valkyriezy

Satoru Gojo—handsome, rich, untouchable. He was basically royalty, which is kind of an accurate comparison per se. His everything came not from hard work but from simply being born. A man born lucky just like each rich bum that came before him.

Sure, he had a somewhat self-made infamous name for himself by the time he was sixteen from modeling and all that prissy shit, but everyone knows he had and always will have a foot in the door. Even if his family’s enterprise meets its inevitable demise, the whole world knows that sick fuck will come out on top just because he always does.

Because he’s Satoru.

Little to nothing changed when he met you during freshman orientation about a year ago. Despite being a fresh adult, who should be a little more mature, he was still the same irksome, suave guy, who never quite fell off of their high school peak, the exact type of man you hate.

Bored out of his mind, he decided to find the next victim of his irresistable charm. And his eyes landed on you. You weren't his usual type, but you were definitely pretty enough to have fun with. To a prick like him, it didn't really matter who you were for as long as you adorned a cute face.

And so, it begun.

“Hey, pretty girl,” he purred low in your ear, upon seeing you alone. He’s a little too close for a stranger, but of course, he doesn’t care. Why would he? "Girls like you probably wouldn't mind receiving a little attention from a guy like him, yeah? It's probably once in a lifetime," he snickers to himself.

Boy, was he wrong. You spurned, stepping back with pure disgust written on your adorably dolled face. “Sorry,” you start sarcastically. “Do I know you or are you just some upperclassman creep?”

The snowy-locked manchild only snickered, “You’re feisty, I like that. Buuut I know you’re a good girl deep down.” He poked your cheek like it was his godforsaken right to be so near. He was so annoyingly confident (though, you have to admit, his looks did cushion the blow).

“Definitely not towards you,” you hissed at the bold boy.

Satoru shrugged. “Sure, pretty, whatever. Satoru Gojo, by the way. A first year, just like you—not some ‘upperclassman creep’ as you so colorfully put it, angel face,” he held his hand out for you to shake.

For a moment, you rightfully hesitated. But really, what was the harm in accepting affection he so easily threw away?

You put your hand in his, manicured paw clutching soft hand that knew no labor. Just then, he intertwined your fingers with his freakishly long ones and brought the back of your palm close to his lips. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” he says so softly, and you swear you saw a few girls almost swooning as he winked, wishing it was directed at them. And you hate to admit it, but your cheeks definitely flushed at his stupid trap.

He chuckled, eyes narrowing and everything. “You’re cute. You’re my best friend now, okay?”

You gave him a derisive look, trying to hide the blush that crept up your cheeks. “I don’t even know you.”

“Well, you already know my name, that's a start,” he kids. "You'll know more about me soon enough, don't worry your pretty little head about it, princess," he said. All the while, tapping your skull thrice.

Back then, it was all a joke—you were supposed to be a pastime. Someone pretty to look at while ugly enough to discard. He didn’t expect himself to fall for your simple charm and weird idiosyncrasies. You're cute, witty, and nice (for the most part), just enough to hit his trifecta. Yeah, he knew that eventually, he’d kiss you, touch you, and sleep with you; but it should never have been that serious.

He doesn’t do romance. Not even for you.

—

Right now, you're at another one of Jujutsu Phi's parties. The other Alpha Kaisen girls are nowhere around to be found on the large couch—probably already with their own guy of the night.

You're just with Satoru, propped on his lap like a good little doll, always at his disposal. His friends converse while you just listen, too buzzed, maybe even plastered. Well, who wouldn't be after they were given one, two many cocktails by, none other than, Satoru Gojo?

“Baby,” he chirps, tapping your ass with his large palm twice. “D’ya mind getting me another drink?” he whispers in your ear, shedding his arms off of your almost limp body. You groan, not out of disdain. You’re just drunk out of your mind, and a little bit dazed.

You shuffle on his lap, brushing over the obvious tent on his crotch. He groans a bit, but you’re a little too out of it to catch the sound. “But I’m so sleepy, ‘Toru…” you grumble against the skin of his neck. In turn, he sighs out a response, “C’mon, angel. ‘Toru’s really thirsty.” But you only shake your head against him.

