a little fucking mouse. Scared of him, and not the fucker who’d just tried to force himself on you. It was always Rafe who was the villain in everyone’s story, no matter how hard he tried to protect them.

“I stopped.” Rafe steps closer, knowing you’ve got the wall behind you and nowhere to run, “I stopped when you asked me to. He wouldn’t have.”

“You lied about everything.”

He remains silent, not wanting to rehash this shit with you right now. Instead, he closes the gap between you both, pressing you against the wall. You push against his chest, but it’s ineffectual. He needs to touch you, lay claim on you. It’s like an innate, animalistic desire to mark his territory after that fucker’s had his hands all over you.

“G-Get away from me.”

“No.”

“Rafe. Don’t.”

You’d already made up your mind that he was the bad guy, no matter what he said or did. And it would be so easy to be the villain you clearly thought he was.

Gently, he tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear. You gulp, half-heartedly attempt to bat his hand away when it lands on your hip.

“He shouldn’t have touched you.”

“I could’ve gotten away–”

“Nobody else is allowed to touch you.” He says it quietly, but he knows you’ve heard him.

Your eyes widen, “R-Rafe–”

“Only me.”

His lips press against yours in a kiss so possessive, it almost knocks you off your feet. But he’s got you, holding you steady and pressing you against the wall with all his weight. And he’s dreamed of this moment, dreamed of kissing you again. And your lips are so soft, so perfect, exactly how he remembered. Yet all he can think of is making you forget that other man had ever even touched you. His tongue is in your mouth, claiming you like he’s swallowing you whole from the inside out. And he’s so much bigger than you, so much stronger that he doesn’t even notice or register if you’re trying to push him off. It’s ineffectual, irrelevant. He needs this. Needs you to know you’re his.

“Stop!” You finally manage to push him off you, and your lips already looked bruise from his kiss. Bruised and so fucking pretty. Another mark of him on you.

He’s staring at your lips when you slap him hard across the face.

Immediately, your face crumbles, like you’re horrified at what you’ve done.

“I-I’m sorry, I’m… I’m–”

You burst into tears. Like waterfalls flowing down your cheeks. You reach up to blindly wipe at your face, smearing your black eyeliner all over your eyes. And he just watches you, the sting of your ineffectual little slap already fading. Watches how you sob, how your whole body shakes. Watches as your wild eyes look somewhere beyond him. At the mirror in the corner side of the bedroom. Watches you stare at your reflection like you’re looking at a stranger.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” you whisper like it’s a confession, but more to yourself than to him. “I-I don’t know who I am, I don’t… I don’t…”

In that moment, he sees something broken inside you. Something he’d never seen before. Maybe it wasn’t there before. Maybe it’s only here now. Maybe he was the one who’d broke you. The thought makes him sick to his fucking stomach.

Rafe hoists you up, slings you over his shoulder without another word. You pound against his back.

“No, no, let me go! Let me go!”

He ignores your cries. All he knows is that he needs to get you out of here. You didn’t belong in a place like this. You were too soft, too sweet to be corrupted. He had to save you again, even if he was the villain in your eyes.

He carries you out the bedroom, past the landing, down the stairs. Everyone stares; he doesn’t give a fuck. He weaves through the crowd of writhing bodies, the pulsating music drowning out your cries. One of his hands firmly holding your dress down over your ass while you wiggled and squirm against him.

He only puts you down when he’s got you outside in the back where his car’s parked. It’s a hot summer night, sticky and humid. The stars look huge, almost like they’re weighing down on his shoulders. And reflecting in your eyes, making them shine with indignance and that fierceness he’s only recently learnt you possess.

“Get in the car.”

Incredulously, you shake your head, “I’m going back to my friends.”

“Don’t fuck with me right now. Get in the car.”

You try to storm past him, but he’s already so much quicker than you. The copious amounts of coke he’s snorted tonight paired with the pure adrenaline and determination of wanting to get you out of here makes you no match for him. You, in your heels which you weren’t used to walking in, and that tiny, tight fucking dress. Fuck, he needed you out of here. Now.

Your lips press into a thin line, and your eyes look so big as you stare up at him pleadingly, “I can’t, Rafe. Please. I can’t go with you.”

His face softens, “I’m gonna take you home.”

“I don’t trust you.”

His jaw tenses. I FUCKING SAVED YOU! He wants to scream. Instead, his features grow stoic, the mask slipping back on.

“I don’t care if you don’t trust me. You’re not going back in there. You should’ve never gone to a party like this to begin with.”

“I can handle myself–”

“Jesus fuckin’ Christ, don’t start with that again. You can’t handle shit, okay? I handled shit back there. God knows what would’ve happened to you if it weren’t for me.” He grabs your wrist, ignoring your sharp intake of breath and yanking you back towards his car. He opens the door, tries to push you inside.

It’s when you’re fighting against him that he realises how drunk you are. God knew how many cheap drinks you’d been given tonight, and you’d been polite enough to accept all of them. Probably thought drinking them would help you fit in better, socialise easier. And now your movements are sluggish, slow, erratic.

He easily throws you into the backseat of his car, child locking the doors so you don’t escape.

He half expects you to launch yourself at him the moment he gets into the driver’s seat. But surprisingly, you’ve gone quiet. Gathered yourself in the corner at the back, hugging your legs with your face buried between your knees as you sobbed to yourself.

And there are so many things he wants to say, now that he’s finally got you alone. But it’s like there’s something lodged in his throat, and he doesn’t know what to say or how to even speak. He’s angry, concerned, buzzing from everything that’s just happened. Silence ensues, with just the gentle hum of the car as he drives into the night.

He pulls up to the now familiar dirt road that is your street and unlocks the doors. Waits a handful of seconds, surprised you don’t immediately jump out of his car. Instead, he watches silently through the rearview mirror as you rummage drunkenly through your little purse.

“I, uh, I don’t have my keys.”

“What?”

“I must’ve dropped them at the party… your voice trails off before you clear your throat, “It’s okay, I’ll just–”

“Your mom can’t let you in?” Although Rafe bets your mother would have a fucking heart attack if she saw you being dropped off in his car.

 You swallow, “She’s not at home. She’s… working.”

For the whole night? This was the second time your mother was away from home for the entire night. He wonders what exactly she does for work.

You sit up and open the door, jumping out of the car and immediately teetering in your heels. You were still very drunk, and it shows. Rafe sighs, getting out too.

“You got a spare key under the doormat or something?”

You hold on to the side of his car to regain your balance, blinking rapidly. Your pupils are so dilated, he can see his own reflection in them. And in that moment, it’s like all the frustration and anger he’s feeling at you for how stupid and naïve you’d been tonight, it’s it all dissipates because of how cute and lovely you look in the moonlight. Drunk and fumbling and innocent and away from that party.

“I… I think I’ll just camp out on the porch. The sun should rise soon…”

Rafe stares at you as if you’re deluded. It was only a little past midnight; the sun wasn’t going to rise for a while. And even if it was, there was no way he was leaving you out here in the open on this seedy little street on the Cut.

 “Get back in the car.”

Of course, you choose now to be stubborn again, “N-No! I’ll be fine.”

“Yeah? I know the kind of people that crawl around out here at night. Get in the car.”

You stick your chin out, “Stop trying to help me, Rafe! I’ve lived here all my life, I know what I’m doing–”

He hauls you back into the car. It isn’t too hard, considering how much smaller you are than him. Weaker. Drunk, too. You try to fight against him again, but not too much. Like you know making a scene right now wouldn’t be the best thing to do.

“Where are we going?” You ask timidly once he’s revved the car back up and driven off your street.

“My house.”

You don’t say anything and for once, he’s glad.

*

Tannyhill looms big and shadowy in the moonlight. Rafe watches you gape drunkenly, probably drinking in how big it is just like you had the first time he’d brought you here. You’d remained quiet for most of the drive here, just staring sorrowfully down at your shoes. Once or twice, he’d caught your eye through the rearview mirror, but you’d looked away every time.

“Wait.” He orders before getting out of the car. He opens the door for you and hoists you up into his arms. He means to put you down on your feet, but decides to just carry you. And by some miracle, you let him. And he can’t make sense of this hot and cold behaviour, how all night you’ve been switching between two different characters. Loud, outspoken, angry, not letting him touch you, to then soft, docile, weepy and innocent.  

“I’m scared,” you confess quietly, your pupils dark, glassy and shining in the moonlight. You’re just laying limply in his arms now, as he carries you down the cobblestone driveway of Tannyhill.

“You’re just drunk.”

“No I…” You twist your face to look up at him, and he feels it, so he meets your gaze, “I’m scared of you, Rafe.”

It hits him like a bullet, but he ignores it. Buries it down, deep down in the recesses of his mind where he buried all the other shit. Like his dad not loving him, like the memories of his mother. Buried deep down and abandoned, because he couldn’t deal with that shit. He can’t. You weren’t supposed to be afraid of him. He had saved you.

He doesn’t say anything, expects you to fall back into whatever drunk stupor you’ve been drifting in and out of.

“I didn’t know you had a gun.”

Hadn’t he known you were going to bring that up? He’s surprised it’s taken this long, but he can still remember the frozen shock and fear on your face when you’d seen him point his gun at that guy.  

“You don’t know a lot of things.”

He waits for you to bring up the other things you’d seen him do tonight. All the drugs, or maybe the girl he’d been kissing in front of you. In fact, he half hopes you bring up the second part because it would show that you’d cared, that it had affected you.

But you don’t say anything else, just stare off into the distance. And yet you’re still allowing him to carry you, you’re not trying to get away from him despite being scared. He doesn’t want to cling to that, but a part of him does.

He’s somehow able to fish his keys out of his pocket and unlock the front doors, all while holding you steady with one arm. You’re just so small, and slot perfectly into him, like you were made for him. He’s glad it’s gone well past midnight; means he doesn’t have to deal with his family and their questions. Not that they’d even bother questioning him – they no longer cared enough to.

It’s when he’s carrying you up the marble staircase that you start struggling against him again.

“Not your bedroom–”

“Where the fuck else do you want me to take you? The couch?” Rose would damn near have a heart attack if she woke up to you sleeping on her precious antique furniture imported straight from Paris or wherever the fuck. Not that Rafe cared, but he’d rather have you in his room.

You keep protesting softly, but he takes you to his bedroom anyways. Closes the door and locks it. Places you gently on his bed. And he’s dreamt of this moment for a while, and would’ve savoured it had it been under different circumstances. But he feels a weird mix of leftover anger and a sort of bittersweet sadness. You didn’t want to be here at all. Like any feelings you may have developed for him in that one week had so easily been switched off, and yet he couldn’t switch anything off no matter how hard he tried.

“You should, uh, get some sleep,” he says, quickly turning away lest you think he’s trying to get into bed with you. Rummages through his closet, tosses you one of his shirts, “Here.”

“I’m okay, thank you.” You’ve pulled yourself up into a sitting position, legs hanging off the side of his king-sized bed. You look even smaller than usual, and you’re doing that thing again – hugging your arms protectively around yourself as if he’s some fucking predator who’s kidnapped you, instead of the guy who’d just saved you from sexual assault.

“Just put it on.”

“I’m fine in this.”

Rafe sighs, pacing the room for a second to get his thoughts straight. Then he makes a beeline for you, kneels down in front of you before thinking. Reaches out to touch your legs before he sees you flinch and pulls back.

“Look, I’m not gonna try anything, okay? I know I lied and manipulated you before, but I’m not doing that right now.”

You stare at him for a long few seconds before swallowing, “I can’t tell when someone’s lying.”

He nods, “I remember. And I told you I’d be straight up with you.”

“But you weren’t.”

He runs a hand through his hair in frustration, “I know, but I’m not doing that shit anymore now, okay? I’m not trying to hurt you so just put it on.”

Your dress looks uncomfortably tight now, the straps digging into your shoulders and the bottom riding up. Again, you tug it down, and bite your lip before sighing, accepting the soft shirt.

“O-Okay. But you need to turn around and close your eyes.”

He huffs, but he does it. Stares at the wall for a good ten seconds. Then fifteen. Twenty. Huffs again. “You done?”

He turns back around when you don’t respond, only to find you struggling with the zipper. The dress is so goddamned tight, it may as well have been painted on. And you’re drunk, can barely locate the zip to begin with, and it’s pathetic how you keep tugging at it. And so fucking cute.

“Stand still,” he orders gently, and by the grace of whatever the fuck, you obey for once. Breathing shallow as he comes up behind you, and then your breath hitches with a cute little squeak when he places a hand on your hip to steady you. Easily undoes your zipper, and he likes how he’s the one who’s done it. He likes taking care of you, wants to help you out of it and put his shirt on you himself.

But all too quickly, you pull away, holding the dress taut against your body. He rolls his eyes and turns around again, listens to you shuffle around as you change.

When he turns back the second time, his heart almost leaps up into his throat. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen something so pretty, so precious, so innocent. His shirt is huge on you; makes you look so small and cute. Eyes so big as they blink up at him, and you look so vulnerable. Like you were done playing the part of a whore for the night and you were yourself again.

He finds himself swallowing hard, “You look…”

“Don’t.” You cover yourself with your arms again. Words can’t explain how much he hates when you do that.

He clears his throat, eyes trailing down your bare legs. Somehow, you’ve managed to change out of your dress without even taking your shoes off. And now you’re standing there teetering in your heels, looking at him with those big eyes of yours.

“Sit.” He orders you again, gently pushing you down to the edge of his bed. Again, he kneels in front of you. His hand on your smooth calf, stroking down before he can stop himself. You squeak again, but this time you don’t stop him. He doesn’t know why sometimes you let him touch you, and other times you don’t. But he’s not one to question it.

Your heels have ribbons that criss-cross around your calves, and he works to untie them. Deliberately slowly. And it’s getting him so hard, despite everything, to be the one taking care of you like this. How you’d huffed and puffed and gone to this party, pretended to be an attention-seeking little slut, all for you to end up in his bedroom anyways.

“You really had to wear these?” He murmurs, although he’s secretly glad you wore such complicated shoes because you’re letting him help you take them off.

“I… I thought I looked pretty in them.”

He feels a growl emanate from somewhere in his throat, remembering all the men who’d been staring at you so brazenly tonight, “You do. That’s the problem.”

Silence. And then:

“Why do you care?” It comes out like a genuine question, rather than a spiteful remark, “I…I saw you kissing that other girl tonight.”

“That was nothing.”

“I see.” 

He wants you to ask him more, maybe show that you’re jealous, that you wished he’d been kissing you instead. But you don’t. 

“She came onto me,” he feels the need to explain, “and she didn’t mean anything to me.”

You nod, “Okay.”

It irritates him, how you’re not at all fazed. When every time he’d seen a man approach you at the party, he’d wanted to throttle them with his bare hands. As for the guy who’d taken you upstairs? He deserved to be shot. Point blank. Maybe the only reason Rafe hadn’t done it was because he didn’t want to traumatise you.

And yet… you don’t seem to care at all. Or maybe you’re too drunk to care. You look so fucking adorable, sitting on his bed in his shirt, letting him undo your heels for you like a good little girl. 

“I didn’t mean anything to you either.” You say it so softly, he almost misses it.

Rafe flinches, “That’s not true.”

“But you said it. You said I was just another Pogue who spread her legs for you.” 

“Yeah? Well, I say a lot of shit I don’t mean.” He slips your heel off, and he can’t help but stroke your dainty, bare foot before moving on to your other shoe.

“That’s what I’ve realised,” you stare somewhere beyond his shoulder, “Everyone keeps saying things they don’t mean. And I keep believing them.”

He glances up at you, “Who are you talking about?”

“My friends. They said they wanted to be friends with me, but they… they haven’t even asked if I’m okay.”

He almost snorts out loud, but stops himself just in time.

“And it’s not just them, or you, it’s everyone. Even this guy I was supposed to do my project with. I thought we were getting along fine, but now he won’t even look at me. He asked to join someone else’s group, so now I have to do it alone.” Your voice breaks, “I don’t even know what I did to make him hate me…”

Rafe clears his throat and looks away for a second, “You can’t count on everyone, baby.” The pet name just slips out naturally, but you don’t even notice.

“I know. I wish college came with a manual, because I keep messing up and trusting the wrong people.”

“You can trust me.”

“No, I can’t.”

“Yes, you can.” He takes his chance, sits up on the bed next to you and grabs your hand, and hurriedly keeps talking, “I know I fucked up but I saved you tonight. That should count for something.”

Your lower lip trembles as you look at your tiny hand in his much larger one, and yet you don’t pull away.

“Y-You confuse me so much, Rafe.”

He could say the same thing about you. But he doesn’t. Because he can’t do words and all that shit. He’s never been good at it and he’d just mess things up even more than he already has. He knows what he is good at. And he knows he shouldn’t do it. And yet...

Rafe presses his lips against yours. Softly. Cautiously. Yet with determination. You don’t respond, and it’s like he wants you to so bad. He can’t stand it. His hand goes up to cup your jaw, thumb gently stroking your cheek. He thinks he feels you sigh, or he could just be imagining it.

“Stop,” you beg against his lips, but you don’t push him away.

“Just let me,”

“Rafe, no–”

“Please.”

He doesn’t give you a chance to pull away. And he knows he shouldn’t, he knows he promised you he wouldn’t try anything tonight and he’s going back on his fucking word but he doesn’t care. He needs this. Needs this more than you know. More than he himself knows. Because kissing you feels like he’s been parched his whole life and you’re the only thing that can quench his goddamned thirst. He can’t let you go. He doesn’t know why but he just can’t.

He pulls you into his lap, and you squeak into his mouth, your little hands grabbing on to his shoulders and it feels so familiar. He increases the pace of the kiss, slowly slipping his tongue into your mouth, and you taste so fucking sweet. He’s missed this so much, despite how he’s only kissed you a handful of times before this but you fit so perfectly on him. Like you were made for him and him only. And he deserves this. He’d saved you.

“I can’t,” you whisper brokenly, “I can’t let you take advantage of me again.”

“I’m not,” he says between desperate kisses, “I promise you I’m not.”

“You-You’ll tell all your friends. And you’ll laugh like how you did before.”

He kisses down your jaw, your neck, your skin so sweet, “I won’t, baby.”

“You’re just using me. Y-You’ve probably made another bet.”

Why can’t he just say it? Why can’t he tell you that all he can ever think about anymore is you? That it makes him sick, the fact that he’d hurt you? That he’d do anything to take that stupid bet back, to get you to look at him how you used to. What the fuck was stopping him from saying it?

But he can’t, so he just keeps kissing you, and hopes you’ll accept it. Hopes you’ll get him, which was wishful thinking, because nobody got him. His hands curl into your hair, pressing you closer to him, and it feels visceral, it feels desperate. And yet, it almost feels unreal, like he’s kissing you on borrowed time, and it would be over soon and he wouldn’t get his fill.

Sure enough, you pull away, “Why are you doing this, Rafe?”

“Because I want to.” He tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear, “And I think you do too.”

You press your lips together, words coming out hushed and shaky, “No one would respect me if I went back to you, knowing how much you lied and everything you said about me.”

“Fuck what everyone else thinks.”

You slip off his lap, “I wouldn’t respect myself.”

He wills himself to say something, anything to reassure you. But nothing comes out. It’s like his mind is frozen, betraying him once again because he’s shitty with words and can’t think of the right thing to say. And it’s getting too much for him… Too emotional, too vulnerable. He can’t.

“You’re thinking about this too much,” he says finally, and his bedroom’s dark except for the dull lamplight, and you look so fucking pretty that he’s in awe.

You sniffle, “M-My mom said I’m not allowed to see you.”

He exhales, “And yet here you are.”

“Here I am,” you echo weakly. “She doesn’t even know I was at the party tonight. I snuck out.” 

He’d figured as much, “She’s kept you in a cage for long enough, don’t you think?”

You shrug, but he can tell you’re mulling over what he’s said.

Rafe pulls you back into his lap, “I don’t care what your mom says. I don’t care what anyone says.” He pauses, the words I like you, I want you to be my girlfriend on the tip of his tongue. But he can’t be vulnerable like that, he just can’t, “You’re mine. And you need to understand that.” 

“I don’t wanna be yours. I want to be my own person.” 

“Shhh,” he kisses you again, “Remember how I said I’d take care of you? It’s because you’re someone who needs taking care of. Your mom’s coddled you all your life, so you have no idea how the real world works. That’s why you need someone like me.”

You swallow, looking up at him with those shining, imploring eyes. You’re so sweet and naive, you don’t even realise how much, “I want to figure out how to take care of myself.” 

“But you can’t. You keep trusting the wrong people and getting yourself hurt.” The irony of his statement isn’t lost on him, but he hopes the alcohol in your system will make you ignore it.

“That’s what my mom says.” 

“Forget about your mother. Let me take care of you. I’ll make all the tough decisions, you won’t even have to think about it.” 

Rafe lays you down on his bed, right in the centre where he knows you won’t scurry away. He hovers on top of you, much like how he did in your tiny bedroom weeks ago. But this time, you’re in his territory. And he has complete control. And maybe, just maybe, you’re drunk enough to trust him again.

He grabs your hand, pressing his much bigger palm against yours, “Look how little you are. You really think you could’ve protected yourself tonight without me?”

You blink up at him with big, dark, sad eyes. Bite your lip like you’re unsure but he thinks it’s so sexy. 

“Mm, that’s what I thought.” He strokes your hand, his thumb grazing his initials on your palm over and over again, “You’re so small and cute, and completely out of your depth. You need me.”

“N-No…”

“Yes.”  He kisses the sensitive skin of your neck, his hands knotting into your hair. You whimper, but you lie there and let him do it. It’s because you want him too. He knows it. And he allows himself to imagine it again. You under his wing, quietly allowing him to make all your decisions for you. Chanel bag on your arm, a dozen more in your closet. All gifts from him, to let everyone know who exactly was taking care of you.

And there’d be no more parties, especially not in the Cut. He wouldn’t allow you to attend them because you were simply too naïve and sweet. He’d take you to drinks at the country club, or maybe to a game of golf. You’d sit pretty in his lap, like a cute little ornament. His little girlfriend that he’d rescued from poverty, his little doll, that he’d dote on and dress up. All his.

“I don’t want that, Rafe. Please stop.” 

YOU DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU WANT! He wants to scream. Sure, he’d wronged you but you were too fucking naïve to understand how he was your best bet right now. That he would take care of you, and no one would ever fuck with you again when you were under his wing, because he’d kill them.

“Just kiss me back,” he whispers against your lips, his hands itching to slip under his shirt you’re wearing. He kisses you again, hoping you sense his urgency, sense how badly he wants you.

“Please stop, I can’t let you, I can’t…”

Rafe huffs in frustration, a few choice words on the tip of his tongue. Stop being such a tease, or you owe me for tonight, or you wouldn’t have agreed to come to my house if you didn’t want this.

But he realises you’re the only girl in the world he doesn’t want to say those things to. He can’t say them, can’t bring himself to utter a single spiteful word despite the fact had it been anyone else, he wouldn’t have hesitated even for a second.

He’s about to pull away when:

“R-Rafe? I… I think I’m gonna…”

He draws back at your abrupt shift in tone. The room’s dark, but he can see you’ve suddenly gone a shade of green. Your chest heaves underneath him, your eyes widening. Realisation dawns on him in a millisecond and he scrambles off you. Pulls you upright, debating whether to point out the bathroom to you. That’s when your whole upper body lurches, your hand going to cover your mouth. Without another thought, he picks you up and carries you into his bathroom himself.

He barely gets you to the toilet in time before you start throwing up. Hunched over the toilet bowl, barely holding your hair back. Letting it all out. And he just stands there and watches, never having been in such a situation before.

“I’m sorry,” you sob drunkenly between heaves, “I’m so sorry, Rafe, this is so rude of me.”

Despite everything that had happened tonight, despite how mad you were at him, here you were apologising to him. It makes him feel it again, that weird feeling in his chest. It comes in waves so strong he’s almost knocked off his feet. Instead, he crouches down behind you, gently holds your hair back.

And it feels so alien, because Rafe hasn’t done this for anyone ever. He wasn’t some pussy ass bitch who went soft on the girls he dated. But this… you… it was different.

“It’s alright,” he hears himself say softly, stroking your hair and rubbing your back. And it almost feels like he’s no longer himself, like he’s someone else. Affection had always felt unnatural to him, like he was putting on an act any time he tried to show it. And so he never did. It was easier to just to have everyone be scared of him.

But this right here, sitting on the gleaming floor of his bathroom with you, it felt… it just felt like something. Something he can’t quite put his finger on, except he likes the feeling. And you look so sweet, so vulnerable. He feels almost a sense of pride, because he’s the one taking care of you right now.

You keep apologising. Even once you’re done throwing up, and he helps you to your feet. Takes you to the sink, lets you clean yourself up. Hell, a part of him wants to sit you down on the marble countertop and clean you up himself. But it seems too… intimate. And Rafe doesn’t really know how to be like that.

“I’m really, really sorry,” you hiccup once he places you back down on his bed. You make a move to get back up, “Just let me go clean it up, I can’t bear that I left your bathroom in such a state–”

“No, don’t.” Rafe gently pushes you back down, and you’re so little and cute and tipsy that you fall right back on your butt, “The maid will clean it tomorrow.”

You blink as if you don’t understand, “But it’s my mess.”

Rafe rubs his temple, “It’s her job. Now get back into bed.” He goes over to his mini-fridge, thanking his lucky stars there’s a bottle of water in there amongst all the beer and other bullshit. “Here.”

Obediently, you gulp the water down like a good girl before carefully setting the bottle on his bedside table. Your makeup’s almost all washed off now, face scrubbed clean and you look so innocent it makes his head hurt. Like there’s so much he wants to say to you but he can’t figure out how to get you to understand him.

He sighs, “You should get some sleep.”

“Where’re you gonna–?”

He nods at his leather armchair on the other end of the room. You look over and swallow.

“Oh, uh, I could sleep on the chair. It’s not right that you have to–”

“It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not. It’s your bed…”

Drunkenly, you try to get to your feet again. It’s amusing, and he gently pushes you back down a second time before grabbing the duvet cover and throwing it over you.

“Go to sleep,” he repeats, ignoring how his heart thrums and that feeling manifests again. That weird, bubbling feeling under the surface of his chest that seemed to appear every time you did something cute or enamouring or sweet. “I’ll drop you home in the morning.”

You’re too inebriated to argue any further, which he’s thankful for. His thoughts feel all jumbled up, like he can’t understand for the life of him how this is the second time he’s had you alone in a bedroom and he hasn’t fucked you. But now, he settles down on his armchair and watches you slowly make yourself comfortable on his sheets. Shuffle around a bit before tucking the covers till your chin.

It doesn’t take you long to knock out. And he just keeps watching you, how sweet you look, how perfectly you fit into his room, his house, his life. And he hates how he can’t completely read you – can’t tell how you feel because you didn’t want him to touch you and yet you’re sleeping on his bed, and not anyone else’s. How you kept saying you wanted to take care of yourself and yet you’d let him take you home tonight, let him change you and tuck you in. Take care of you.

Rafe decides you have no idea what you want. You’re too naïve. Which means it’s his job to teach you. Teach you that you belonged to him, and he wasn’t going to let you go.

He tries to sleep after that. He really does. But the armchair is fucking uncomfortable, and it’s his room. And he’d saved you tonight.

It doesn’t take him long to get back into bed next to you. Gently, he pulls the covers back over you both, his heart skipping a beat when you immediately cuddle into him. It only further affirms that you wanted this — you just don’t know it yet. He runs his hands up and down your body, from your waist, to your ribcage, to your arms. You mumble, shuffle around sleepily, and somehow end up with your head on his chest. 

He kisses the top of your forehead, before allowing himself to fall asleep too.

***

It’s all too soon that he’s woken up to loud, incessant knocking. Rafe swears under his breath, rubbing his eyes and immediately checking his phone. Fuck. It was past noon. The sunlight streams in through the large windows, landing perfectly across your face. It scrunches cutely as the knocking continues, but you’re still asleep.

So fuckin’ pretty, he thinks as he gazes at you, all serene and adorable and still very much in his arms. Slowly, he detangles himself from you, sits on the edge of his bed. His phone’s filled up with texts he’d ignored from the night before.

Topper: Bro, are you okay? People are saying you tried to shoot someone.

Topper: Everyone saw you leaving with the homeschool girl.

Barry: You pull a gun on a guy??? You can’t fucking do that shit.

Barry: You don’t know how dangerous these people can be.

Barry: ??? You’re fucked.

If pulling guns on Pogues meant he was fucked, then Rafe would’ve been fucked a long time ago. But most Pogues were stupid and inept, and so he was not worried. In fact, he fucking dares that punk from yesterday to show his face now. Rafe would murder him for real, and he wouldn’t even need a fucking gun.

The knocking increases, growing louder and more rapid. Rafe swears again, glancing back at you. You shuffle and turn on your side, lips all pouty as you cuddle into his pillow.

He makes his way over to the door, unlocking it only to see Ward staring back at him in disbelief.

“Don’t tell me you’re just waking up now.”

Rafe yawns, but straightens up at the same time, “I was out late.”

Ward blinks, does that think where he exhales loudly through his nose. He does that whenever he feels disappointed, which was all the time whenever Rafe was around him.

“Everyone’s waiting downstairs for you, Rafe.”

Rafe blinks before it dawns on him. The brunch. The business meeting. The random girl he was being set up with.

“Shit, that’s today?”

A beat of silence. Ward looks like he’s about to choke him out, “Well, son, you’ve proven again how you can’t fucking be trusted. With anything.”

Rafe rubs his forehead before running a hand through his hair and looking back at you. He can’t be fucked with this shit right now, not with his headache and the fact you’re in his bed and all this yelling would wake you up.

“I’m sorry.”

“You get your ass down there in five fucking minutes, you hear me?”

Rafe doesn’t think he has it in him, to sit through some fuck ass brunch right now. He glances back at you again. This time, Ward sees and narrows his eyes.

“Don’t tell me you’ve got another hooker in there. Jesus Christ, Rafe. It’s like me talking about this family’s image means nothing to you, the way you bring these hookers into my house in fucking droves.”

“It’s not what you think.”

“No?” Ward looks fucking livid, Rafe wonders how he has the energy to be like this so early in the day, “You think I’m stupid?”

“No.”

“Does it go over your fucking head every time I tell you it’s time for you to stop this bullshit and settle down? People are watching us, Rafe. Potential investors, business partners. They see all this shit, okay? And yet you insist on going around and–”

“She’s my girlfriend.”

“What?”

Rafe coughs, again looking back at you to make sure you’re still sleeping, “Uh, she’s my girlfriend.”

“You have a girlfriend? Since when?”

Rafe doesn’t quite know why he’s just thrown this lie out in his father’s face. Maybe because in his mind, it’s not really even a lie. You weren’t just some random girl, you were his girl – even if you didn’t realise it just yet. Or maybe he’s lied because he wants his father to just take him seriously for once.

“Since a while now.” He clears his throat, “She was out late last night and I went to pick her up.”

“How come I’ve never seen her before?”

“It’s serious so I was trying to keep it under wraps,” lying has always come easily to Rafe, and so he speaks smoothly, quickly gaining traction, “And you’ve seen her. On the security footage. She’s the one I had on the patio.”

Ward nods thoughtfully, “The one in that dress? The cute one?”

A strong wave of irritation courses through Rafe’s body, he takes a few quick, deep breaths to keep it at bay, “Yes.”

There’s another long pause as Ward takes it all in. At one point, he looks beyond Rafe’s shoulder and into the bedroom as if to get a glimpse of you. Rafe’s quick to subtly shut the door and step outside of it. Fuck if anyone else saw you right now.

“Fine. You can skip the brunch. We have a business meeting afterwards though. Join us for that, if you can clean yourself up in time.”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Rafe? I expect a formal introduction with her. If she’s to be a part of this family then you can’t keep her a secret for too long.”

“Okay.”

Rafe breathes a sigh of relief when his father leaves, and he returns to his bedroom, shutting and locking the door behind him.

You’re still lying there, in the middle of his king-sized bed with sunlight dappled all over your face. Completely asleep and so serenely sweet. It makes his heart lurch, but he swallows that feeling quickly.

Your phone’s glowing dimly beside you. He doesn’t hesitate at all, whipping it up to see who exactly was texting you. It’s your mother. Multiple messages. He can’t see what they say without unlocking your phone first, but he can guess she probably wouldn’t be too happy with you right now. In a sick way, the idea of that makes him glad.

And Rafe just sits there on his bed, watching you sleep. Strokes your cheek with his thumb, watches as you lean into his touch. That’s when he consolidates it in his head. After last night, you were his. Completely. And now everyone would know. His family. His friends. Your mother. The whole of fucking Kildare would know you belonged to him. You’d know too. And you’d accept it. He’d make sure of it.

Even if that meant turning you against your mother completely.

A/N: Okay. There we go. Rafe's lie counter is through the roof lmfao - how many times did this man lie throughout this chapter???

Anyways, please PLEASE let me know what you thought of this chapter. Any opinions/predictions/thoughts/ANYTHING. Feedback means the world to me. I'll be honest, I am very very nervous about posting this chapter bc I don't know what people will think of it. Like genuinely. And it's a bit scary. I really did try my best to get this out for you guys as quickly as I possibly could write it. Your feedback would mean the world - so please, if you read this and like it, do also consider dropping a comment or reblog or sending me an ask on what you think!

Also, some questions! You don't have to answer, these are just for fun!

Do YOU think reader could've protected herself at the party if Rafe hadn't been there?

What exactly does Rafe feel for reader after this chapter?

What do you think Ward will think of reader?

Do you think reader will go along with Rafe's plans or keep fighting against him?

You're somewhere out in the stadium filming content, probably walking through empty seats, catching details no one else thinks to look at until you point a camera at them. Harry had seen you briefly before soundcheck, phone in hand, hair slightly wind-tossed from one of the open concourses, your focus already somewhere between captions, angles and timing. You had smiled when he passed, but it hadn't quite reached your eyes the way it usually does and he knows exactly why.

He has watched you move around Jeff for two days like there is an invisible line between you and him. You're not acting dramatic, or childish, you're too professional for that, but you're careful and quietly avoidant. If Jeff enters a room, you find a reason to leave it. If his name appears in a group chat, you answer only what is necessary. If schedules require the two of you to communicate, your replies have the clipped politeness of someone who refuses to be rude but no longer feels safe being open. And Harry understands that, but he also hates it, because it should never have gotten this far in the first place.

Jeff sits at one of the tables near the back of the catering lounge, MacBook open, coffee beside him, phone face-down but never truly ignored. He looks the same as he always does on show days, busy in the way only Jeff can be busy, as if every email is either urgent or at least pretending to be. His fingers move across the keyboard, quick and practised, and he glances up only when Harry comes through the door.

“Hey,” Jeff says.

“Hey.”

Harry crosses to the bean-to-cup coffee machine, places a mug beneath it and presses for a black coffee. The machine grinds loudly, filling the small pocket of silence between them with a mechanical hum. It's not an awkward silence, not exactly. They've known each other too long for proper awkwardness, thirteen years of history woven through friendship, business, arguments, success, bad flights, late nights, enormous rooms, difficult decisions. Jeff has been his manager since Harry stepped into his solo career in 2016, and by now the two of them have survived enough disagreements to know a single fight doesn't collapse the whole structure. But this one hasn't been shelved yet, this one is still sitting in the room with them.

Harry takes his mug, sits opposite Jeff and for a minute, Jeff keeps typing, and Harry lets him. He takes one sip of coffee, bitter and too hot, then sets the mug down with a small click. “Have you talked to her?”

Jeff doesn't look up immediately. “Y/n?”

“Who else would I mean?”

The typing slows, then resumes. “No.”

Harry waits.

Jeff sighs through his nose. “She hasn’t exactly been interested in talking to me, has she?”

Harry scoffs, a short sound without humour. “Can you blame her?”

Jeff’s fingers pause again. “I haven’t had the chance.”

“You’ve had two days.”

“She’s been avoiding me.”

“Yeah,” Harry says, leaning back slightly. “Because of how you spoke to her.”

Jeff’s mouth presses into a line, his eyes still on the screen. “It really wasn’t that deep.”

Harry goes still, then he reaches across the table, and closes Jeff’s MacBook firmly enough that Jeff’s hands pull back quickly and his eyes finally lift. “What are you doing?”

“Getting your attention.”

“You’ve got it.”

“Good.” Harry leans forward, forearms near the edge of the table, gaze steady on Jeff’s. “You don’t get to decide whether it was deep.”

Jeff stares at him now.

Harry’s voice is calm, but the calm has edges. “You hurt her. That makes it deep enough.”

Jeff looks away first, jaw shifting slightly. “I was angry.”

“I know.”

“She made a decision she wasn’t authorised to make.”

“I know that too.”

“She moved forty-five people from upper-level seats into a front pit with VIP lanyards, without clearing it with me, security management, ticketing, or the venue. That's not a small thing.”

“I didn’t say it was.”

“Then you understand why I was pissed.”

“I understand why you wanted a professional conversation,” Harry says. “I understand why you had concerns. Security, capacity, precedent, fans complaining because someone else got upgraded, venue responsibility, all of it. You’re allowed to question the decision. You’re allowed to tell her it should’ve been escalated.”

Jeff’s expression tightens, as if he is waiting for the but and of course Harry gives it to him. “You were not allowed to say what you said.”

The lounge feels smaller suddenly, even with people moving around the far side of it. Jeff glances down at his closed laptop, then back up. “I didn’t mean it how it sounded.”

Harry’s laugh is quiet and disbelieving. “How else could it sound?”

“I was making a point.”

“No, you were taking a shot.”

Jeff’s eyes narrow. “She overstepped.”

“And you could’ve said that. You could’ve said exactly that. You could’ve said, ‘You overstepped, we need a clear escalation process, don’t make that call alone again.’ Fine. That’s work.” Harry’s fingers curl loosely around his mug, though he doesn't lift it. “The second you said she was making decisions because she’s sleeping with the artist, it stopped being about tickets.”

Jeff’s expression shifts, irritation flickering with discomfort.

“It became about whether she belongs here,” Harry continues. “It became about her relationship with me being used against her. It became about you reducing her job, her judgement, her entire place on this team, to the fact that she shares my bed.”

Jeff leans back in his chair. “I know she’s good at her job.”

“Then why didn’t you speak to her like someone who knows that?”

Jeff doesn't answer quickly enough and Harry lets the silence sit, then he says, lower, “Do you realise what that sounded like? Not just to her, to me as well.”

Jeff’s brows draw together. “To you?”

“Yes, to me. Because you didn’t only insult her. You implied I can’t separate my personal life from business. You implied I’d hand someone this much responsibility because I’m sleeping with her, not because I trust her to do the job.”

“That’s not what I think.”

“Then don’t say things that mean that.”

Jeff exhales, rubbing a hand over his mouth. “You know why she got this specific job, H.”

Harry’s eyes harden slightly, but he keeps his voice even. “Say what you mean.”