With a deep exhale, he cradles your head in his palm, keeping you in place. “Let’s get you up to my room,” he mutters, “Always so dependent on your dear ‘Toru, huh, baby?”

You nod, mind unable to think coherently enough to tell him off. He laughs, knowing you'd be kicking him in the balls right about now if you were the least bit sober. "Mhm, super dependent," he mocks.

He puts his empty solo cup down on the short mahogany table and stands, making sure to hold you tightly enough so you won't fall yet gently enough so your skin won't bruise. Silently, he eases through the dancing crowd with practiced ease.

"Where're ya heading, Gojobaby?" the frat sweetheart asks with slurred speech, blatantly ignoring you, who's cradled so sweetly in Satoru's arms.

"To my room, sweets. Don'cha worry, I'll be back though," he winks, not at all caring that you're there to hear. What a whore he is.

Before reaching the stairs, he catches a certain dark-haired senior mouthing, “whipped,” in the corner of his eye. He scowls. Toji’s definitely his least favorite senior by far. As he steps, he hears cackling from below. He knows it's about him—he knows of the torment that will follow.

Once you reach his room, he sets you down on his bed. “Stay upright for me for a bit, princess. Can your cute drunk self do that for me?” he asks, and you nod in response. He leaves you be after offering a gentle grin, just to ease whatever worries run rampant in your mind—the ones you'd never openly tell.

He rummages through his closet for clothes small enough to fit your stature and a soft, clean towel to use on your face then body. For a moment, you just quietly sit down, surveying his room as if you haven’t been here a million times already.

Neatly stacked books, seemingly untouched. Navy blue sheets, soft and warm. Posters, figurines, and what could only be described as a shrine of you. Right, he never lets other girls in his room—unless it's you. But you're just friends, right?

Right, yet on n the walls are arranged polaroids of the two of you—none with any other girl he’s flirted with. Maybe he keeps them in a box, away from prying eyes such as your own. You don’t really know. You try not to probe and think too much around him.

Your eyes fall onto one specific photo. You and him after seven minutes in heaven—an image taken by Yuki Tsukumo, your favorite senior. He looks a little fucked out in the picture and so do you.

Hair disheveled. Eyes narrowed. Bodies tangled.

You start to look back on the not-so-distant past.

—

Everyone who knows Satoru, close or not, remembers the story like it was yesterday. The two of you were pulled into a game of "seven minutes in heaven" by Toji Fushiguro, a third-year at the time. To be frank, everything was going great at first. The two of you touched a bit then made out. He whispered something along the lines of, "Are you sure about this?" In response, you just nodded shyly.

Not even seven minutes later, maybe five at best, the doors opened abruptly with flashing lights directed towards you and the drunken boy. While Yuki took the polaroid photo, other stupid college kids took digital snapshots that made it all over social media before dawn—fanmade forums asked who you are, thirsty netizens scoured the internet for your posts, and an ungodly amount of people got involved for no damn reason but a stupid makeout session.

Your boy(friend), as gossip outlets put it, even had to release a statement saying it was just a fun party game and that you're both just friends. It was a straightforward statement that held no malice, yet it wasn't reported as such.

"Gojo Satoru calls College Blockmate 'Not Pretty Enough'" and other headlines along the lines of that cruel joke circulated the net. You remember sobbing as you read the articles and while you watched his statement and the interviews. You thought maybe you really weren't cut out for his lifestyle. In retrospect, maybe you really aren't.

Unsolicited comments were thrown at you no matter how many times you've hit the block button, which ultimately made you decide on keeping your count private for the time being.

You tried to ignore him in campus—you really really did, but it was no use. He was everywhere, and he wouldn't leave you alone. To some extent, you're glad he didn't. Even when you pushed him away, yelled at him, and almost spat in his face, he stayed.

He was sweet—only behind closed doors. Much like you, afraid of what the world has to say, afraid of being seen as weak.

A month after the whole thing blew off, he called you. "Hey, baby, 'you hungry?" he said through the phone. You rubbed your eyes and groaned softly, fatigue excruciatingly evident even without visual evidence. You didn't respond to him for a moment, only clicked the side of your cell to check the time: one in the fucking morning, how poetic.