“You wanted her on tour,” Jeff shrugs. “You wanted to be with her. You trusted her, yes, and she had experience, but let’s not pretend the relationship had nothing to do with her being here.”

Harry nods once. “Of course it did.”

Jeff seems thrown by the immediate agreement, but Harry continues before he can use it. “I opened the door, I know that. She knows that too, probably more than anyone. But there’s a difference between how someone gets into the room and whether they deserve to stay there.”

Jeff says nothing.

“She has proven she deserves to stay there,” Harry says. “Every day. Through her work, the accounts are alive again. The fans feel included without my life being turned into a circus. She knows what to post, what not to post, when to make things funny, when to let things breathe. Anthony trusts her eye, PR trusts her instincts, I trust her with parts of me I don’t hand to most people.” His voice warms despite the anger beneath it. “That’s not because she’s my girlfriend, it’s because she’s good.”

Jeff looks at the table and Harry keeps going, because he's had two days to think about this and every version of the conversation has led him back to the same anger. “You accused her of abusing her closeness to me while using your own position to make her feel small,” he says. “You’re my manager, you’ve been here longer than almost anyone. You have authority, history, power in the team, and when you tell her she’s only here because of me, you’re not just being rude, you’re telling her this place can turn on her whenever you decide she’s stepped out of line.”

Jeff’s eyes lift again, but the defensiveness is less sharp now. “That wasn’t my intention and you know it.”

“I believe that,” Harry says, which seems to surprise him. “But intention doesn’t clean it up. You don’t get to hurt someone and then decide it wasn’t serious because you didn’t mean to cut that deep.”

Jeff rubs his thumb over the edge of his laptop, restless now without typing to hide behind. “I was blindsided,” he says eventually. “The videos were everywhere, and suddenly there were new videos of fans saying your girlfriend moved them to pit. Not management, or the venue, her. I had venue people asking who signed off on it, ticketing asking what they were supposed to tell other complaints, security asking why extra lanyards had gone out. I’m not saying the original problem wasn’t real, but I had to deal with the fallout.”

“I understand that.”

“And I was angry because it looked like she acted first and expected everyone else to catch up.”

“That’s a fair concern.”

Jeff looks at him carefully and Harry holds his gaze as he speaks. “It absolutely is, we can deal with that. We should have a process for it. If something like that happens again, she needs to know who to call, and whoever’s responsible needs to actually answer before it becomes a PR fire.” He pauses. “But none of that explains why you made it personal.”

Jeff’s shoulders lower slightly and for the first time since Harry sat down, he looks less like a man arguing his case and more like a man replaying his own words properly. “I was out of line,” he eventually says.

Harry nods firmly. “Yes.”

Jeff swallows, glancing towards the catering entrance as if half-expecting you to appear now that the conversation has finally reached the point it needed to reach. “I know she works hard,” Jeff says, quieter. “I do. And I know she’s been good for the tour. For you, for the accounts, for the fans. I shouldn’t have gone there.”

“No,” Harry says. “You shouldn’t have.”

Jeff nods once, a small, reluctant concession. “I’ll talk to her.”

“You need to apologise to her.”

“I just said I’ll talk to her.”

“That’s not the same thing.”

Jeff’s mouth almost twitches, not with humour exactly, more with recognition that Harry isn't letting him have any of the easy doors. “No,” he says. “It’s not.”

Just then, the catering lounge door opens and you step inside with your phone in your hand, still in work mode, eyes on the screen for half a second before you glance up and see them both, which makes you stop immediately. Harry sees the calculation pass across your face. Jeff at the table, Harry opposite him, the closed laptop, the air between them no longer casual. Your hand tightens faintly around your phone, and your expression shifts to polite and guarded. “Oh,” you say. “Sorry. I didn’t realise you were in the middle of something.”

You take half a step back, already preparing to leave but Jeff stands and that stops you more effectively than anything Harry could have said.

“Y/n,” Jeff says. “Stay. Please.”

You look at him, hesitant, then at Harry. Harry’s expression is soft now, careful with you in a way he isn't always careful with others. He gives you a small nod, not pushing, not deciding for you. “It’s alright, love,” he says. “Only if you want to.”

You stay by the door for another second, then you come closer, slowly, and sit at the table, leaving one chair between you and Jeff. Your phone rests face-down near your hand, and Harry can see the tension in your shoulders, the careful stillness of someone waiting for a blow even when the room is quiet. He stands before the silence can become too much. “I’m going to get us some food.”

Your eyes flick up to him, uncertainty crossing your face.

“I’m right here,” he adds gently.

You understand what he is doing then. Giving you and Jeff space without leaving you alone in it and so you nod.

Harry walks over to the catering counter and busies himself with more concentration than a smoothie and two yoghurt bowls require. He picks the fruit you like, adds honey to one bowl but not too much, keeps one ear turned towards the table without making it obvious.

At the table, Jeff sits down again and the first few seconds are awful. You keep your hands in your lap now, fingers folding and unfolding around each other, and Jeff looks down at the table as if admitting fault might require reading instructions first.

Finally, he speaks. “I owe you an apology.”

You look up in surprise. He doesn't look at Harry, he actually looks at you.

“I was angry about the decision you made with the fans in section 551,” he says. “And we do need to talk about process at some point, because moving people into pit, especially with VIP lanyards, needs to go through the right channels. There are safety counts, venue sign-offs, ticketing issues, other fans who might complain. That part is real.”

You nod once, guarded but listening.

“But what I said to you in the tunnel was unacceptable,” Jeff continues. His voice isn't polished enough to sound rehearsed and that helps. “I didn’t just criticise the decision, I attacked you. I reduced your work to your relationship with Harry, and I implied you hadn’t earned your place here. That was insulting and unfair.”

Your fingers still and Jeff takes a breath. “And it was sexist,” he adds, with obvious discomfort, but he says it anyway. “Whether I intended it that way or not. If someone else on the team had made that call, I would’ve called them reckless or out of line. I wouldn’t have brought who they sleep with into it.”

You look down at the table for a moment, trying to organise the feelings that rise too quickly. Relief, hurt, embarrassment, anger you didn't let yourself feel properly before because being angry at Jeff felt too dangerous and too professionally messy. “I didn’t move them because I wanted attention,” you say.

“I know.”

“I didn’t do it because I thought being with Harry meant I could do whatever I wanted.”

“I know that too.”

“I saw a problem, I checked the tickets, I spoke to Leah about capacity.” Your voice stays steady, but Harry can hear the effort it takes you even from across the room. “I wasn’t trying to go around you. I was trying to stop the situation getting worse before the show started.”

Jeff nods. “I can see that now.”

“You could've been angry about the process,” you say. “I would have understood that. I can accept being told I should have escalated it or called someone first. I can accept making a mistake.” You pause, because this part is harder. “What hurt,” you say, quieter, “was that you made it sound like the mistake was me being there at all.”

Jeff’s expression changes, but you keep your eyes on the table when you continue because looking directly at him would make it worse. “I know Harry is part of why I got this opportunity, I’m not stupid. He trusts me, and yes, our relationship made it possible for me to be here in a way another job might not have. But I studied this, I worked before this tour. I’ve done this job every day for years. I’ve tried very hard not to make people feel like I’m just… tagging along.” Your mouth presses together for a second. “When you said that, it made all of it feel like it disappeared.”

Jeff does not interrupt, and that, too, helps.

“It made me wonder if everyone thinks it,” you admit. “If they’re all just being polite because of Harry. If every decision I make is going to be judged through the fact that I’m his girlfriend. If I stay quiet, I’m useless, and if I act, I’m overstepping. There doesn’t seem to be a version where I’m simply allowed to be good at my job.”

The honesty sits between you and Jeff looks properly ashamed now. “I don’t think you’re useless,” he says.

“I know you probably don’t.” You finally lift your eyes. “But for a moment, you spoke to me like you did.”

You study him for a moment, looking for the easy escape, the hidden excuse, but you don't find one. “I accept your apology,” you say.

He absorbs that, jaw working slightly, then he nods. “You’re right.” Jeff leans forward, leaning on the table. “You’ve done good work here, really good work. The accounts are better because of you, the fan engagement is better, and Harry’s more comfortable with it because it’s you handling it. I should've separated the professional issue from the personal one. I didn’t, and I’m sorry.”

Jeff looks relieved, though not proud of himself. “Thank you.”

“I still think we should have a proper process for fan issues like that,” you add, because the professional part of you has apparently survived the emotional one.

Jeff’s mouth lifts faintly. “Agreed.”

“And I’d like to know who to contact if something similar happens again.”

“I’ll sort that.”

“Okay.”

Harry returns then, setting a smoothie carefully in front of you and placing one yoghurt bowl near it. He sets the other in front of his chair and sits down again, glancing between you both. The mood is lighter now, not yet healed back into easy friendship, but it has changed for the better.

Jeff’s phone rings before anyone can say much more, he looks at the screen and sighs. “I have to take this.”

Of course he does, Jeff is Jeff, and on show days somewhere in Wembley, something always needs his attention. He stands, picks up his coffee and tucks his laptop under one arm. “We’ll talk process tomorrow,” he says to you.

You nod. “Okay.”

He looks at Harry. “I’ll find you later.”

Harry nods back. “Yeah.”

Jeff answers the call before he has fully reached the door, already slipping back into manager mode as he disappears into the corridor with his coffee, laptop and apology trailing behind him.

For a few seconds after he leaves, neither you nor Harry speaks. Harry picks up his spoon, tries a bite of yoghurt, then speaks to you. “I’m glad you two could talk.”

You don't answer him and that makes him look at you. You haven't touched the smoothie, and you haven't picked up your spoon either. Your hands are in your lap again, fingers kneading together, head slightly lowered. You look very still, but not at all calm, so Harry sets his spoon down. “Love?”

You inhale, careful and shallow, then wipe quickly beneath one eye before he can see it, but he sees anyway. His chair moves back at once. “Hey. What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” you say, too quickly.

Harry’s voice softens. “Baby.”

That is all it takes, your eyes fill properly, and the first tears fall before you can stop them. You look embarrassed immediately, turning your face away, wiping at them with impatient fingers. “I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I don’t know why I’m crying now.”

Harry is already moving. “C’mere.”

“It’s stupid.”

“It’s not.”

“It is. He apologised, it's fine.”

“C’mere,” Harry says again, gentler this time, but with enough certainty that you finally let him take your hand.

He guides you up from your chair and onto his lap, one arm around your waist as you settle across him, your knees on either side of his thighs. It's not something you would usually do in catering, not with people coming and going, but the table is tucked far enough back, the lounge quiet enough in this moment, and Harry holds you with such uncomplicated care that your embarrassment has nowhere to stand. So you fold into him, your arms slip around his neck, face buried against the warm skin just above his collar. He gathers you close until your chest is pressed to his, one hand secure at your back, the other moving to the nape of your neck where his fingertips begin the slow, familiar caress, gentle circles through the fine hairs at the base of your skull, exactly where he knows it settles you.

“It’s okay,” he murmurs. “You’re alright.”

“I thought I was over it.”

“No, you didn’t.”

You huff a tearful little breath against him. “Maybe not.”

“It hit you again,” he says. “That’s allowed.”

“I don’t want to cry over it.”

“Then don’t want to,” Harry says, lips brushing your temple. “But if you do, you do. You don't have to make it small.”

For a little while, you just let him hold you. The tears are quiet, more release than collapse, but they carry more than you realised you had been holding: the tunnel, Jeff’s voice, the way you froze. The videos of happy fans afterwards that should have made you proud but got tangled with the fear that you had gone too far. The two days of being professional while feeling a little less solid inside your own role.

Harry’s hand never stops moving, but eventually, he asks, “Can you tell me what’s in your head?”

You close your eyes and sigh against his neck. “It’s embarrassing.”

“Not to me.”

“You’ll tell me I’m wrong.”

“I might,” he says softly. “But I’ll listen first.”

That makes you smile faintly despite everything and you lift your head enough to speak, though you don't move off his lap. “I know Jeff apologised,” you say. “And I know he meant it. But it just… confirmed something I was already afraid of.”

Harry’s thumb moves slowly over your side. “That people think you’re only here because of me?”

You nod. “I know it’s not that simple,” you say. “I know I’m qualified, I’m not completely insecure about my work. But I also know I wouldn’t be here, in this exact job, if you and I weren’t together.”

“That’s true.” He brushes a tear from your cheek. “But keep going.”

“And because it’s true in one way, it makes it harder to argue against when someone twists it,” you say. “You did hire me partly because you wanted me on tour, and I wanted to be here with you, and I love the job, but then I feel like I have to prove every day that I didn’t just walk in because I’m your girlfriend.”

“You have proven it.”

“I know.” Your voice trembles slightly. “But what if one mistake is all it takes for people to stop seeing the work? What if they’re just waiting for proof that I never should’ve been here? I moved those fans because I thought it was right, and part of me still thinks it was right, but now I keep wondering if I should stop trusting my instincts.”

Harry shakes his head before you finish. “No.”

“But—”

“No. We can build a better process, and you can call the right people next time, but don't stop trusting your instincts. Your instincts are why those fans had a good night instead of leaving Wembley feeling cheated. Your instincts are why the story online turned from ‘Harry’s team sold us bad seats’ into ‘someone fixed it.’ That matters.”

You look down, but he tilts his head, trying to catch your eyes again. “And listen to me. You didn’t get this job because we fuck. Though I have to say, we do that wonderfully.”

A startled laugh breaks through your tears and Harry’s mouth curves, but his eyes stay serious. “Sorry, but you really didn’t. You got access to the conversation because I trust you and love you and wanted you here. You got the job because you can do it. You kept the job because you do it well.”

You wipe under your eye again. “You make it sound simple.”

“It is simple to me.”

“It doesn’t feel simple.”

“I know.” He presses his palm flat against your back, grounding you. “Because you’re the one who has to walk into rooms where people might make assumptions. You’re the one who has to carry both titles at once. Girlfriend and social media manager, partner and employee, person I love and person on the team. That’s not always fair to you.”

You swallow. “I don’t want people to think I’m using you.”

Harry’s face scrunches with immediate pain. “Love.”

“I don’t–”

“No, stop it. You’re not using me.”

“I don’t want people to think you’re foolish for trusting me either.”

“No one whose opinion matters thinks that.”

“Jeff might have.”

“Jeff was angry and wrong.”

“Other people could.”

“Then they’re wrong too.”

You let out a shaky breath.

Harry leans in, forehead nearly touching yours. “My judgement isn't weakened by loving you. If anything, I know better than anyone how capable you are because I see it up close. I see how much thought you put into everything. I see you rewriting captions ten times because one word feels too cold. I see you checking fan reactions after shows when I’m too tired to understand my own being. I see you protecting me from becoming content and still giving people enough to feel included.”

That gets another tiny laugh from you as you sniff, embarrassed. “I hate crying in public.”

Your face crumples slightly again, and he catches it with another kiss to your cheek. “You’re not here by accident,” he says. “And you’re not here because I’m soft for you, even though I’m very soft for you.”

“I know. Very unprofessional.”

You lift your head enough to glare weakly and Harry smiles. “Sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“Not much.”

You rest your forehead against his shoulder again. “It just hurt.”

“I know.”

“More than I wanted it to.”

“I know, baby.”

“And then he apologised, and that helped, but it also made me realise how much I’d been holding it in.”

Harry nods, hand moving back to the nape of your neck. “Makes sense.”

“You’re being very reasonable.”

“Trying something new today.”

You breathe out a soft laugh into his shirt.

He holds you for another moment, then says, quieter, “I love having you here, in every way. I love waking up with you before show days, I love finding you side-stage. I love when you tell me an outfit is awful and I need to try harder. I love that you know the fans better than half the internet companies pretending they do. I love that you care enough to climb to the roof of Wembley because some people couldn’t see. And I love that after all of that, you still worry about doing right by everyone.”

Your tears have slowed now, leaving only that drained, tender feeling behind. Harry presses a kiss to your forehead. “You belong here,” he says. “With the team, and with me, both. Not one instead of the other.”

You close your eyes and for the first time since the tunnel, that sentence reaches somewhere the apology did not. “Thank you,” you whisper.

“You don’t have to thank me for telling the truth.”

“I mean for being like this with me.”

His arms tighten around you. “Always.”

You sit like that for a little longer, breathing together in the corner of catering while Wembley moves on around you.

After a while, Harry kisses your forehead, then the bridge of your nose, then the corner of your mouth. “I believe in you.”

“I know.”

“I’ll say it again.”

“I know you will.”

“As many times as you need.”

You manage a real smile this time. “You’re very persistent.”

“Been called worse.”

“I love you.”

Harry’s eyes warm. “I love you too.”

You stay there for another moment, arms around him, his hand at your neck, the smoothie sweating on the table beside the untouched yoghurt bowls. The lounge continues around you, but it feels less sharp now, less like a place where you need to prove anything every second.

Eventually, Harry leans back slightly and looks at your face. “Do you want to eat?”

You glance at the yoghurt bowl. “In a minute.”

“Smoothie?”

“In a minute.”

“Do you want me to threaten Jeff again?”

That pulls a laugh out of you, small but genuine. “No.”

“Shame, I was getting good at it.”

“You told him to go be useful somewhere else.”

“He needed direction.”

“You were very scary.”

Harry raises his eyebrows. “Scary?”

“To him.”

“Good.”

“Still not to me.”

His smile softens into genuine relief. “Good.”

You shift slightly on his lap, but he doesn't let you go yet, and honestly, you don't want him to. His arms are warm, his body solid beneath yours, and for the first time since the tunnel, the ugly sentence in your head has less space to echo. It's still there, but so is Harry’s voice beside it now: you belong here.

Harry presses another kiss to your temple. “We’re alright,” he murmurs.

You close your eyes, breathing him in, letting the words settle. “Yeah,” you whisper. “We’re alright.”

Taglist: @lizsogolden @avensgreenvans @maudie-duan @chocostyles @sparklejumpropequeen1113 @pops234 @lomlcamy

A bloom of annoyance starts to unfold in your chest as a sound you've unfortunately grown accustomed to hits yours ears, Harry making a disgusted noise from beside you on the couch. It's not quite a sigh. It's louder than that. It's sharper, full of the particular offense of a man who believes the world has personally and intentionally wronged him.

"Don't start." You warn him as you keep your eyes on the television.

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You’re about to.”

Harry shifts beside you on the couch, folding his arms over his chest. His long brown hair falls loose around his shoulders, still slightly damp from the shower you forced him to take after he declared modern plumbing to be something suspiciously similar to witchcraft. His green eyes remain fixed on the screen with open contempt.

On screen a pirate swings from one ship to another with a rope clenched between his teeth. You can feel Harry's irritation as he shakes his head and you already know what's coming next.

“That's ridiculous." He says with a scoff.

You close your eyes. “Harry.”

“His jaw would dislocate.”

“It’s a movie.”

“His teeth would be ripped out of his mouth if he did that—it's absurd." He argues as you turn your head so you can glare at him.

“How do you know?"

“I know how ropes and teeth work—it would end in a very ugly and very painful ordeal that's why no real pirate would do something so-.”

"Absurd?"

"Precisely." You let out an annoyed huff as you reach into the bowl of popcorn in your lap and throw a piece at him. He catches it without looking only making your annoyance grow as he pops it into his mouth and eats it with a satisfied hum.

“You didn’t know what a microwave was yesterday.” You remind him with a teasing tone that Harry has gotten quite familiar with over the past few weeks.

“The glowing box is irrelevant to the matter at hand—his teeth would be stuck in the rope and not in his mouth.”

“Harry." You say his name with a groan as you run a hand over your face. "I told you that you can watch this movie with me only because you agreed to watching it quietly.”

“Not true—I agreed to watch.”

“You specifically promised not to criticize everything.”

“I made no such promise." Your brows raise as he gives you a shake of his head.

“Yes you did."

“I was distracted.”

“By what?”

His gaze finally leaves the television and settles on you as he turns to give you his full attention.

“You.”

The answer comes without hesitation. It always does. That's another problem with Harry. Perhaps the biggest one. He doesn't understand restraint.

Having spent centuries alone stuck inside a ship sealed in a green glass bottle thanks to a curse from a sea witch whom he swears all he did was decline her hand in marriage, have stripped him of any ability to hide what he wants. A glass bottle you found shoved between a chipped ceramic cat and a stack of old cookbooks at a thrift store. The price was only twelve dollars and marked as nautical decor. You bought it simply because the ship inside was beautiful.

You didn't mean to uncork it accidentally while cleaning the glass. And you certainly didn't expect thick silver smoke to pour across your living room rug, followed by a full grown pirate collapsing onto the floor in leather boots, an open linen shirt and enough weapons to get you arrested in several states.

Harry took one look at you and decided you were the most beautiful treasure he's ever seen.

While you took one look at him and considered calling the police.

Luckily for him you quickly understood how difficult it would be to explain a cursed pirate to any form of law enforcement. But then you began to learn it's even more difficult to get rid of one once he becomes devoted to something, or more so someone.

That someone being you.

Harry now follows you from room to room. He watches you make coffee as though you're performing alchemy. He sits on the bathroom floor when you shower because he claims he's standing guard. He refers to every delivery driver as a potential assassin and at one point nearly challenged the mailman to a duel. He's also looking at you constantly. Not casually. Not politely. Harry looks at you like you're freedom in human form.

Most days you tolerate it.

Barely.

Tonight however, his attention feels heavier than usual.

"Stop staring." You mumble as you shift beneath his gaze and look down at the bowl in your lap.

“I’m not.”

“Uh yes—yes you are.”

“I’m looking.”

“That’s the same thing.” You tell him feeling your patience for the tall handsome pirate sitting beside you starting to grow thinner.

“No it's not.”

"Explain the difference then." You challenge as you glance over over at him intrigued.

Harry turns toward you fully, one arm stretching along the back of the couch behind your shoulders.

“Staring is mindless." He says casually. “Looking requires appreciation.” His words have your stomach doing something inconvenient, a fluttering of something goes off and it has it narrowing your eyes to compensate the unwanted feeling of warmth spreading through you.

“What—are you trying to flirt with me?” Your accusation has Harry quirking a brow.

"Flirting? I don't know what that means."

"It's when you say things that sound good just because you want the other person to—swoon over you." This has Harry titling his head to the side as he studies your face.

"Is that what's happening? Are you swooning over me?"

"God that's probably the worst thing you've ever said." You tell him with a laugh but Harry just continues to stare at you.

“Impossible." He states firmly. "I once threatened to remove a man’s tongue and feed it to him.” You stare at him with slightly wide eyes, Harry just gives you a faint smile. "He was rude." He adds as if that little piece of information helps you feel any better about what he just said.

“I don't know it sounds like you're the rude one."

“And yet you still bought me.”

“No I bought a bottle.”

“Not a bottle—a prison—one you selected even though you had many treasures to choose from.”

“It was next to a ceramic cat.” You explain trying to brush him off but you know Harry, you know he thinks the two of you are bound by some sort of fate, destined to be together all because you broke his curse. No amount of arguing will change his mind because others have owned him, placed him on their mantels or on their desks and none of them were able to uncork the bottle, not even when they tried because they just wanted his bottle and not the ship inside it.

Making Harry fully believe he was meant to wait centuries inside a glass prison until you found him.

“You chose me.”

“I chose a cheap nautical themed decoration.”

“A nautical themed decoration that doesn't fit the theme of your dwelling at all.”

"I'm eclectic—I don't keep to a single theme."

"You chose me—then you freed me."

“By accident.” Harry's smile deepens until you see the faint reminder of his dimples.

“Accident or not—I'm still free because of you."

There is something in his voice that quiets you.

It's easy to forget sometimes, that beneath the arrogance and the dramatic complaints and his refusal to wear anything you purchase for him unless it resembles something he could have stolen from a seventeenth-century nobleman, is a man that was trapped on his own ship for centuries. But then you think about how dark the bottle must have been. How the first thing he saw after centuries of nothing was your face.

Harry looks back toward the television before the moment can settle too deeply but you can't bring yourself to look away from him just yet. But then another sword fight begin and he lets out a loud dramatic groan and you no longer feel sorry for him.

“They’re gripping the hilts incorrectly.”

“I don’t care.”

“You should.”

“Why?”

“Because one day someone may challenge you.”

“To a sword fight? Harry no one walks around with swords anymore.”

“You are remarkably argumentative.”

“You’re the one criticizing fictional pirates in my apartment.”

“Our apartment and these pirates aren't fictional they just don't exist anymore.” You turn your head towards him slowly.

“What did you just say?”

Harry remains focused on the movie though the corner of his mouth twitches.

“I said these pirates aren't fictional.”

“The other thing—you said our apartment.”

“Well I do live here.”

“You don't live here you're just staying here.”

“Indefinitely.”

“Temporarily.” You correct him with a glare.

“Indefinitely.”

“You sleep on my couch—you can't do that forever.”

“I only sleep on the couch because you deny me access to your bed.” Your mouth falls open while Harry looks pleased with himself.

“You're unbelievable.”

“So you often say.”

“You can't just say that you live here and expect me to be okay with it.”

“I have services I provide for you that earn me a place to live."

"Oh like what?"

"I protect the premises.”

“Protect the premises? That's what the doorman is for Harry—all you do is try to stab my vacuum cleaner.”

“That thing attacks without warning.”

“It doesn't attack it cleans the floors."

"Poorly."

"Excuse me? It does a great job."

“Not true—I've seen deckhands do better work and they don't almost swallow the curtains in the process.”

You shove the popcorn bowl onto the coffee table with an annoyed groan before you end up throwing the entire thing at him.

“You are the most irritating person I've ever met.”

Harry’s amusement deepens. “Yet you keep me close.”

“I don’t keep you close—you just refuse to leave.”

“I have nowhere else I wish to go.” The humor slips slightly from his face and you hate the immediate heat you feel rising up from deep in your chest.

Harry notices it. Of course he does.

His expression softens.

"You need to get out more—you might change your mind."

"Nothing would cause me to change my mind."

"You can't really say that because you've only seen my small apartment for three weeks and the inside of your bottle for the last few hundred years."

“Oh yes the bottle you threatened to put me back in this morning?”

“You drank milk directly from the carton that's gross even for a pirate.”

“I was thirsty.”

“You wiped your mouth on the my table cloth.”

“It was within reach.”

“You're worse than a feral cat.”

"And still you let me remain." Harry says as he leans closer, his voice is quieter now.

The movie continues behind him loud and bright, but your attention narrows to the inches between you.

You sit back slightly. Harry instantly follows after you. Not enough to touch you. Just enough to make the air feel crowded.

“No you just refuse to leave." You remind him as you let out a huff that has a smile spreading across Harry's face because he likes this side of you, enjoys seeing you try to deny the pull you feel towards him. Because even now as you try to argue with him your body subtly shifts so your angled towards him and away from the television.

His gaze lowers briefly to your mouth.

"You haven't asked me to." Your pulse stutters as the truth casually falls out of his mouth.

“You’re very confident for someone who spent several hundred years inside home decor.”

Harry’s eyes flash a darker shade of green as he leans in just a bit closer.

“And you're very bold for someone whose heartbeat has changed just because I'm now a few inches away.” You stare at him with furrowed brows.

“You—you can't heat my heartbeat."

“I spent thirty years listening and memorizing every sound of my ship—"

"So that means you what?…memorized all my sounds? It's only been a few weeks."

"I might not know all of the sounds you make and what causes you to make them but I can hear the way your heart is pounding in your chest right now—all because of me.”

You swallow thickly.

Harry’s gaze sharpens at the movement.

“You're very annoying.”

“And you're very beautiful.” You blink at the sudden confession but try to regain your composure.

“You argue with everything I say.”

“Because I think you're exceptionally beautiful when angry.” Your breath catches, and Harry sees it.

His eyes darken. There is no teasing in them now and that's what changes everything.

Until this moment, the argument has been familiar. Easy. A game neither of you admits to enjoying. Now his arm is still stretched behind you, and your shoulder is nearly touching his chest and the room suddenly seems too warm.

“You’re obsessed with me." You whisper.

Harry doesn't try to deny it.

“I am."

“You barely know me.”

“I know you dislike the crusts on your bread but eat it anyway because you hate wasting food—I know you sing when you think I'm asleep and I know for some reason you like to purchase books faster than you read them—I know you become quiet when you're upset because you fear saying something cruel.”

His voice lowers further.

“I know you check the bottle every night before bed.”

You go still.

Harry watches you carefully.

“You think I don't notice but I do—I watch you pick it up to make certain it hasn't taken me back.”

“I just like to look at your ship—that's all.”

"You like me."

"I tolerate you."

"You're a horrible liar."

His face is closer now and you know you should move. But at Harry's eyes search yours with a blazing intensity you can't bring yourself to move or look away. Centuries of loneliness live somewhere behind his gaze. So does gratitude. Devotion. A hunger he's never once attempted to disguise.

“You broke my curse." He whispers.

“Accidentally.”

“You gave me the sky again.”

Your irritation falters as Harry’s fingers touch a strand of hair near your cheek, careful despite the roughness of his hands.

“You gave me back the wind,” he continues. “You gave me music—food that somehow arrives at the door and water that falls from the walls.” Despite yourself you feel your lips curve upwards.

“You screamed the first time the shower turned on.”

“I thought it was a trap.”

“You tried to fight it.”

“I won.”

“You slipped and pulled down the curtain.”

“The curtain interfered—I was winning.”

A laugh escapes you. Harry smiles at the sound while his thumb remains near your cheek.

Then his expression turns serious again.

“And you—you gave me you.”His voice is gentle but holds a distinct certainty that has your heart skipping a beat as his thumb brushes your skin. “You allow me beside you.”

“Because you won’t go away.”

“You bought the coffee I like and found me shirts that don't choke me at the throat—you leave the hall lamp lit because I dislike waking in darkness and you leave your door open now when you go to sleep." His voice is rougher now as he leans closer. “You may call it tolerance my darling but I have known starvation—I know the difference between scraps and a feast.”

The word darling sends heat crawling beneath your skin.

“You can’t—you can't be so dramatic and say things like that.”

“I've spent too many years unable to speak at all.”

The reply lands between you.

Your anger disappears so suddenly it leaves you exposed. Harry notices that too as his hand slowly cups your jaw, giving you every opportunity to pull away. You know you should but instead your fingers close around the front of his shirt. Harry inhales sharply as his gaze drops to your hand and then slowly lift back up to your eyes. You tighten your grip as his mouth curves upward into a smug looking smirk.

"You're holding onto me." The satisfaction in his tone reignites your irritation.

“Only to stop you from getting closer.”

Harry glances at the almost nonexistent space between you.

“You seem to have failed.”

“Shut up.”

“Make me.”

The challenge is soft because he knows you intend to take him up on it.and you do, you kiss him because it's the fastest way to wipe the smug expression from his face.

At least, that's what you tell yourself.

Harry goes completely still and for one suspended second, the feared pirate captain who has survived mutinies, storms, curses, and centuries of imprisonment seems stunned beyond speech. Then he makes a low, broken sound against your mouth. His hand slides from your jaw to the back of your neck and he kisses you back. The force of it steals your breath. There's nothing tentative about Harry once he realizes you're not pulling away. He turns toward you, his other hand finding your waist as though he's imagined the feeling of his hand holding you there a thousand times.

Knowing him, he probably has.

You push at his shoulder and Harry draws back immediately, breathing hard as his green eyes search your face.

“What's wrong?”

“You’re crushing me.”You explain making him raise a brow at you with confusion taking over the features of his handsome face.

“I beg your pardon.”

“You’re heavy.”

“I'm composed primarily of muscle.”

“Yeah I can can.”

Relief flashes through his expression when he realizes you're not ending the moment just needing him to move some of his weight from atop of you.

“You kissed me.”He says with a smile as the two of you adjust so your resting against the armrest, Harry settles between your legs keeping most of his weight on his knees and the hand gripping the side of the couch while his other hands stays on your waist.

“You told me to make you shut up.”

“And such an effective method it was.”

“You’re talking again.”

“A grievous mistake.”

You pull him back down to you by his shirt.

The second kiss is different, it turns heated quickly as Harry’s hand tightens at your waist. There's still a strange carefulness beneath his hunger, as though some part of him fears any sudden movement might break the moment and return him to the bottle. He feels you shiver as his thumb slips beneath the edge of your shirt, grazing warm skin. His mouth leaves yours, trailing slowly along your cheek toward your jaw.

“You don't merely tolerate me." He mumbles against your soft skin.

“Don’t ruin this.”

“I've waited centuries for this.”

“You haven't even known me for centuries.”

“I knew someone was coming—knew they'd be worth all the years of waiting and I was right.” There's no teasing or smugness to his voice, just painful honest that pulls at your heart.

Harry kisses the corner of your mouth.

Then your cheek.

Then the place beneath your ear that makes your fingers curl harder into his shirt.

“Still annoying?" He asks.

“Yes.”

"Still want me to go and explore the world?" He asks as his lips brush your neck.

You hesitate.

Harry stops.

The question changes something in him. His head lifts, his expression suddenly turns open and unguarded. Not smug now. Not teasing. For all his bold declarations, some part of him truly doesn't know if you really want him to stick around or not. You see the effects of the bottle in him then. The years. The silence. The fear that freedom might be temporary and affection even more so.

Your hand loosens from his shirt and moves to his face.

Harry leans into your palm before he can stop himself.

“I do think you should go out and see the world but—but only if you promise to come back when you're done."

His eyes close briefly. When they open again, the devotion in them nearly undoes you.

“I would rather be cursed to spend eternity with Davy Jones than spend even one unnecessary minute away from you."

“That's a bit much.” You tell him as you playfully roll your eyes while your thumb strokes his cheek.

“It's just the truth.” Harry smiles against your palm.

Then he turns his head and kisses the center of it. The tenderness of the gesture feels more intimate than the heated kisses. You pull him toward you again before you can think too hard about what this all means.

The movie continues unnoticed, full of impossible escapes and inaccurate sword fights. Harry settles over you carefully this time as you pull him closer, one arm braced beside your head while the other still grips the side of the couch as his hair falls around both of you like a dark curtain.

His mouth hovers over yours. “For the record,” he murmurs, “this film remains an insult to piracy.”

You stare at him.

“Harry.”

“The ship rigging alone—”

You don’t give him the chance to keep talking.

Your fingers tighten in the front of his shirt and you yank him down crushing your mouth to his. The kiss is hard, demanding as you slip your tongue past his parted lips deepening it. Harry makes a low startled sound that melts into a groan as one of your hands slide under his shirt pressing your warm palm against the smooth skin of his back. His tongue meets yours eagerly, but you nip his lower lip and pull back just enough to speak his name against his mouth.

"Tell me what you want love." He whispers as his eyes flick open, dark and hazy as he looks at your flushed cheeks and hears the sound of your heart thudding against your ribs. "Want to please you—give you whatever you need."

"Really?" Your voice is soft and he only manages to give you a nod before you kiss him again.

It's deeper as your hands move to rest on top of his shoulders. When you start to push at them he happily lets you, body pliant under your direction. His lips make their way down your jaw to the side of your neck, leaving open mouthed kisses as you gently urge him lower. You can feel how hard he is against you, the insistent press of him through his pants, but he makes no move to grind or seek relief. All his focus is on following your lead, on the way your skin feels under his lips and the breathy sighs that fall from your mouth.

“Lower." The strain in your voice makes Harry smile against the fabric of your t shirt as you continue guiding his head with gentle pressure from your fingers pressing into the tops of his shoulders. His mouth leaves trails of kisses as you ease him further down.

"Gonna take these off okay?" You just nod your head as Harry sits up on his knees while his hands find the waistband of your lounge shorts. You bite your bottom lip when you glance down at him and see the hard outline of his shaft that's being painfully held back by his trousers. Harry follows your gaze and is quick to lean over so his lips are on yours in a quick but sweet kiss.

"You're so soft—you're so perfect." His words distract you from focusing on him and bring you back to the moment, he smiles when you give him a few nods as he leans back and drags your shorts and panties down your legs, tossing them behind them without a care in the world about where they might land.

"So beautiful." He says with a groan as his eyes take in your bare center, you let out a gasp as he grabs the outside of your thigh and places it over his shoulder as he leans down. Your hands instinctively reach down and tangle themselves into his long locks as you feel his warm breath fan across your slick folds.

"Gonna let me get a taste of you?—tell me how to please you with just my tongue love—wanna feel you drip down my chin." There's not even a hint of embarrassment of shyness to Harry's voice as his eyes lock with yours, there's just a deep sense of need to please you dripping off every word and it has your heart fluttering in your chest. You swallow down your nerves as Harry gives your hip an encouraging squeeze, you know the man between your thighs wants to make you feel good, all you have to do is tell him how. So that's exactly what you do.

“Use the flat of your tongue first—lick me slow from bottom to top." A shiver runs through you as he complies, tongue dragging in one long deliberate stroke through your slick folds, parting them and gathering the wetness on his tongue before circling your clit. "Feel how wet I am for you? It's all for you." His groan vibrates against you, but he stays silent otherwise as his eyes stay locked on your face from between your thighs.

“Now use the tip and circle my clit—oh yes right there—suck on it gently—perfect now add just a little pressure.” You instruct between soft moans as his hands grip your hips, holding you steady without pulling you down harder. He works exactly as you tell him, tongue flattening to lap broad stripes through your dripping cunt, then sucking your swollen clit between his lips with careful, rhythmic pulls.

"Oh yes that's—that's so good." You pant as he slides his tongue inside your tight heat, curling it to stroke your inner walls. He finds his own rhythm flicking the tip of his tongue rapidly over your clit until your thighs tremble around his head. Every time your grip tightens in his hair or your hips twitch, he doubles his efforts utterly lost in your pleasure. His own growing need is forgotten, the only need that matters is the one humming through your body. You keep talking him through it with little praises and small demands until the movie’s forgotten noise gets drowned out by the wet sounds of his tongue working itself in and out of your needy center and your ragged breathing.

"Harry I'm—oh god." You let out a moan of his name as you finally come undone for him, he moans against you as his hold on your hips turns bruising keeping you still as your hands pull at his hair keeping him exactly where he is between your thighs. He keeps his tongue moving in slow lazy strokes as he laps up your release, gently working you through the aftershocks. When he feels you loosen your grip in his hair he finally pulls away from your warm wet center, you try to catch your breath as he places his lips to the inside of your thigh.

You tug his hair gently until he lifts his head he carefully moves your leg from over his shoulder, then you grab onto his shirt and pull him up your body forcing him to place both hands behind your head, gripping the armrest. When your hands slide down to his shoulders to his back you can feel the tension in him. You can feel the way he’s still rock hard against you and you feel his hips twitch once before he forces them still. Guilt flickers through the haze of pleasure. He’s given everything and taken nothing.

You smile at him as he settles between your spread thighs, his weight pressing you into the couch cushions. His green eyes are wild, desperate to please even now, but you reach between you and unbuckle his belt and push his trousers down just enough to free him. His cock springs free thick and flushed, the head already slick with precome, and you wrap your hand around him once before lining him up against your slick folds.