Despite the late hour (perhaps early hour would be more appropriate), you snuck out of the sorority house, being careful as to not wake the other girls up.

"You know I didn't mean it, angel face," he cooed as he placed a kiss on the apple of your cheek. Now, the two of you were in his car, dark, sleek—a vehicle that reeked of old money and strong connections. It looked out of place in the random fast food place's parking lot.

"But you still said it," you sniffled, biting into whatever food he offered you. It was probably a burger or fries? You don't really remember much from this moment apart from the heartache he embedded into you.

"Well, I had to save my ass some way, no? How else would I have a viable source of income for your shopping sprees?" he joked, but not a happy sound escaped past your pursed lips.

At that moment, it really hit you. He'll save his ass first before anyone else's, if at all. And maybe, just maybe, you sat in the passenger's seat in silence, hoping, one day, he'd choose to rescue you.

—

You're soon pulled out of your "harking back" trance as Satoru speaks.

“Reminiscing there, cutie?” he says, coming out of the closet bearing gifts. In one hand, a small white tee with big bold letters over the chest saying “titties make me smile.” It looks a little too small for him but perfect for you, just a little number that'll go a little past your thighs.

“Classy,” you remark with a smile. “Only the best for my princess!” he replies. You giggle at his words, of course you do, not even caring about the melancholic thoughts from earlier—you’re easy and he’s hard.

Like always.

He kneels on the foot of his bed right in front of you to take your shoes off. They’re cute kitten heels—the ones he got you for your birthday last year. A gift you wouldn’t just give a girl. You wiggle your toes, now free from the pretty pink jail. He laughs, leaning down to kiss the arch gently.

“Foot kink?” you tease. “Yeah, but just for you,” he replies. Smooth. So annoying.

He stands back up, trying to stay awake. You can’t both be on the verge of passing out. He probably wouldn’t care if you were any other girl though.

Satoru opens his arms, and you instinctively dive in. He takes you to his private bathroom and sets you down gently on the cool marble counter on which you shift uncomfortably. “So cold…” you murmur with a pout on your plump lips. He then laughs, a boyish grin adorning his perfect face.

“I know, baby. But it’s just for a bit, yeah? Let’s just clean your face and change your clothes, ‘kay?” he reasons while gently rubbing the side of your thighs to warm his sweet girl up.

“Okay, ‘Toru,” you pliantly agree.

Right after, he dampens the face cloth with warm water. His large palm then rests behind your head to keep you still as he gently pats then wipes over the planes of your skin. It’s intimate—gentle, much unlike the Satoru the world knew.

“Satoru,” you randomly call out, now, all giggly. “Yes, baby?” he asks, inviting you to tell him more. “What if I turned into a cat, would you keep me?”

He pretends to think for a second, thinking of some otherworldly response to your inane yet adorable question. “Of course I would, angel. You’d be the frat’s kitten—more so than you already are,” he chides.

You instantly beam at his words. “What if I could no longer open my mouth; therefore, I couldn’t communicate with you,” you challenge.

The young man only shrugs as if he’s been asked the same question a hundred times before and over. “Well, I’ll be kind of sad that you can’t suck my dick anymore—that’s a really big bummer, but other than that, it’s fine. We can find other ways to speak to each other, yeah?” Adding humor to a nice message, on-brand.

You pinch his nose playfully. “You’re such a pervert.”

“Only for you,” he repeats his earlier sentiments.

After successfully cleaning your face, he helps you remove your clothes. Like always, when your bra is off, he stares a little too long. “Eyes up here, ‘Toru,” you huff, crossing your arms over your chest. Though, it only works in his favor since it accentuates your tits.

“They looked at me first. Plus, I missed my girls. I barely got to see them all week,” he all but whines.

“Don’cha have hic other good fucks?” you slur, raising an eyebrow at the blue-eyed brat.

He chuckles. “None as good as you.”

“Why?” you ask, irises dark yet hopeful with drunken haze and curiosity.