“Want you to feel good." You tell him, voice soft but firm. “Just like this—let me feel you.” You roll your hips up to meet him, dragging the fat head of his cock through your wet slit in a deliberate grind, coating him in your arousal.

Harry’s breath hitches, but he follows your lead. Thrusting shallowly, the thick length of him sliding through your folds with every roll of your body. His forearms bracket your head, hair falling around both of you like a curtain, and he keeps his pace exactly as you show him. You let out a soft moan as the head of his cock catches on your clit with every pass, smearing your wetness along his shaft.

Then his control cracks. A ragged moan escapes him as he presses his forehead to yours, voice rough and shaking.

“Gods—you feel so good." He breathes, hips rolling harder. “So wet and hot—look at you all slick and open for me." His lips find your neck as he drags his cock through your slickness, the friction sends a shiver of pleasure through you. "I’ve waited centuries for this—centuries trapped with nothing but the thought of you—dreaming of how you’d feel under me like this.” Your hips rise to meet his movements, you let out a throaty moans as the head of his cock nudges your entrance without pushing in.

“Want to feel you wrapped around me one day—you're perfect little cunt is going to look so beautiful stretching around me—fuck I could stay right here forever just feeling you like this." He mumbles between kisses down your neck. You keep guiding him with your hips, letting him use the heat of your body until his thrusts grow erratic and he lets out a broken moan of your name against your throat. Your back arches as you feel him spill his release, hot and thick across your stomach, a few spurts land on your swollen clit making you gasp as his body shudders above you coating your slick folds in his release.

After a few moments he leans down and presses his forehead to yours. Both of you have little smiles on your face, both breathing hard as he's careful not to crush you as he presses his lips to every part of your face he can reach. The movie continues to play, neither of you pay it any attention. And Harry remains exactly where you put him, between your legs and even more utterly devoted to you than he was just a few hours before.

You stopped dead in your tracks. 

Oh no. Oh YES.

Your heart went thump thump thump! like crazy as you stood there, frozen between the door and the counter. Living with a man who looked like that was a direct threat to your peace. And his too, probably. You couldn't believe you had practically won a jackpot over freaking Reddit. And apparently Reddit was only full of weird people, as if. So you took a breath, adjusted your posture, and walked over.

But then the panic hit. Because someone who looked like that was probably bringing home a different girl every night. And you’d have to listen to the stupid Thump. Thump. Thump. of his bed through the thin drywall. Every single time.

Suck it and see, you never know, girl.

From his side of the table, Satoru had already run the numbers. His eyes tracked your movement the second you started walking over, assessing. You were cute, yes. Approachable hot, not intimidating hot. You didn’t look like the type who’d expect him to pay for everything or make fun of his personality. And most importantly — you had messaged him first on the housing thread.

That meant the dynamic was already set. You were practically already his. Why else would a girl willingly want to live with a man? The power balance was secured. Handled. Handed to him on a silver platter, just like all the podcasts had promised.

You slid into the booth across from him. "Satoru?"

"You're exactly two minutes and forty seconds late," Satoru announced, and you feared that wasn't a joke. He checked his phone screen. "Statistically speaking, women in their twenties are usually ten to fifteen minutes late to initial meetups to assert social dominance. Two minutes is almost negligible. I like the effort."

You stared at him. What the fuck. You hadn't even taken your jacket off yet.

"I got caught at a red light," you said slowly, furrowing your eyebrows and eyeing his hands. Why were they so big?

“Right. Variables.” Satoru nodded, looking way too serious about the whole thing. He leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “So — I brought the lease agreement. As I mentioned, I have a 780 credit score and I want dishes done within twenty-four hours. To prevent breeding grounds for fruit flies.” He slid the keys across the table along with the papers, completely unprompted. “I assume you don’t have a problem with basic hygiene? You shouldn’t have—” his eyes dragged over you, slow and sleazy, “—judging by your appearance.”

You looked at the keys. Then at his stupidly pretty, already supremely annoying face.

Your brain was trying to throw up big red warning signs, but you really needed the space. It was cheap. Close to work. And you’d have to survive maybe a year or two before you could afford a one-bedroom on your own.

You go, girl.

“I’m clean,” you said, picking up the keys. You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to figure out exactly what brand of lunatic you were about to chain yourself to. “Listen. You’re not going to be weird, are you?”

Satoru tilted his head, genuinely confused. “Define weird.”

You bit your lip.

There went those “quick” two years of your life.

You already knew the answer. You already fucking knew. Time for some hard coping. Maybe this was just a phase. Maybe he’d snap out of it soon. Maybe he’d gone through a breakup and was just being salty. That was probably it.

And to be fair, the first few weeks weren’t actually that weird. You were getting to know each other, learning how to exist in the same space. It was quiet, even. You would’ve paid good money to keep it like that forever.

He mostly worked from his room, only came out for meals, did the dishes, and left you alone. He barely even talked to you, which should’ve been suspicious, but you chose to ignore it. You started to think maybe you’d read him wrong at the café. Maybe the breakup theory was right. Maybe he was just having a weird day.

But spoiler alert — you couldn’t have been more wrong.

Satoru had not gone through a bad breakup. You suspected he had never gone through any breakup at all ever. Once he got comfortable enough to drop the act, or perhaps as some calculated 4D chess move to trap you past the point of getting your deposit back, his true colors started showing.

Satoru didn’t bring girls home. He didn’t do any of the hot-man things you’d expected either. Instead, he spent most of his free time on Reddit, arguing with strangers about the state of modern dating, and why “nice guys” were being chronically overlooked by society.

After about a month, it clicked.

This man was chronically, terminally online. And an incel on top of it all.

The rule of never judging a book by its cover confirmed itself in the most jarring way possible. Would say, you played yourself there girl, but who am I to judge.

It started with the staring. You’d be sitting at the kitchen island in your sleep shirt, eating a bowl of Cheerios, and you’d look up to find him just… watching you. He never looked away when you caught him either. He’d just blink those big, stupidly pretty blue eyes at you, gaze heavy and analytical, like he was trying to calculate your exact molecular structure. Which, in a way, he was. Carefully assessing the harmony of your facial features, exactly like the looksmaxxing subreddit had probably told him to.

You were always the one who had to look away first, your face feeling weirdly hot.

Then came the rants. You’d come home from a brutal shift and collapse onto the couch, and Satoru would emerge from his room like clockwork. He’d drop down next to you, eyes glued to his phone, and start talking like someone had asked.

“It’s basic hypergamy,” he announced one night, to absolutely no one. “Men are biologically disadvantaged in the modern dating sphere because of the top-twenty-percent rule.”

You didn’t even look at him. You just kept staring at the TV and wondered how long you could keep nodding along before it would become suspicious.

And he would just keep going.

Spewing the most vile, stupid shit while you sat there, eyes flicking from the TV to him and back, nodding along because you genuinely did NOT care. Top twenty what percent? Wasn’t he objectively in the top ten at least? What the hell was he even talking about? Every time you didn’t answer, he probably took it as agreement. You just deadass had nothing to say to him.

Not because you lacked the energy to argue — though you kind of did, because talking to this manchild was like talking to a wall, and even that would’ve been more productive — but mostly because you weren’t even listening anymore. You’d learned how to tune him out pretty quickly.

You were tolerating him. That’s what you told yourself. You were tolerating him, and it had nothing to do with the fact that ever since you first laid eyes on him, your brain had decided to revert to its most embarrassing caveman settings.

Like that one evening when you were walking down the hallway toward the kitchen and the bathroom door opened.

Satoru stepped out, dripping wet. White hair plastered to his forehead, water still running down his chest, wearing nothing but a towel slung dangerously low on his hips. You shamelessly followed his happy trail. The way the towel barely clung on his hips.

Your brain stalled at the sight of his pretty body and your mouth went dry. You reminded yourself why you were tolerating him. Then berated yourself for doing exactly what he did — objectifying.

But hey. What's better than an incel asshole? A hot incel asshole. That's what's better. Congratulations to you specifically, really found a rock between a sea of gems.

You thought you had it handled. White-knuckle your way through the lease. Easy peasy lemon squeezy.

And then you walked past his partially open bedroom door and heard him on Discord.

"Yeah, I mean, the living situation is okay," Satoru was saying, sounding so perfectly reasonable. You thought he was going to say something nice. What a good roommate she is, how glad he was to have you there.

"She's clean. And yeah, she's hot, but she's not like super hot hot where it's scary, you know? She's cute hot. Next door hot, pretty hot. Just my type, you know my type, dude. I can definitely work with that."

You froze in the hallway.

Your face did something that could only be described as a visual representation of what the fuck.

Cute hot. I can definitely work with that.

What does that even mean? You knew exactly what it meant, unfortunately. He wasn't just a weird roommate. He was a weird roommate actively running some kind of deranged, incel-fueled long game on you. Casually. Over Discord. 

You quietly backed away, went to your room, locked the door, and screamed into your pillow.

It was not like your roommate was describing you like a property investment to someone over Discord while you were standing mere feet away. 

You hated this. You hated him. And you hated yourself for having been even remotely apologetic about it, for feeling your heart skip a beat when he said just my type. Curse you and your completely stupid and irrational attraction to someone you should probably be filing a restraining order against! But god, he was so so cute. If he could just shut the fuck up, or get lobotomized, or something. You could take him to Claire's over the weekend?

But to his credit, and you could not fucking believe you were giving him even some credit at all right now, he was sometimes tolerable, heavy on the sometimes. The man never missed a rent payment. He scrubbed the bathtub weekly. He always bought the expensive brand of paper towels, the ones with the little flower pattern you liked.

Good roommate, structurally speaking. Nightmare, every other way.

And the attraction was just a proximity issue. Obviously. Everyone would have this problem. It would go away. His personality was ass. Soon enough you'd look at him and convince yourself his looks were ass too. Start acknowledging his hotness the way you acknowledged anything asexual.

It was totally fine. You were fine. He was just a guy. A guy who happened to look like a Final Fantasy character rendered in 4K, but still just a guy. A nice guy.

And work with that, he definitely did. Because he was fine too! Just not in any way he would ever admit to his Discord buddies.

Because doing it the normal way guys in their sexual prime do was completely fine. He was in his twenties, so naturally, his mind wandered a bit when his head hit the pillow with passing thoughts about the way your sleep shirt rode up your bare thigh. There was absolutely nothing wrong with getting off while thinking about someone! It was just the normal biological need the podcasts yapped about! It was healthy to be sexually active, even if his only active partner was his fist.

And if that happened to escalate into jerking off to a completely innocent Instagram picture and coming all over his phone screen while staring at your pixelated smile? Also completely normal! Everyone dealt with new living arrangements differently; someone screamed into their pillow, someone else was jerking off every time you got said person inexplicably hard! He couldn't be expected to live like a celibate monk when he was just a poor, horny guy trapped in an apartment with a gorgeous roommate who also happened to be exactly his type. He wasn't being a creep! He was just adapting to his environment.

Goddamn.

It wasn't fine. He wasn't fine, you weren't fine either.

But as the weeks dragged on, he started getting worse.

The passive-aggressive creepiness turned into passive-aggressive entitlement. He had decided, completely on his own, that the two of you were basically already together. You could feel it in the way he hovered. In the way he looked at you like he was waiting for something. Like a bill was coming due and he was just giving you time to find your wallet.

It started with the food.

Without any discussion, he started either making food for both of you or straight-up eating what you’d made for yourself. Like that was just the new normal now.

“Satoru, did you eat my food?” you’d ask, staring at the empty space in the fridge where your meal had been. The one you’d been looking forward to all day. And he’d just nod from the couch like it was the most normal, domestic thing in the world — not a direct violation of the rules you’d set when you moved in.

Or there was the night you came home completely drained, fully prepared to eat a sleeve of saltines and a bucket of ice cream for dinner, only to walk into the apartment smelling like garlic and roasted vegetables.

Satoru was actually at the stove, cooking. A rare sight — the man usually survived on takeout and DoorDash. And he’d used your expensive dried tomatoes. The ones you’d been saving for a special occasion. The ones you’d deliberately shoved to the back of the fridge so he wouldn’t find them.

“Men in the kitchen are a rare sight, I know,” he said, not looking at you as he stirred, trying to look like the eighth world wonder. “But I thought — what if I made pasta? It’s the one my mom used to make. Figured I’d make it for myself. Made a lot though, so… you can have some too, I guess.”

He was already plating a portion for you as he spoke, trying and failing to look casual while clearly nervous you wouldn’t like it.

You watched him for a moment and felt something shift in your chest. You immediately labeled it as hunger and moved on.

He didn’t ask if you liked it. He just assumed you would. And he was right, yeah you ate it, but that wasn’t the point. The pasta wasn’t even that good. Way too salty. But it sat warm in your belly, and you didn’t have it in you to tell him the truth.

You thanked him for the meal but didn’t acknowledge the grand gesture you hadn’t agreed to in the first place. You didn’t make conversation and went straight to do the dishes.

When you glanced back, he was watching you with that look again.

You looked away first.

And of course an incel like that would have opinions about your love life too.

You’d been seeing someone — nothing serious, just a guy from Hinge. Two dates in, and you were still on the fence. He didn’t make your heart do that stupid thump thump thump, and his hairline wasn’t all that great either.

You made the mistake of mentioning a possible third date while making coffee, trying to have a normal, boring conversation about your respective lives.

“I think I’m going to see him again on Saturday,” you said, mostly to your mug.

Satoru looked up from his phone. He was always on his phone doing gods know what.

"The architect guy?"

"Nah, I ghosted that one. Different guy."

A pause. He furrowed his eyebrows the way he did when he was assessing something. “How many are there?”

You gave him a warning look.

"I'm just asking."

"And I'm not answering," you said, rolling your eyes.

He put his phone down, which was never a good sign. You turned back to the coffee machine.

“I just think,” he started.

“Don’t,” you muttered, already regretting bringing it up.

"—that you're not being strategic about this."

You turned back around, mentally preparing for what was about to come.

“About dating. Statistically speaking, cycling through too many low-value options in a short period of time actually decreases your own value. If you want to attract a high-value man—”

He didn’t just mean men. He meant himself. Which, bless him, but also fuck him for putting it like that.

You stared at him for a moment, seriously considering yelling and throwing your mug at his stupidly symmetrical face.

“Satoru,” you said. “Did you just tell me I’m getting ran-through?”

He opened his mouth, then immediately closed it. His ears went pink — he had probably clocked his own stupidity, apparently, which was a first.

"No! It's not — that's not what I—" he started, hands coming up like he was surrendering.

"Where did you even hear that phrase?"

"It's a concept from—"

"No." You held up a hand. "No, I don't want to know, actually. You just made me really upset."

You picked up your coffee and looked at him — standing there in his stupid nerdy sleep shirt, with his stupidly cute messy hair, genuinely confused about why this had gone wrong. Like he really thought you’d realize he was right and apologize on your knees for even mentioning other men.

You felt furious. Tired. And something else you weren’t going to name.

You couldn’t believe you’d ever imagined getting railed into oblivion by this man. Instead, you had to talk to him like he was a toddler. You had a feeling you were going to become a cautionary tale. A PSA about what happens when you move in with an incel.

You went on the date that Saturday anyway. It was fine. The guy was fine-ish — less fine after the weird-ass conversation you’d had with Satoru prior. You came home to find him on the couch, waiting. Expecting something. But neither of you said a word. You just went to your room, got into bed, and stared at the ceiling.

You were so fucking tired.

Tired of dates that were just fine. Tired of coming home to this. Tired of the whole thing.

So you cancelled the next one. And the one after that.

Men were mediocre anyway, you told yourself. You needed peace. You needed to stop cycling through low-value options — god, you couldn’t believe that phrase was living rent-free in your head now. You were going to find whatever podcast invented it and send the hosts very ugly, very threatening email.

And maybe the apartment really was full of questionable worldviews, because somewhere between the sexual marketplace value speeches and his creepy behavior, you developed one of your own.

You became morbidly into the idea of breaking his incel resolve. Like you’d accidentally discovered a new kink.

Not even in a romantic way. More like you’d started writing a very questionable mental screenplay about dismantling him piece by piece. Watching the podcast rot leak out of him in real time. Making the incel guy want you so badly he forgot every subreddit he was joined in, until he was pathetic enough to cry at your feet — and you weren’t even the dominant type!

Wasn’t there a term for that? There had to be. You’d read the fanfictions. You’d read the think pieces. And every time you’d wondered why women did this to themselves.

Now you knew exactly why.

It was like disaster tourism. Some people went to Chernobyl for the thrill. Some people chased storms. You were simply built different.

Because when a man looked you in the eye and said shit like, “It’s actually been studied. Women who wear revealing clothing in domestic settings are subconsciously signaling availability to increase their mate value. It’s an evolutionary response to competition,” and meant it — like he hadn’t just dropped full Andrew Tate shit on a random Wednesday night — you weren’t going to let it slide.

You were already stretched thin. And he was on very thin ice.

So you made a plan.

You were going to show him exactly what skimpy clothing did to a man like him. And you weren’t going to think too hard about why this was probably the stupidest idea you’d had in a while.

Because who would voluntarily wear less clothes when they could just put on three more layers to prove a point?

You, apparently.

You dug out the shorts you hadn’t worn since sophomore year. The ones that left half your ass out and the tank top that made your boobs look obscene. All to "prove a point."

Satoru was at the kitchen island when you walked in, like every morning.

You leaned against the counter, grabbed your yogurt from the fridge, and started eating your probiotic-balanced breakfast, like every morning.

He was still on his phone.

You were starting to think the plan had lowkey a flaw — mainly the part where he wasn’t even looking at you — when he stood up and walked over to the sink to put his mug away.

He reached past you.

The mug hit the bottom of the sink with a loud clang as he stood frozen and way too close. Staring at you with his mouth slightly open, ears going pink in real time as the color crept up from his jaw. He was looking at you exactly how you’d hoped he would… and now that it was actually happening, your stomach did a stupid little flip.

You went to put the spoon back in your mouth.

But your hand missed and the spoonful of Activia went down your chin, down your neck, and disappeared between your tits.

Satoru’s eyes followed it the whole way. You felt your nipples tighten under the thin fabric as he stared. Then his gaze dragged back up, slow,  before dropping to what you were wearing.

When he finally looked at your face again, his ears weren’t just pink anymore. They were red.

“Uh. Y-you have yogurt. On your—” He gestured vaguely at your chest. “—on your b-boobs.”

You stared at him. He stared back — at your face, at your chest, at your legs, everywhere.

“Yeah,” you said. “I noticed, ‘Toru.”

You grabbed a paper towel and dragged it slowly down your neck, then slipped your other arm under your boobs to lift them higher, making the cleanup easier for you and significantly harder for him. You could tell by the way he was squirming.

He swallowed. A loud, audible gulp in the quiet kitchen. His Adam’s apple bobbed like it was trying to escape.

“Right. G-good — you cleaned it up. I-it was very messy,” he managed to get out, voice a full octave lower and cracking at the end. His eyes were half-lidded, ears still burning red.

Then he fled. He turned so fast he clipped his hip on the doorframe and didn’t even react to the pain before disappearing down the hallway.

You felt victorious. You’d fried his alpha-male-rotted brain. You’d proven your point. You were the apex predator of this apartment!

But then you took a breath and noticed your hands were shaking.

Your nipples were still painfully hard against the thin fabric of your tank top. And there was a warm, insistent ache low in your belly, sending little shockwaves down to your toes.

Wait.

What the fuck.

You looked down at your chest, then at the empty doorway like he might still be there.

Why the hell were you horny?

You were supposed to be the disaster tourist here. You were supposed to be watching the meltdown from a safe distance. Disaster tourists didn’t usually get turned on by the radiation. They didn’t usually want the hazard to come back out of his room, pin them against the counter, and put his stupid big hands on their hips.

You threw the paper towel into the trash harder than necessary. It hit the side and did a pathetic little plop! pathetically to the floor.

You slammed your bedroom door and threw yourself onto the bed, burying your burning face in the pillows.

The plan had worked perfectly.

Even if you had to dig out your vibrator later just to make the weird tingling go away.

It was just a power trip. Just the adrenaline of winning. That’s all it was. Power trips made people horny. It was biology. It was science.

Take that, Satoru!

And oh, he took it.

Across the hallway, Satoru was melting into his mattress. A bruise was already forming where he’d slammed into the doorframe. The image of that yogurt dragging down between your tits was burned into his brain. He was throbbing, and it was fucking pathetic.

He tried jerking off like usual — fist tight, imagining you on your knees — but it wasn’t enough anymore. Hadn’t been for weeks, actually. His hand wasn’t cutting it.

So he reached into the back of his bottom drawer and pulled out the silicone toy he’d bought recently. He was embarrassed, but too worked up to care. At least now he could pretend it was your tight pussy he was fucking into.

It was a new low. He knew it was a new low. But he did it anyway, eyes squeezed shut as he used the fleshlight, imagining you on top of him, under him, beside him — it didn’t matter. Anything was better than coming on his own just from the memory of yogurt dripping down your skin.

But of course, once the post-nut clarity hit, he took the whole thing the completely wrong way.

Because really, what did you think was going to happen?

You thought parading around half-naked in front of a terminally online incel would make him fall to his knees and magically develop self-awareness?

No. Of course not.

He thought you did it on purpose. For him specifically.

And yeah, you did do it on purpose — just not for the reason he thought. You were trying to break his brain. Make a joke out of his worldview! Instead, all you did was make him hard for three days straight and give him a terrifying amount of hope.

It validated every single pseudo-scientific dating theory he’d ever read. In his mind, you weren’t mocking him. You were submitting to his superior frame. You were “signaling availability.”

You hadn’t broken his incel resolve. You’d accidentally reinforced it. Applause.

And now Satoru believed, with full Reddit-backed certainty, that he had won. He’d played the long game. He’d kept his alpha composure. And now the cute roommate in the tiny gym shorts was finally ready to yield.

And worst of all? He started being creepy on purpose.

Before, the hovering and staring had been unconscious. Now he was doing it with intention. It was time to “establish physical dominance” and “break the touch barrier,” according to whatever the fuck forum thread he’d absorbed that week. 

He started finding excuses to be near you — reaching past you for things he didn’t need just to brush his chest against your shoulder, leaving you wrapped in his scent. He’d sit too close on the couch, close enough that you could feel the heat coming off him.

And it was working. You hated that it was working.

Every time his hand brushed yours or his fingers grazed your waist, your skin broke out in goosebumps. You could feel yourself reacting to his nervous little attempts to mark his territory, and it was driving you insane.

You were sitting on the couch eating your well deserved Pad Thai straight out of the takeout box while a true-crime documentary played in the background.

Satoru emerged from his room, did his usual hover-routine like some awkward mating dance, and then sat down. Right next to you.

Without taking his eyes off the TV, he reached over and placed his hand on your bare thigh.

It was this weird twitchy movement between caress and a customs agent stamping a passport.

His fingers kept flexing like he was fighting the urge to either pull away or drag them higher. You sat frozen, staring down at his hand, silently daring it to move. Then mentally cursing yourself for even letting it happen in the first place.

A rush of heat flooded your chest and cheeks. It burned under his palm and shot straight down between your legs.

Ovulation. It’s just ovulation.

"Satoru," you said slowly. 

He was staring straight ahead at the TV, posture stiff as a board and he was even redder than you.

“What the hell are you doing?”

He flinched, yanking his hand back into his lap and hunching over. “N-nothing.”

He cleared his throat but didn’t move away. His knee stayed pressed against yours. He took a breath, puffing his chest out as he tried to reclaim his “alpha” frame, then glanced at you as you took a shaky bite of noodles.

“So,” he started again, voice slipping into that pseudo-intellectual podcast cadence that always made your eye twitch. “I was reading a thread today. About proximity and domestic investment.”

You didn't look at him, listened to the Ted Bundy facts coming from the documentary narrator. Chewed and brushed him off. "Fascinating."

“It actually is,” he continued, completely unbothered. He leaned back, stretching his arm along the back of the couch and caging you in. “Because it highlights the flaw in modern female psychology. Women always say they want a nice guy. Someone who provides stability. Someone who pays his bills on time, remembers to buy toilet paper, and keeps a clean, optimal living environment.”

He paused, letting the weight of his own perceived perfection hang in the air.

“But,” Satoru said, turning his head to look at you, eyes locking onto yours with that same entitled certainty, “when that exact man is sitting right in front of them, offering unwavering loyalty and a high-value domestic partnership, they stay willfully blind. They friendzone him. Tease him. Cycle through low-tier guys from dating apps instead. It’s biologically counterproductive.”

The only sound in the room was the dramatic music coming from the TV now. You dropped your chopsticks into the takeout box, which suddenly felt too heavy in your lap.

He was so confident in his entitlement it actually made you sick. It was ruining your fucking appetite.

He thought doing the bare minimum — acting like a decent human being with basic hygiene — earned him loyalty points he could cash in for sex. Like some kind of fucked-up grocery store rewards program.

You turned your body toward him fully, voice eerily quiet.

“Let me get this straight,” you said. “You’re sitting here, in our living room, getting mad at me because your nice-guy vending machine is broken?”

Satoru blinked, his brow furrowing like he genuinely didn’t understand what the problem was.

“I’m stating a statistical—”

“Shut up.”

The words came out sharp enough to cut. You weren’t playing anymore. One more podcast quote and you were going to rip the hair out of his stupidly pretty head.

His mouth snapped shut. He looked genuinely startled. You’d never told him to shut up before — not like that. You’d always just nodded, or rolled your eyes, or tuned him out.

“You think this is a transaction,” you said, eyes narrowing. “You think because you scrub the bathtub and pay your half of the rent on time, you’re earning points? You’re keeping score. You did the bare minimum and now you’re waiting for me to drop to my knees in gratitude like you were providing for me?”

“I am a provider,” he argued, chest puffing out even as his voice lost some of its usual arrogance. “I bring high value—”

“You bring decency at best!” you snapped, throwing your hands up. “Doing your own dishes doesn’t make you a high-value alpha male, Satoru. It makes you an adult. But you don’t actually care about being a good roommate. You’re just dressing your entitlement up as niceness and acting like I owe you something because you haven’t been actively terrible to me.”

“That’s not—” He reached up to adjust his glasses, a nervous habit you’d never seen from him before. “I’m just saying that logically, the optimal choice for you—”

“There is no logic!” you snapped, standing up before you did something stupid like strangle him. “You don’t even like me! You just think you’re owed me because I’m convenient and I live here!”

Satoru flinched. All the color drained from his face.

You stood over him, breathing hard, looking down at this gorgeous, six-foot-three idiot who was staring up at you like you’d just rewritten the laws of physics. He looked lost. Stupid. Like he didn’t know what to do with his hands.

“But you acted like—” he started, then caught himself, shoulders squaring like he was trying to hold onto his frame. “You know what, forget it. You’re just proving my point. A guy does everything right, stays consistent, stays present, and the girl just—” he gestured at you with a disbelieving laugh, “—moves the goalposts. We’ve been living together for months. Friends for just as long. I thought if I followed the steps exactly, I’d finally get to— we would— I don’t understand how this is supposed to work, okay?! How is a guy ever supposed to figure it out if the steps are a lie and I haven’t even—”

“Satoru.”

He stopped. Mouth snapped shut. The tips of his ears suddenly burned bright red.

The realization hit you like a bucket of cold water.

Oh my fucking god.

You’d suspected it once or twice, but the thought had always flickered and died. Now it all clicked into place.

He’d never gotten his dick wet.

Your roommate was a six-foot-three virgin who thought turning to men who felt entitled to sex was a reasonable solution to his problems. What an absolute fucking mess. You almost felt sorry for him.

Almost.

“You’re an incredibly good-looking guy, Satoru,” you said quietly. Sincerely. “Objectively hot. Get your shit together, touch some grass, and you’ll be fine. You’ll be more than fine. But until you stop treating women like a math test you’re trying to cheat on, nobody is going to want you.”

You shattered his ego completely.

Or maybe, for the first time since puberty, Satoru actually formed a conscious, self-aware thought. Because he kept turning your words over in his head.

Objectively hot.

No one is going to want you.

What?

He tried to find the logical flaws. Tried to insert a counterargument, disprove your “emotional outburst” with cold data. He couldn’t find one. Not for days.

You were avoiding him completely now. Icing him out. Not talking to him. Not even looking at him. It was driving him insane. You used to search for his eyes, even if it was just to roll them. He’d only just realized how genuine your flustered blinking had been, and now he missed it. Embarrassingly so.

One night he walked into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face, carrying a petty mix of rejection, confusion, and constant, unbearable horniness.

Your pink hair tie was sitting on the edge of the sink.

He told himself he was just going to pick it up and put it in your organizer tray.

So he picked it up. It smelled like your stupid, intoxicating strawberry shampoo. He hated it. Hated how the whole bathroom smelled like you after you showered. Hated how your scent followed you everywhere in the apartment, forcing him to breathe you in. The guys on Reddit had warned him about this. Pheromones. Dangerous.

He brought it closer to his face. Just to check. Just in case it wasn’t actually yours.

And what happened next stayed strictly between Satoru, the bathroom mirror, and god.

He clutched the sink, bracing himself against it, breathing ragged and humiliatingly loud. He stared down at the pretty pink elastic wrapped tight around the base of his cock as he fucked his fist like he was trying to punish himself, desperately trying to imagine your hands instead of his own.

It worked too well. It scared him.

He came hard, so so hard the hair tie ended up coated in thick, frothy cum.

He carefully nudged the sticky pink tie back onto the edge of the sink, exactly where he’d found it. Then he washed his hands under scalding water like he was trying to burn the shame off his skin and walked out of the bathroom like a man fleeing a crime scene.

Rejuvenated? No.

Good? Not even close.

He just felt like absolute shit.

Get your shit together.

But how?

He picked up his phone. Put it down. Picked it up again. The fight was still eating him alive. The podcasts told him to take his frustration out on other girls or channel it into dominance and detachment. That’s what the current episode would’ve said.

But he didn’t want that. He didn’t want to sleep with anyone else. He didn’t want to be aggressive. He just… wanted.

And that was the problem.

For the first time in a long time, the alpha-male bullshit was starting to feel a bit too beta now. He was left with his own feelings like a normal person, and it was awful.

If he was truly a high-value male, he shouldn’t care. He should pivot. Download an app. Find some new, compliant girl to validate his stats. But the thought of calculating the facial harmony of a stranger made his stomach turn. He didn’t want a hypothetical female.

He wanted you.

He wanted you rolling your eyes at him. Laughing at him. Getting annoyed at him. Eating his pasta. Walking around in those mind-melting shorts. He wanted you to drop yogurt on yourself again just so he could lick it off your skin, linger on your neck, and kiss you stupid — the way he’d been fantasizing about since it actually happened.

He needed validation. He needed to be right.

His thumbs moved across the screen before he could stop himself. He ignored his usual echo-chamber subreddits and opened r/AmItheAsshole instead.

r/AmItheAsshole 

AITA for expecting my roommate (F) to reciprocate my (M) romantic advances after I provided optimal domestic value?

Throwaway. This is gonna sound bad but I need actual advice.

I (M) have been living with my roommate (F) for almost a year now. I’m not gonna lie, I’m objectively good-looking and I’ve been carrying a lot in this apartment. I pay my half on time, I keep shit clean, I do the dishes, I even cook sometimes. I thought I was doing everything right.

A few weeks ago she started walking around in these tiny shorts and tank tops. Like, really small. I took it as her signaling that she was open to something. That’s what all the advice says — if a girl starts dressing like that around you, it’s usually because she’s comfortable and maybe interested. So I decided to initiate kino escalation. Nothing crazy at first, just trying to break the touch barrier a bit.

While we were watching something on the couch I put my hand on her thigh. She freaked out. Got really upset and started yelling at me about how I was treating her like a transaction and that I only did nice things because I felt entitled to her. She even said I was basically calling her ran-through for going on dates.

I tried to explain it calmly. Like, statistically, if a high-value guy is right there doing everything right, why would she keep going on dates with random dudes from apps? It just doesn’t make sense. She told me to touch grass and hasn’t really spoken to me since.

I don’t get it. I’ve been consistent, I’ve been present, I’ve been providing a good living situation. I thought that was supposed to count for something. Instead she acted like I was the asshole for expecting anything in return.

AITA?

He hit post.

He sat in the dark on his bed, heart pounding like it was trying to escape his chest. He just had to wait. The logical thinkers would show up. They’d validate him with proper, objective analysis. They had to.

Ten minutes later, the notifications started rolling in.

He opened them expecting vindication.

Instead, he walked straight into a digital firing squad.

u/GrassToucherGeto · 308 upvotes

YTA. Holy shit. You did a handful of nice things and you think that means she owes you sex? You sound like an actual sociopath. I’m surprised she didn’t run out screaming. She literally told you to get your shit together. What part of that are you not getting?

u/KentoTheNormalGuy · 291 upvotes

You're not alpha, man. Kino escalation? Are you trying to con her, or actually want her to want you? YTA.

u/NobaraJustice24 · 282 upvotes

YTA.  She can wear whatever the fuck she wants in her own home, you creepy ass weirdo. I hope she breaks the lease and gets a restraining order. 

u/RealityCheckChoso · 156 upvotes

This is the most pathetic thing I’ve read on this site in eleven years. This is straight-up incel fanfiction. Poor girl having to live with someone like you. YTA. Go outside.

u/yuji_8847362 · 124  upvotes

Genuine question, not trying to be an asshole: do you actually like her, or do you just think she owes you because you did some nice things? Those are two very different things, and your post doesn’t seem to understand the difference. YTA, but I hope you figure it out.

u/KingNaoya69 · 231  downvotes

NTA. She’s clearly testing you. The clothes were an invitation. Hold your ground, don’t apologize, and she’ll come around. Women don’t respect men who grovel. If she actually didn’t want you she would’ve moved out already. She’s still there, isn’t she?

Satoru stared at the screen in disbelief.

He’d expected validation. Maybe a few reasonable voices cutting through the noise, acknowledging the statistical validity of his position, maybe even offering some tactical advice.

Instead, he got hit with minus three thousand downvotes, a mod-locked thread, and three DMs telling him to go to therapy.

He thought it would give him clarity. Clear steps. A way to fix this mess.

It didn’t.

It just made him feel… nothing. Except for the creeping realization that he’d said something eerily similar to what u/KingNaoya69 had posted. Recently. Maybe even last week.

He threw his glasses off and stared into the middle distance.

What the fuck was he supposed to do?

He had no idea.

The days that followed were miserable. You were giving him the coldest shoulder imaginable — and honestly, he deserved it. You were weaponizing the silence. Slamming doors. Giving short, pointed answers. Moving through the apartment like he was just another piece of furniture. Looking through him instead of at him.

He kept going back to the comments on his post, rereading them like he could find a loophole somewhere.

Yes, of course he liked you. But how was he supposed to want nothing from you if he liked you? He wanted your affection. He wanted you to want him back. But wasn’t that also expecting something in return? What the hell was he supposed to do?

Still… the Naoya guy had been weirdly right about one thing. You stayed. You hadn’t moved out. You didn’t even seem like you wanted to. If you hated him that much, why were you still here?

On the nth day, he was sitting on the couch when you came out of your room for water. You glanced at him — just for a second. You couldn’t help it. The silent treatment was getting to you too, even if you’d never admit it.

Your eyes were hard to read, but there was something in them. Something expectant. Like you were waiting for him to do something. To fix it. To stop being an idiot so the two of you could move on.

Oh, he thought.

Truly the lightbulb moment of the century.

Oh.

That night he unjoined six subreddits. Unfollowed every podcast except Joe Rogan — because hey, you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. Or was it unteach a new dog old tricks? Didn’t matter. What mattered was that for the first time since he’d discovered the internet, he was pretty sure he’d been an idiot.

And he was going to stop.

He made a plan. Simple. Walk out of his room, find you, and say sorry. Three steps. He’d been a person for over twenty years. He could do three steps. He had this!

You were in the kitchen. You were standing on the flimsy little step stool you needed to reach the top cabinet shelves, stretching up on your tiptoes for the glass Tupperware that Satoru kept putting up there, even though you had told him multiple times not to put it up there because you literally could not reach it.

"Hey," he said from the doorway, trying not to startle you. "Can we—"

You startled anyway, because what other outcome was ever going to happen here.

The stool wobbled under your socks. You gasped, swore something, grabbed for a shelf edge that wasn't there, and fully expected to eat the kitchen floor tiles before officially murdering your roommate from the afterlife.

But Satoru had surprisingly fast reflexes and caught you.

Well… almost.

He lost his balance as your weight shifted, and the two of you went down in a tangle of limbs and terrible timing.  The impact knocked the wind right out of your lungs. You landed sprawled over him, pressed against his chest, his arms secured instinctively around you—

Around your boobs.

You froze. He froze. The entire world seemed to fucking froze.

And as you laid there, from the adrenaline shock of it all probably, his fingers did a little squish!

Huh.

You didn't say anything. You couldn't breathe, let alone speak. You slowly turned your head. His face was right there and so, so close to yours. You panicked and looked into his equally panicked eyes, his poor glasses askew.

He was searching for something in your eyes, his pupils blown so wide they almost swallowed the blue. And then, as his chest was still heaving so heavily, his gaze dropped down to your lips.

You were suddenly very aware— Aware of his warm palms right through the thin fabric of your shirt. Aware of the way your tits swelled into his touch. Aware of how his thighs bracketed your hips, and how perfectly you fit against him.

His breath hitched. And then his fingers flexed. He made a soft, barely-there sound in the back of his throat and squeezed again — slower this time. Kneading right over your hardened nipples.

You parted your lips for a soundless gasp, and he huffed into your collarbone as the trance finally broke.

His arms slowly retreated, lazily dragged down your ribs, fingers grazing the soft of your tummy before finally falling away to rest on the floor, which somehow made it all worse.

"I—" His voice came out rough, barely above a whisper.

You scrambled off him like you had been electrocuted.

You sprinted down the hallway and threw yourself into your room, slamming the door behind you. You backed up until you hit something, you didn’t even care what, and slid down to the floor, knees pulled to your chest.

Your heart was pounding so hard it hurt. Your skin was buzzing. The ghost of his touch was still burning across your chest.

I fucking hate him, you told yourself. He’s a podcast-rotted incel. I hate him.

…Do you?

Because why the fuck had you wanted his hands to stay there? Why had that second squeeze made you want to straddle him right there on the kitchen tiles and fuck him stupid?

You were just touch-starved. That’s all this was. You were projecting onto your terrible roommate because he was being a sleazy little shit.

You grabbed your phone off the nightstand with shaking hands and unlocked it.

Hinge.

Your ol’ friend.

You needed a date. You needed a normal, boring, completely average guy with a decent hairline and zero opinions on hypergamy to save you from whatever the hell had just happened in that kitchen.

You were in your room getting ready for your date, dressed to kill. Short dress, favorite lace panties — because after everything that happened in the kitchen, you were still weirdly, persistently horny. Might as well try to do something about it with someone normal.

Satoru was lingering in the hallway like always, doing his very obvious not-hovering hover.

"Going out?" he asked, clearing his throat, trying to act so aloof and unbothered.