He wants to respond with: because with you, it’s intimate, like I don’t have to pretend that lust is the highest high I could get. But, of course, he doesn’t. Is there an invisible power that prevents him from fleshing out his raw emotions because if there is, you’d gladly fucking defeat it.

You can see it clearly in his expression—how he turns away then glances back. He’s pining. Hoping. Wishing. And all you want is for him to accept that fact.

“Y’know, for such a nerdy little princess, you sure do ask little ol’ me a lot of questions,” he forces a smile as he puts his “titties make me smile” shirt over your head and onto your body.

You decide not to push it further as to not dampen his mood. He thanks you quietly with a soft smile. “Alright, d’ya wanna wear sweatpants or just the shirt and panties?” he inquires. “This is fine, ‘Toru, thank you,” you reply.

He plants a soft kiss on the apple of your cheek like he did a year ago. Is this fate? Is the universe telling you that he's bound to trample on your precious little heart until it can no longer trust or be given to another? “Let’s put you to sleep then, angel face,” he says before bringing you back to his bed, shutting the bright lights off to give way to his bedside lamp’s dim glow. He's sort of rushing, but you don't quite understand why. God, the suddenness of everything makes you want to throw up, but you hold it in.

Immediately, you close your eyes as he tucks you in, swallowing whatever it is your throat wants out—vomit or a confession of your undying love? Whatever it is, it’s falling back down to the pits of your stomach, where it can soak in acid.

“Thank you for taking care hic of me,” you murmur as he caresses your face. “Of course, baby. Besides, you always take care of me,” he replies.

You simper. “Are you going back down?”

He nods in response. “Yeah, maybe play a little beer pong after I grab myself a drink. Just go to sleep okay? Your phone’s just on the nighstand. Call me if you need me, pretty girl,” he instructs before leaving a kiss on your jaw. Consequently, he leaves you to wallow in your own, self-destructive, thoughts much like he's doing behind the door, away from the alluring pool in your eyes that sing to him like sirens—ready to entrap him.

—

The party rages downstairs, even more so now that Satoru's been spotted by the sweetheart. "Gojo!" she exclaims. He smiles lazily, squeezing her ass with a sizzling hiss. "Hey, baby," he greets her.

"Where's y/n?" she asks, feigning concern as the two of them walk over to the kitchen, where Suguru's mixing drinks and Choso's passing out blunts for a only a few thousand yen.

Satoru shrugs, desperately trying to radiate disinterest at the mention of your name. "Upstairs, asleep. Couldn't handle her liquor," he replies.

"And you took care of her," the pretty blonde points out. She's trying gauge his reaction, checking if he's going to blindly agree or deflect.

"Well yeah, I did," he starts, and she thinks she doesn't stand a chance. "But I'm just returning the favor, if you know what I mean."

“Wanna smoke? Maybe it’ll take your mind off whatever,” the girl giggles. He turns her down though, “Nah, don’t really like the smell.” What a lie. You don’t like the smell, and he’s sleeping beside you tonight.

“Just a drink then?”

“Yeah, just a drink,” he repeats.

The snowy-locked bastard then decides to finally pour himself a drink, grabbing a new solo cup to fill it with one of Suguru's newest mix—it's something sweet and tangy, and it almost reminds him of you.

Upon the first sip, he pauses for a bit and the shorter girl notices. "Something wrong, Gojo?"

He shakes his head, "Nah, probably just a foreign taste," he lies through his pearly teeth, filling his cup a little more. Alien taste or a flavor he can never forget?

"Hm, it tastes pretty good to me, kinda sweet though, don'cha think?" He nods in response to her prompt, "Yeah, a little," he answers as if it bothers him. And maybe it does because his mind is flooded with memories of that sickeningly sweet substance you insist of coating your lips with everytime you kiss. Fuck, did you pavlov him?

Well, whatever it is doesn't really matter, right? He'll totally forget about you soon enough. He'll tear down your pictures on his wall and he'll throw away your little trinkets in his room. Because Satoru Gojo doesn't do relationships even if the mere thought of tucking away that cute polaroid he has of you brings him immense discomfort.

"Oi! Satoru!" Toji calls out from across the room. "Got a new girl with ya? What happened to y/n?" he asked teasingly.