You didn't even look at him properly. "Yeah. I have a date," you said smugly as you pulled your hair up into a ponytail. Hair down meant cute, but hair up meant business. And by business, I mean finally attempting to jump on some normal, average dick.

The second the words left your mouth, a wave of jealousy hit him so hard it nearly knocked the air out of his lungs. But he wasn’t looking at your face. He was staring at the pink hair tie holding your hair up.

He visibly gulped. His dick went from zero to painfully hard so fast he had to cross his legs just to hide it.

You furrowed your eyebrow at the uncharacteristic lack of response, but wasn’t entirely mad about it either.

"See ya," you chirped, completely oblivious to his internal meltdown, and walked out the front door.

The second the door shut, Satoru basically teleported to his room. He threw himself onto his bed, already fumbling with his pants, desperate to take care of the problem so he could think straight again.

But he spent exactly thirty minutes achieving absolutely nothing. What the fuck.

This had never happened before. Satoru was just staring at his ceiling, sweating, furiously gripping his aching dick, and completely unable to finish. Every time he closed his eyes, he imagined you laughing at some beta joke a 100% mediocre guy had made, while his past-tense cum was proudly sitting in your hair. He was literally too jealous to finish.

But jealous or not, he was still agonizingly hard, his dick standing painfully stiff against his stomach, stubbornly refusing to just calm the fuck down. He let out a frustrated groan. Okay. Fine. No hand? No problem! He reached for the silicone fleshlight, but he hadn't washed it in quite a while, and when he picked it up, a funky smell drifted off it.

Okay, NEVER MIND.

Which left him with only one option.

Today’s the day.

He reached into the back of his bottom drawer again and pulled out a silicone cock ring.

He had bought it right after he absolutely demolished your cute little hair tie. Because what does a normal guy do in that situation? Grovel first? Solve the underlying interpersonal issue? Nah. He goes on r/sex to research why a piece of elastic felt so hella good around his dick!

He hadn’t touched it since. Post-nut clarity had done its job last time. But right now, staring down at his aching, neglected cock and feeling rejected, humiliated, and completely alone… it was time.

Fuck it.

He ripped open the packaging and wrestled the thick silicone down his shaft until it sat snug at the base.

Almost immediately, something felt off.

It was tight. Too tight. Not in a good way — just uncomfortable. Constricting. He tried to power through anyway, closing his eyes and stroking like he could force an orgasm out of sheer spite.

Ten minutes passed.

Nothing.

His brain was too far gone, and the pressure was quickly shifting from weird to genuinely concerning.

Fuck this.

He stopped. Tried to take it off. But it didn’t budge.

Satoru blinked. He adjusted his grip and pulled harder. The skin stretched painfully, but the ring stayed exactly where it was.

Oh fuck.

A cold sweat broke out across his forehead. 

Oh fuck, oh fuck.

He scrambled off the bed, grabbed his lube, and squeezed way too much directly onto the ring. He tugged and twisted like his life depended on it.

Nothing. Fucking nothing. It just made his hands uselessly slippery.

Okay, oh fuck. Wasn't lube supposed to work?! Okay, new plan. Something else, something more slippery, something more oily—

Panic seizing him, he stumbled to the bathroom, dug under the sink, found your baby oil, and slathered it on.

Still stuck.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Shit.

Different oil! Not enough slipperiness! Trust the process!

So he waddled out of the bathroom, practically sprinting into the kitchen buck naked. He tore open the pantry, grabbing the vegetable oil. 

This has to work.

It did not work.

Ten minutes later, Satoru was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, coated in a slick, highly flammable mixture of lube, Johnson & Johnson baby oil, and Wesson canola oil, panting heavily. 

Dick throbbing, but not the fun kind of throbbing anymore. It was turning a terrifying shade of angry red-purple, the silicone death trap literally suffocating his junior.

It was no longer just uncomfortable, nor just alarmingly stuck. At this point, it was a fucking medical emergency. 

He was so fucked he might be patient zero of mpreg.

But what the hell was he supposed to do?

Call an ambulance?

Absolutely not. 

The thought of a paramedic cutting a sex toy off him with trauma shears while asking for his emergency contact would genuinely kill him on the spot. He would rather die of necrosis.

Call his friends? 

Fuck no.

If any of them found out about this, the screenshots would never die. They’d revoke his alpha card permanently and hold it over his head for the rest of his life.

He stared at his contacts.

There was only one person who could help without turning it into blackmail material or posting it online. The one person who lived in this apartment. The one person who was currently out on a date with some random guy. The person he had a massive, pathetic crush on and who would probably rather rip his dick off than help him.

He hit Call.

You stirred your gin and tonic while your date went on about his fantasy football draft like it was the most fascinating thing in the world. It was a perfectly fine date! The kind of fine that made you wonder why you even bothered.

You were nodding along, even though you had stopped listening roughly four minutes ago. Then, your phone vibrated on the table.

Satoru.

You ignored it. No, actually—you declined it. You smiled sweetly at your date, asked a vague question about tight ends so you would seem like you were actually paying attention, and took a sip of your drink.

Your phone buzzed again. And again. And again.

Annoyed, you held up a finger to the poor guy who was currently rating wide receivers, excused yourself, and off to the bathroom, fully prepared to yell.

“What?” you hissed the second you picked up. “I’m on a date, Satoru. If you locked yourself out—”

"Please come home," he gasped. He didn't even say hello. He didn't sound aloof, and he certainly didn't sound alpha. He actually sounded like he was drawing his final breaths on this earth. "You have to come home. Right now."

"What happened? Did something catch fire? Did someone break in? Are you—"

“I can’t tell you,” he whined, voice high and shaky in a way you’d never heard from him before. “I physically can’t say it out loud. Just— please. Please come home.”

You were ninety percent sure this was some pathetic attempt to ruin your night. Some last-ditch manipulation tactic he’d picked up from a podcast or Reddit thread.

But the remaining ten percent made you ditch your date without a second thought and jump into an Uber.

You practically kicked the front door open, your heart hammering. The apartment was completely quiet, and it smelled all wrong.

Like babies and an industrial air fryer?

"Satoru?" you called out, dropping your bag. "Where are you? The apartment better be fucking flooding, or else I swear to God—"

A pained, muffled whimper came from down the hall. His bedroom door was cracked open so you pushed it wide, fully prepared to absolutely tear him a new one for ruining your night.

Satoru was sitting on the edge of his bed, completely naked, perched on a bath towel soaked through with some kind of glistening sludge. He was trembling, sweating, aggressively gripping the mattress. And his dick — very visibly, very aggressively hard — was pointing straight at you.

"Are you fucking kidding me?!"

You exploded the second you saw him, because an impromptu dick is still an impromptu dick! “Some pathetic plan to finally fuck me? You couldn’t even be decent about it — you just called me home so you could sit here with your cock out?!”

You expected some sleazy line. Some smug little smirk. Instead, Satoru looked up at you with wide, tear-filled eyes behind his smudged glasses and let out a broken, wet sob.

"I'm not—" his voice cracked terribly. "I'm stuck."

Huh?

Furrowing your eyebrows, you stopped yelling and your eyes actually dropped down.

And then your stomach dropped with them.

Wait. Oh. He was so, so large.

But that wasn’t the problem. His dick was an angry, swollen red-purple, veins bulging like it had its own heartbeat. And at the base was a thick silicone ring, cutting into him so tightly it looked like it might actually burst.

And all the anger drained out of you in an instant. Suddenly, you felt the harsh reality of the literal medical horror you were now a part of. 

"Oh my god. Satoru... what is going on?!"

“Fuck, it hurts— please help me,” he whined, voice cracking as he bounced his leg against the floor like that would somehow fix anything.

You stepped closer, the sheer absurdity of the situation making you drop to your knees between his spread thighs just to get a proper look. It was incredibly stupid and deeply awkward, being this close to his swollen, shiny dick.

“Is that… a cock ring?” you asked, horrified.

Satoru nodded frantically, a tear slipping down his cheek and dripping off his jaw.

"Satoru, you know there is a fucking size chart to these things?! You can’t just buy anything with the size of your dick! Are you fucking stupid?!"

"HOW SHOULD I KNOW?!" he wailed, hands flying up to cover his face in absolute humiliation. "Wait—" He suddenly froze, lowering his hands just enough to look at you. "Did you just say I have a big dick? Wait. Fuck. OUCH. It just fucking hurts! Please, please help me, I've tried everything but it just won't budge! It hurts so much!"

You squinted at the shiny, slick mess coating his thighs and soaking into the bath towel. "Did you try lube?"

 "Yes!" 

"Baby oil?" 

"Yes!" 

"Did you... did you use the cooking oil from the kitchen?!"

 "YES! FUCK!" he sobbed into his hands again.

"Why did you even put it on?!" you yelled back, genuinely baffled by his astronomical stupidity.

“I was horny, what else?!” he cried and shook his hands. “You left with the cum tie in your hair—”

“THE WHAT?!”

Your hands froze in the air. Your brain forcefully restarted about three times trying to process the sequence of syllables he had just screamed at you.

The cum tie.

You suddenly felt the gentle pull of the pink elastic holding up your ponytail. The one that was your favorite. The one you had idly wondered before why it was suddenly so... crusty.

"You..." you whispered, a cold wave of fresh nausea washing over you. "You did what to my hair tie?"

“I didn’t mean to!” he sobbed, face red and streaked with tears. “I couldn’t stop thinking about you, and I used it, and then you put it in your hair to go out with the guy and it made me crazy so I put the ring on!”

Your hand twitched toward your ponytail. You were going to rip it out. Burn it. Shave your head. And then murder him. A jury would probably let you off in seconds.

But then you looked down. His dick might actually pop! like a grease-filled water balloon. There was no time.

You took a deep, slightly deranged breath and shoved every horrifying thought into a box for later. You could have a full meltdown about having his reproductive fluids in your hair as an accessory after you made sure his dick didn’t fall off.

You aggressively ignored his stare, locking your eyes entirely on the crisis. "Okay. Okay, I've got this. This is a medical emergency."

Your brain started racing. You couldn't cut it off without risking severing something vital, you certainly weren’t a doctor, and the swelling was so so severe to just pull the ring back over the ridge. You knelt there, suddenly arriving at a horrifying conclusion that you were going to need a serious moment to accept.

Because there was only one way to get it off. And the only way to get it off was to get rid of the erection.

You had to make him cum.

“Okay,” you muttered. Then again. And again. Like repeating it would make it feel less insane. “W-we just need to… get it down.”

You bit your lip, giving yourself the quickest, most productive, and most threatening internal TED Talk in human history. Your hands twitched, but you finally reached out and wrapped them around his oil-slicked shaft.

“AGH— FUCK— NO!” Satoru immediately jerked back like you’d electrocuted him, slamming against the mattress.

"What the hell?! I barely touched it!"

“The skin’s too tight!” he cried out, practically hyperventilating. “It feels like a razor blade— you can’t use your hands, it hurts too much!”

You tried again anyway, slower this time, gripping him carefully. The skin was burning hot, painfully stretched over the trapped blood. You gave one experimental stroke.

“No— no no no, please stop—” His voice broke into a real whimper as fresh tears spilled down his face. He pushed at your shoulders, legs shaking. “Please, I can’t— it hurts so fucking bad—”

You yanked your hands back, heart pounding as your own panic officially set in. "THEN WHAT ELSE?!"

“I DON’T KNOW! I thought you might know!”

"HOW SHOULD I KNOW?!"

A beat of deafening silence fell over the grease-scented bedroom. You looked at him. Then down at the problem between his legs.

Wait—

Your brain scrambled for literally any other fucking solution. Ice? Cutting it completely off? Calling 911 and collectively dying of embarrassment on the spot?

Nothing. 

There was nothing else.

God fucking help you. You might as well die from the cringe right here on the floor.

You stared down at his lengthy cock again. It was a pathetic mix of pre-cum against his oil-slicked stomach. Satoru was breathing in short, panicked gasps, tears still tracking down his flushed cheeks, glasses fogged and crooked, looking totally helpless.

“No,” you whispered to the empty space between his thighs, stomach twisting with reluctant acceptance. Coming to terms with your own fate. Girl, it’s your fault. Your fate had been sealed the second you decided to find a roommate on Reddit. “No, no, no.”

“What?” Satoru whimpered through his teeth, barely audible. “What ‘no’?”

If your hands were completely off the table…

A wave of heat flooded your face and dropped straight into your belly. Surely from disgust. Trust.

You shifted forward on your knees, your dress dragging through the oily mess on the floor. The fabric was already ruined and sticking to your skin. You braced one hand on his trembling thigh, leaned in, and took the swollen head of his cock into your mouth.

The taste was vile as hell.

Canola oil, baby oil, lube, and the bitter salt of his pre-cum all hit your tongue at once. You made a muffled, disgusted sound around him as your lips stretched and you sank down. The mixture mixed with your saliva and slid down your throat as he pushed deeper than you expected.

Satoru’s entire body jolted as the mushroomy head hit the back of your mouth.

“Whoa— oh my fucking god—” His voice cracked into a broken, high moan. His stomach flexed like he was trying not to fold in half. Both of his hands flew to your hair, oily fingers catching in your ponytail, clutching without quite pushing or pulling. I mean, you already had cum in your hair anyway. What was a little more oil and lube?

His hips twitched. His thighs trembled under your hand. He clearly had no idea what to do with himself.

You started moving, and it was messy from the first second.

Everything was slippery. Your lips kept sliding, saliva mixing with the grease until it dripped down his shaft in shiny, frothy strings. You had to suck harder just to keep any kind of rhythm, cheeks hollowing, tongue working in messy circles under the head every time you pulled up. The wet sounds filled the room — slick sucking, soft gagging when you took him too deep, his broken little whimpers.

You hated the taste.

You hated how your knees already ached against the hard floor.

You hated that your dress was ruined, soaked through and sticking to your skin.

And you hated the way he was looking down at you — in pain, in complete disbelief that you were actually sucking him off.

ANd what you really hated the most was that you were looking up at him while you mouth was licking him up and your body was already starting to betray you.

Tingly heat was spreading low in your belly. Every throb along his length, every broken moan that slipped out of him, made you wetter. You weren’t supposed to be horny! You should’ve been so so disgusted. But the scent of him, the taste of his pre-cum coating your tongue, made your pussy clench around nothing. Your nipples were hard, rubbing against the inside of your dress. Your cunt felt hot and slick — whether from your own arousal or the oily sludge on the floor, you genuinely couldn’t tell anymore.

You bobbed deeper, taking him until your nose brushed the base and the ring dug into your skin, then pulled back with a wet gasp. A thick and slimy string of saliva and oil connected your lips to his cock before it broke.

Satoru was staring down at you like you’d personally broken his brain.

His chest was heaving. Tears were still leaking from the corners of his eyes — pain, pleasure, or the sheer absurdity of the situation, it didn’t matter. His mouth hung open, glasses sliding down his nose.

Then his eyes dropped to your chest.

His gaze followed the way your dress had slipped lower during all the movement. Your tits were threatening to spill out completely. He made a strangled sound in the back of his throat.

His hands left your hair and reached down. Big, warm palms cupped your breasts through the thin fabric first — almost careful. But then he yanked the neckline down hard, dragging the fabric under your arms, practically rrrrripping it open, until your tits spilled free.

A fresh tear tracked down his cheek as he stared at them like they were something holy.

“Holy fuck— your tits—” he breathed, cupping them fully. His thumbs brushed over your hard nipples before he started kneading with desperate, greedy hands. Squeezing, lifting, rolling the soft flesh between his fingers exactly like he had in the kitchen — except this time there was nothing holding him back, because you certainly wouldn’t make him stop. 

The moan you let out around his cock was involuntary and absolutely nobody’s business, alright? Your teeth grazed his sensitive skin and the vibration, combined with the impromptu bite, made his hips jerk violently. He let out a breathless gasp, hands tightening on your boobs almost painfully before he loosened his grip again, thumbs flicking over your nipples in a way that sent sparks straight between your legs.

The lace of your panties was useless now, clinging to your soaked pussy lips.

But the dress had become a real problem, at least that’s what you were telling yourself. It was restricting your movement, getting in the way every time you tried to take him deeper. It was uncomfortable as hell, which was actually true.

You pulled off his cock with a wet pop!, lips shiny and swollen.

Fuck this dress. And probably him too.

You sat back on your heels and yanked it over your head, kicking it away. Now you were kneeling in nothing but your ruined lace panties — the ones you’d specifically worn because you were hoping to get laid tonight.

Well. You weren’t entirely wrong, now were you?

Satoru made a sound like he’d been punched in the gut. His wildest dream had just come true in the most deranged way possible.

You leaned back in and took him into your mouth again, sucking with more purpose now. One hand stayed wrapped around the base near the ring while your other hand stroked his thigh and lower stomach — anywhere to try and soothe him.

His clammy hands were right back on your bare tits, rolling them between his fingers like he was trying to memorize their exact shape. You moaned around him because it felt so fucking good. Unfairly good.

The taste was still awful. The room still reeked of canola oil. Satoru was still quietly crying above you — overwhelmed, terrified, and so turned on he could barely think straight. But the way he was touching you, the way he was falling apart in your mouth…

You were dripping straight through the lace right onto his fucking floor.

One of your hands snaked down your body. You pushed your panties aside and started rubbing desperate circles over your poor clit while you kept sucking him.

What a development. 

Righteous ideologies and all. Now you were naked on the floor of your incel roommate’s bedroom, sucking his cock while fingering yourself. Truly the most progressive way to handle this type of man.

Your pussy felt hot and aching. Your fingers slid through your own slick, making your hips twitch and another moan vibrate around his dick.

Satoru’s breathing sounded like a kettle about to boil over. His hands kept slipping on your oily skin, smearing the mess across your chest and shoulders. He was trapped in the most surreal, humiliating, perfect moment of his life — your mouth on him, you naked and touching yourself while the whole room smelled like a deep fryer.

He was half-sobbing, half-moaning.

“You’re— nghh— you’re actually getting off while—” His voice cracked as he looked down at you. You glanced up through your lashes, a little scowl on your flushed face, fingers still working between your legs.

You couldn’t even be embarrassed anymore. The absurdity had burned straight through your shame. You were horny. Stupidly, painfully horny. It was all too much and not enough at the same time.

Filthy sounds filled the room. He was crying. You were crying. Sweat was mixing with the oily mess coating your skin. You could taste your own tears mixed with the mess on his cock as they slid down your face. One of his hands was tangled in your ponytail, greasing it up nice and disgusting.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” he choked out, voice hoarse. “I can’t— ngh— I can’t believe this is real—”

You pulled off just enough to breathe. “Shut up and let me finish this,” you muttered, then sank back down, taking him as deep as the ring would allow.

His other hand relocated to your shoulder.

Then his dick throbbed hard against your tongue. Swelling, twitching and you knew he was about to blow.

You started to pull back, but his hands moved faster. One fisted tighter in your hair, the other gripped your shoulder hard. He held you in place. Rough. Desperate. But he didn’t mean to!

You made a surprised, muffled sound around him as his hips jerked.

“W-wait—fuck—I’m—!” he gasped, betrayed by his own body.

You felt the first big pulse against your tongue.

You manage to wrench your head back at the last second because there was no way in hell you were swallowing a mixture of cum and baby oil — popping off just in time. But it was too late to get completely clear.

Satoru came hard.

The first thick rope hit you across the cheek and lips. The next few painted messy white stripes across your chin, your chest, and down your neck. It kept cooooming in hot, twitchy pulses until he’d almost emptied his aching balls.

And suddenly you were back in the kitchen. Only this time it wasn’t a freaking Activia dripping down your tits.

It was him.

You stumbled backward onto your ass, cum cooling on your skin as he finally let go of you. You wiped the back of your hand across your cheek, smearing it further. He just stared down at you like he’d died and gone to heaven — you, sprawled on his floor, covered in his cum, panties twisted half-off your hips, your blushing cunt smiling up right at him and your panicked eyes unblinking.

Holy fucking nirvana, right there.

You felt disgusting. You felt filthy.

And somehow, you were still throbbing between your legs.

“Fuck— shit, fuck, fuck!” Satoru cursed, trying to stand up too fast. He slipped on the oily towel and nearly ate shit before catching himself on the edge of the bed. “Oh my god, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to hold you there, I just— it was too much, I panicked—”

He stumbled toward you on shaky legs, one hand reaching out like he was going to help you up, the other still hovering near his softening cock.

“Satoru,” you said, voice low. “Pull it off.”

He froze for half a second, then looked down.

And it was finally, finally softening. The angry red-purple was fading. The skin wasn’t stretched as tight anymore and there was a very small, very dangerous window before he’d be hard again and back in square one.

His eyes lit up with desperate hope. He grabbed the cock ring with both hands and yanked.

The sound that tore out of him was somewhere between a sob and a scream. It was violent, painful, and made you cringe so so badly. The ring caught on the ridge for one horrible second before it finally slipped off with a wet smack and skidded across the floor.

For a moment, Satoru just knelt there, breathing hard through the fading pain. Fresh tears tracked down his flushed face as the relief finally hit him.

Then he looked at you. Really looked. At the mess he’d made across your pretty face and chest. At the absolute state of the room. At everything.

“I’m the worst,” he whispered. “I know I’m the worst. You should kick me out. You should call the cops. I didn’t mean to make it worse. You probably hate me—”

He looked like he was about to start ugly crying for real. His shoulders were shaking as he braced himself for you to slap him.

And look — you wanted to. You wanted to go back in time so you would’ve never answered that fucking Reddit post, never answered his call, never come home tonight. r maybe… go back just a little bit. To when your tongue was sliding over his frenulum and you’d never been so turned on in your life.

Either way, you weren’t sure anymore. Your brain was more scrambled than the eggs you’d had for breakfast.

So instead of slapping him, you surged forward, grabbed his face with both of your hands, smearing his cum and your own arousal all over his jawline and kissed him hard enough to shut him up.

For half a second he stayed completely frozen — stunned that you were kissing him instead of murdering him on the spot. You nudged your tongue against his lips, urging him to kiss you back, because the last thing you needed right now was sucking your incel roommate off and then having him refuse to kiss you afterward. That would’ve been a new low. Truly historic.

But then he let out a shaky breath and kissed you back.

He kissed you desperately, messily, like he was trying to crawl inside your mouth. Saliva, cum, tears, and oil all mixed together as your tongues slid against each other. Teeth clicked. His hands came up to grab your waist, pulling you closer until your chest pressed against his own. He whimpered needily into your mouth and tangled his tongue with yours like he was starving for it.

His glasses got knocked even more crooked.

When you finally pulled back to breathe, you reached down and started yanking your ruined lace panties off. They were twisted around your thighs and sticking to your skin from all the mess.

Satoru, still breathing hard and clearly trying to regain some sense of control, decided this was THE moment, HIS moment to be useful.

“Here— let me help,” he muttered, reaching down with both hands.

The two of you fumbled together in some weird horny trance, his fingers sliding against your thigh as he tried to tug the lace down your leg.

But his hand slid right off your slick skin and he lost his balance completely. With a startled gasp! he pitched forward and crashed down right on top of you, pinning you to the floor.

His full weight pressed you into the cold hardwood. Chest to chest, hips slotted between your thighs. The kisses making him hard again, dick now twitching insistently against your tummy.

Then Satoru lifted his head from the crook of your neck and looked down at you. His hair was a mess, but there was something almost determined in his expression now.

“I’ve got it,” he said. Yeah. He definitely  got this. He’d seen the porn. He’d read the r/sex threads. He was a man, the man! He knew exactly what he was supposed to do. Fluent in the dickology! Show you what a high-value male can do. You'll respect it. You’ll want it!

You stared up at him and raised one eyebrow.“…Are you sure?”

He looked faintly offended, but reached between your bodies anyway, grabbed his cock, and lined himself up against your slick folds. The blunt head nudged against your entrance before he pushed in with one unsteady thrust and you were honestly surprised he found your hole on a first try.

The stretch was intense. His cock bullied its way into your tight cunt, the sudden fullness making your back arch slightly off the floor. And it made you think that maybe… just maybe he’s a virgin incel but he somehow actually knows how to fuck?

Satoru made a choked sound above you. He braced his hands on either side of your head and started moving, a little too fast, a little too rough, like he was following some mental checklist of “how alpha males fuck” or something. 

His hips snapped forward, rolling against yours. On a few of his clumsy thrusts, the sharp angle of his hipbone dragged right across your swollen clit.

A spark of pleasure shot right through you, made your breath hitch and his dick catch inside of you. Your fingers scratched on his shoulders and for a second you were hopeful, hopeful that perhaps incels were just involuntarily celibate men with a dick game like this.

It died almost instantly. His rhythm fell apart just as the plushy walls of your pussy fully enveloped him fully in the slick warmth. His movement turned erratic as his hips started stuttering.

“I—fuck—I can’t—ngh—!”

So… He lasted exactly forty-five seconds.

With a humiliated groan he slammed into your cervix one last time and came haard, painting your walls in thick, sticky white. His wobbly arms gave out again and he collapsed on top of you not very gracefully, face buried right back into your neck as he rode out the pathetic orgasm. He was breathing hard, the sound mixing with the wet squelching of oil, cum, and sweat between your bodies every time either of you shifted.

You stared sideways at the messy white strands of his hair currently tickling your pulse point, feeling his cum slowly leaking out around his softening cock. The frustration burning hot alongside with the ghost ache right in between legs.

If he had just let you ride him instead. Ugh.

“…Really?” you said flatly.

Satoru, mortified, made a small devastated noise into your neck and laced his fingers with yours like that would somehow make it better.

You hadn’t come from the fingering earlier. You definitely hadn’t come from his forty-five-second marathon. 

You shoved at his shoulder.

“Satoru.”

He made a small, satisfied noise.

“Satoru. Did you just cum inside me?”

His eyes flew open. The bliss drained from his face instantly. He slowly nodded, guilty, not knowing if he should be terrified or glad.

You pushed him off you. He rolled onto his back with a wet squelch.

You sat up, cum and oil smeared across your skin, and stared down at him.

“You ruined my date,” you said, voice low. “You were stupid enough to trap your own dick in a death trap and made me come home to deal with it. You came all over me without letting me cum, and then you creampied me in under a minute.”

He opened his mouth, “I was just claiming what’s mine—”ready to say something even more stupid.

You cut him off, because you were not listening to that right now and ever fucking again. “Don’t. I swear to god, if you say one more word of that pseudo-alpha, podcast-bro bullshit right now, I can promise you this will be the first and last time you ever have your dick in any pussy. Ever.”

He froze.

You leaned in, eyes narrowed, pussy suddenly drying up at high speed.

“I’m serious, Satoru. All that ‘high-value male,’ ‘she’ll respect dominance,’ ‘women secretly want to be put in their place’ garbage? It’s not cute. It’s not hot. It’s not working. It makes you sound like a loser. You’re only lucky that I’m stupid enough to actually fucking like you.”

And Satoru deadass had nothing to say, because it didn’t make sense, yet it made all the sense. And in the middle of the gears grinding he blinked up at you because… did you just tell him you like him?

Before he could grab your chin and kiss you stupid again, you pointed between your legs.

“Since you made this mess, you’re going to clean it up. Now.”

The color drained from his face as he stared at you. “Y-you want me to eat out my cum?”

“Did I stutter?”

He was too stunned and properly terrified to argue. He knew that if he didn’t get his shit together right now, this really might be the first and last time he ever saw pussy in real life. So he scrambled down between your thighs without another word.

He’s going to do it for the love of the game. Can’t be that bad, right?

He gulped as he nestled between your soft thighs, eyeing your tight little hole as a little trail of his cum mixed with your frothy slick leaked onto the floor below you. And it was the prettiest sight he had ever seen.

The reluctant pout on his face made it clear he was weighing eating his own cum against the very real possibility of never getting to fuck you again, so you made it easier for him. You grabbed a fistful of his messy white hair and yanked his face straight against your pussy. His nose immediately buried right between your wet folds, tickling the sensitive flesh.

And maybe he was currently terrified of you, or it was the fact that he finally smelled your sex up close — either way, he was now desperate to please you.

The first drag of his tongue through your folds was experimental, almost cautious.

He did it again, licking with too much pressure and in all the wrong places, clearly thinking he was doing something impressive, missing your clit. Again. And again. And again.

For fuck’s sake, you lasted maybe fifteen seconds. You reached down, grabbed his silky hair again, and yanked his head up to adjust him.

He furrowed his brows at you, confused and a little offended, like he was about to argue — until his tongue accidentally flicked right over your clit.

His eyes widened slightly.

He did it again, slower this time. A testing little flick. Eyes wide, as if asking what the hell just happened, feeling the little knob jumping.

You let out a shaky moan, fingers tightening in his hair.

“That’s my clit, Satoru.”

His eyes darkened and he dove back in with completely different energy. Okay, he knew where your cute little clit was. Now onto figuring out how to make you come on his tongue. 

He started with the licking, up and down, until he pushed into your leaking hole. He almost immediately tasted his own cum, still warm, thick, and disgustingly bitter against your sweet pussy juices, and he made a guttural sound right against you.

He should have been disgusted, appalled, mortified through his militant incel brain. But why did it taste so wrong, it tasted so so right?

Eating himself right out of you — it was so pathetic, so raw, so hot. And you couldn’t fucking believe you actually made him do it.

Your pussy fluttered and he dove in like a man possessed.

A desperate whine vibrated against your clit as he started licking in earnest. Messy, unrestrained, starving. He was slurping loudly, tongue pushing deep to get more of the mixture, swallowing it down like he couldn’t get enough. Every time he tasted more of himself leaking out of you, another broken moan escaped him.

His hands gripped your thighs hard, holding you open as he buried his face deeper. He was whining and whimpering into your cunt like tasting his own cum inside you had flipped some primal, pathetic switch in his brain neither of you even knew existed.

“Fuck— you taste so good— I taste so good on you—” Every few seconds he would pull back just enough to breathe, drooling, and mutter broken little things against your skin. And you were once again left wondering where all the skill came from.

Then he’d dive right back in, tongue flicking over your clit before dragging down to lap at your hole again, like he was trying to clean you out and make you messy all over again at the same time.

It was deranged.

It was filthy.

And it was fucking working.

Your hand fisted in his hair, gripping tight. He moaned loudly at the rough treatment, the sound muffled against your pussy as his tongue circled your clit, biting then sucking on it, then flattening to drag it through your folds like he was trying to devour you whole.

You were gushing at this point, and not a drop ever spilled on the floor as he slurped you like his favourite boba flavour. His touch spread across your entire body as the orgasm built after getting edged the entire evening to fucking oblivion.

“‘Toru—” you cried, thighs starting to tremble around his head. And he bit down gently on your inner thigh when you tried to close your legs on instinct.

Look, it’s not like you did it on purpose — who the fuck would want to close up shop when business was this good?

He kitten-licked your poor clit, sending sparks right to your lower belly. Your back arched off the floor as his hand snaked up at the right damn time to flick your nipple.

Oh.

“Holy— ngh— fuck, ‘Toru—!” you screamed and came all over his poor face, thighs clamping around his head as you tried to suffocate him with your spasming pussy. You shook like you’d been electrocuted and he kept licking and licking, to the point you weren’t sure if you came again or if it was just one big orgasm. He wanted to taste every damn second of you falling apart because of him, for him.

His face was a mess. Half of it was shiny and wet with your slick, lips prettily swollen. He’d thrown his glasses somewhere on the floor in the middle of it. His pupils were practically heart-shaped, and he looked so wrecked it was beautiful.

He was so cum-drunk he only stared up at you with his mouth open, resting his cheek against your inner thigh, waiting.

And your eyes might’ve been heart-shaped too, because the sight of him made you throb all over again.

“Fuck,” you almost moaned, reaching down to grab his shoulders. “Come here.”

Satoru didn’t need to be told twice. He crawled up your body like he was starving for it — for you. He crashed his lips against yours and the kiss was fucking messy. You could taste yourself on him as he smeared your slick across your chin, tongues sliding sloppily against each other like you were trying to devour one another.

His hands found your waist. He shifted his weight and rolled the two of you until his back was against the bed and you were straddling him in his lap.

You broke the kiss just long enough to look at him. His chest was heaving. And he was looking up at you like you were the only thing in the world that mattered.

Everything was still disgustingly sticky, but the way he looked at you made your heart go thump thump thump in a way it never had before. So you reached down, wrapped your hand around his cock, and sank down onto him in one slow, slick motion.

Satoru’s head tipped back against the bed with a broken groan that made the muscles in his neck jump. His hands immediately gripped your hips hard, fingers digging into your ass like he needed to anchor himself.

“Fuuck—” he slurred, voice so dazed. “Oh my god— you’re so warm— so fucking tight—tighter—”

You started moving, rolling your hips in frantic circles. Every time you sank down, you could feel the tip kissing your cervix, nudging right up against the entrance of your womb as he completely bottomed out.

It didn’t take long before his hands tightened on your ass and he started helping you. He pulled you down onto him faster, guiding your hips with desperate hands while lifting his own to meet you halfway.

“Shit— just like that,” he whimpered, kissing all over your jaw as his tip kissed your poor cervix again and again and again. “Ngh— you’re milking me so good—”

He was completely gone. Eyes glassy, mouth open, babbling whatever came to his mind as you rode him. And every time you clenched around him, another broken sound slipped out of him.

His mouth searched for yours again, licking into the corners of your lips before kissing you deep. You slipped two fingers into his mouth and he immediately sucked on them, tongue rolling around your fingers with a needy moan that made your pussy flutter and squeeze around him even harder. Your swollen clit dragged over his lap and lower stomach with every roll, his happy trail tickling your sensitive folds and sending sparks up your spine.

Satoru whined around your fingers, hips twitching up helplessly.

One of his hands stayed on your hip while the other slid up and wrapped around your neck. His thumb brushed along the side of your throat as he started moving you faster, pulling you down onto his cock with more urgency. The sound of your skin loud.

“I’m so close,” he warned desperately against your lips. “Fuck— I’m gonna cum— you feel too good—”

His hand squeezed, holding you in place as he helped you bounce on him. Every time you sank down, he lifted his hips to meet you, fucking up into you until your jaw rattled. He was panting hard, forehead pressed against yours, completely pussy-drunk.

Satoru came with a broken, drawn-out moan, hips jerking up into you as he spilled deep inside. He held you down against him, grinding up as he pumped his cum into you like he was unconsciously trying to fuck it into your womb. His hand on your neck tightened just enough to pin you down against him while he trembled through it.

Both of you were breathing hard. He held you close and kissed the side of your head as he hugged you.

“D-did you cum?” he mumbled against your skin, still dazed and half out of it.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, deadpan.

“WHAT?”

He blinked up at you, still glassy-eyed and fucked-out. “You squeezed me so hard I thought you did! Okay then— cum then!”

You stared at him for a second, somewhere between offended, frustrated, and fond, before letting out a short laugh.

“You’re actually so fucking stupid.”

You were still softly rolling your hips, using his softening cock like a dildo while you were still determined to cum again. Satoru just watched you, half-intently, half blissed-out, still breathing hard, feeling his cum escaping your pussy and pooling in his lap. After a moment, one of his hands slid down between your bodies. His fingers found your clit easily this time and started rubbing you.

“Fuck— you’re still so wet,” he mumbled, eyes locked on where you were grinding against him. “Keep going… I’ve got you.”

So you kept moving on his semi-hard cock while he fingered you, the combination making your thighs shake. Your breath started hitching and Satoru was watching your face closely now, still drunk but trying to focus.

When your mouth fell open so prettily and your eyes fluttered as he just hit that spot inside you with the angle of his cock, his other hand moved to your hip almost automatically. He gripped you and started moving you himself, guiding you in short, deliberate rolls so his cock and his fingers kept pressing right against that same sensitive spot from both sides.

“There?” he asked, voice low and rough. “Right there?”

You could only nod, a broken whimper slipping out of you as you started tipping forward, head on his sweaty shoulder until your thighs were trembling hard and you felt like a jelly.

You came with a sharp, shaky moan, clenching around his soft cock as the overstimulating orgasm tingled through you. Satoru held you through it, still moving you gently and praising you until you completely slumped forward against his chest.

He hugged you tight, face buried in your neck.

And you stayed slumped against Satoru’s chest for a long minute, both of you just breathing each other in. The adrenaline was finally wearing off, and reality slowly started to creep back in.

The room was in fucking ruin. You were both coated in a sticky mess, the mattress behind you was most likely ruined, and the floor was dangerously slippery. It smelled like greasy sex.

“Well,” you said.

“Yeah,” he answered quietly.

You slowly peeled yourself off his chest, shivering as the cool air hit your slick, overheated skin. 

You looked down at him and he still looked completely fucked-out, and you decided you could get used to that look. As you stretched, you felt his cum trailing down your inner thighs. Satoru’s eyes followed it from the front row, his spent dick giving a weak twitch at the sight.

“I’m going to take a shower,” you said softly, breaking the quiet. You paused, a small smirk tugging at the corner of your lips. “…Wanna join?”

Satoru’s heart practically stopped. His eyes widened and for a second he looked like he was going to follow you like a lost, oily puppy. But then he glanced around at the absolute state of his bedroom and reality hit him again.

“I’ll, uh…” He cleared his throat. “I’ll clean this up a bit first. You go ahead.”

You pouted but gave him a soft, understanding nod. “Don’t take too long, ‘Toru.”

You grabbed one of his random t-shirts from the floor and padded down the hallway toward the bathroom.

Left alone on the floor, Satoru stared at the opposite wall for a long time. He was deadass completely re-evaluating his entire existence.

He had just experienced the most surreal, life-changing two hours of his life, and the only thing he knew for certain was that he was completely whipped for you. For once, he didn’t care what his old incel education had to say about it.

He reached over to his nightstand, picked up his phone, and wiped a smear of baby oil off the screen before opening Reddit.

r/relationship_advice

I (M) think I’m in love with my roommate (F) and I might have just completely fucked everything up in the most humiliating way possible

Throwaway because if she ever sees this she will murder me.

I’ve been living with this girl for almost a year. She’s my roommate. For the longest time I thought I had everything figured out. I believed that if I just kept doing enough, she’d eventually see me as a potential mate. She didn’t, obviously.

Tonight I did something so fucking stupid I still can’t believe I’m typing this. I got a cock ring stuck on my dick. I panicked and called her while she was on a date and basically begged her to come home. She helped me. She got it off. And then… something else happened. Something I didn’t expect at all. And now she’s in the shower and I feel like I fucked up our friendship beyond repair. My entire worldview feels kinda off.

I think I’m in love with her. I’ve been a terrible roommate. I’ve been a terrible person tbh. I don’t know what we are now. I don’t even know if I have the right to ask. But I think I love her. And I have no idea what the fuck I’m supposed to do.

Please help. And be nice this time.

u/GrassToucherGeto · 183 upvotes

Is this the same guy who posted that viral “AITA for expecting my roommate to fuck me because I did the dishes” thread a few weeks ago?

u/KingNaoya69 · 56 upvotes

You fucked her? Good shit bro. Don’t fuck it up this time.