Satoru sighs in response, "Why does everyone keep asking me about her??"

"'Cause you're totally in love with her, dude," Sukuna scoffs from behind. Since when did he get here? And why the fuck is he butting in right now?

"So you do like her!" the girl on his arm accuses.

"So what is it, Gojo? Do you like her or is she just a good fuck?" Toji interrogates, “But like, I heard she’s kinda a study-holic, so what’s that like? She just cockwarms you while going through flash cards?”

Choso, ever-so-sweet, interjects, "Cut it out, dude... y/n's nice." Nanami, listening from the other side of the counter nods in agreement. "She is. Additionally, the girls won't be happy if they hear us bad mouthing their favorite pledge."

The large man with a scarred lip rolls his eyes playfully and points a circling finger on his like to say: Nanami's being cuckoo! "Ahh, they won't find out. There's a hundred people here and the girls are probably with their guys."

"Right, and she's in her second year, dummy. Yuki’s prolly got a new favorite," Sukuna jests, which makes Nanami's face harden. The tattooed brute with pink hair then turns back to Satoru, "So? Spit it out? Ya like 'good girl pussy' now? Or d’ya like nerds or what?"

Suguru’s about to speak, but he bites his tongue, seeing as Satoru’s about to burst. The white-haired jerk downs his spirits in frustration. With a loud scoff, he says, "Get your head outta your asses and listen to me when I say I don't like her, okay? I don’t think she’s all that with her crooked teeth, painted face—uneven eyes! Just—whatever!" he yells like judging who you are is his birthright. Wow! It really takes a man to spill out the little things you’re insecure about to a room full of friends and strangers. He wipes a large hand over his face in anger directed at whoever. "She's nothing. We're nothing," he says with finality as he dismisses the girl that clung onto his arm with a harsh shrug.

Sukuna raises his arms in jest. "Woah, boy. No need to get your panties in a twist." The room bursts in laughter at the, clearly, inebriated boy.

He stomps away from the group and marches up to his room, where you're waiting for him with eyes wide open.

—

You hear the lock shift, but you don't panic. You know it's just Satoru. He locks the door for extra security—he says it's to keep his collector's items intact, but you know it's to protect you.

Frustration is evident in his expression as he enters the room. The lamp is still on while you're scrolling on your phone that you abruptly shut as soon as his eyes land on you. "Back so soon?" you call out from under his sheets. It hasn't even been half an hour and he's already waltzing in.

He kicks the door behind him and locks it with a soft click, gaze never wavering away from your form. "Yeah, the guys were pissing me off," he finally answers you.

"Oh? What were they saying?" you question as you sit up.

Satoru toes his shoes off, not bothering to lay them properly beside the door. He then comes closer, getting on hs bed to hover over you—the soft mattress dipping because of his weight.

You look up at his face, he's flushed, intoxicated by whatever he drank. "Are you okay, 'Toru?" you tell him so sweetly. Your tone has him almost moaning from how sickening it is to hear.

"Yeah, pretty, I just need ta taste ya right now, okay? “Can I?" he slightly slurs. You're a little less drunk than you were earlier, so you can properly understand what's going on. Though, you're unsure whether saying yes right now would be wise. But really, when have you ever been wise with Satoru Gojo?

"Okay," you breathe out gently, and he smirks.

His lips immediately latch onto your own. God, you taste just like that concoction Suguru came up with. It's uncanny. He laps you up like a man who almost died of thirst. "Satoru!" you giggle in between shameless kisses.

You wrap your arms around his head, hoping to keep him still. By the way he's moving, you're sure your lips are going to be chafed.

Teeth, clashed. Tongues, drawn. Salivas, exchanged.

And Satoru's still not done. He wants more, he needs more—flavor.

He trails down your body, leaving hickeys all over plump porcelain skin. "Ya taste so good, angel," he heaves as you start to squirm beneath him.

"Shh," he hushes, "Stay still for me, yeah?" And all you could do is whine as he pins you down harder. You try to relax, but he's sucking on all your sensitive spots. It's too hard to act normal like this.

He intertwines his fingers with yours while he spreads your legs with his knees, rendering you completely unable to fight back. "Gentler..." you murmur, hoping he'll listen.

His dark eyes flicker back to the usual baby blue, softening his grip on you and leaving kisses instead of countless bites on your, now, bruised collar. "Sorry," he whispers back. "Jus'... need to go lower, please?" he begs, busting out the puppy eyes that always seem to work.

"Just be gentle, okay, 'Toru?" you warn, and he nods in response.

He sits up, drinking in how you look under him for just a moment before pushing himself back to stare at your clothed sex. Almost immediately, a pink tint brushes over your cheeks. "Stop staring, 'Toru. It's embarassing," you whine.

The large man laughs a little bit at your words. "Seriously? I'm about to eat your cunt, and me staring is what you're worried about?" he jokes. "If I were you, pretty, I'd be more worried about how I'm to keep my head on straight a few minutes from now."

"Satoru!" you aqueal at his crude words.

He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, whatever. You know it's true." Well, he may be right but hearing it from him just sounds weird! "Lift your ass for me a little bit," he instructs as he tugs your panties down your legs. He chuckles upon seeing sticky slick already coating your entrance, some even stuck on the fabric that once housed your core.

"Is all this f'me or were you watching porn on your phone before I came in—perhaps looking at my photos, huh?" he teases while you look to the side. "I wasn't," you try to defend yourself.

"Mhm, sure, princess. You can tell me though, I wouldn't mind such a cutie getting off to me," he winks with a boyish grin plastered on his stupidly sculpted face. He's no longer clinging on to the frustration he acquired from going downstairs. Now, he's just slightly insufferable and slightly yours.

He licks a long, slow stripe on your slit, making sure your juices coat his tongue thickly. It's gross how he keeps eye contact while he lets out exaggerated pornographic mewls. "Fuck, now that's a taste Suguru can't recreate."

Those words stop you mid whimper. "H—Huh...?" you stammer.

“Everyone was pissing me off downstairs,” Satoru starts while making out with your pussy lips, the vibrations send a tingle through every neuron in your body, and you can’t help but yelp. He hushes you again, “Baby, I’m talking to her right now.”

“You’re being too noisy,” he adds.

You whine but oblige anyways. “Right, so, everyone was pissing me off so bad!” he rants in between sloppy slurps. “Toji and Sukuna were being such shitheads. I wish I could beat them up, but I don’t really want to deal with administrative nonsense right now.”

“W—What did they dooooo?” you manage to stutter out, almost shrieking.

He raises an eyebrow playfully, pausing for a second. “Huh, I didn’t know pussies could talk, that’s fun,” he teases. “Well, they were talking about stuff, but that’s unimportant right now. I’m jus’ so fuckin’ pissed, and it’s all your fault.”

“M—My fault?” you whine out a question.

“Your fault,” he just repeats as he inserts a finger in your tired hole. It’s painstakingly slow as it wriggles in, curling and poking against your gummy walls.

Your repressed moans are music to his ears. He sighs, “You try so hard to be a good girl. It’s adorable.”

Satoru then sucks on your clit as he lets another finger slide through your slippery folds. He breathes warm against your bud. “Y’know, this is also your fault. If you’d just gone to sleep, you wouldn’t be writhing right now,” he lectures you.

“I—I couldn’t sleep… but I wasn’t watching anything! I promise, ‘Toruuu!” you whine.

He hums against your sobbing slit, “Then maybe this’ll help then. Cum for me, angel face.” He curls his index and ring finger inside of you as he sucks exponentially well on the bundle of nerves above your puffy skin.

In turn, you reach for his hair, gripping the white tufts tightly while preparing to come undone. “Satoru!” you mewl then shut your thighs around his head with all the strength you have left in you.

He laps your fluids up. It could be urine for all he cares. He’d gladly drink whatever comes out of you (what a weirdo, right?).

For about half a minute, you keep him there as you ride your high. It’s when he laughs against your sex that you let go, pant, then spasm.

Like earlier, he hovers over you—not a hint of fatigue on his face. “So pretty,” he whispers against your lips before he lets you taste yourself on his tongue. The kiss is gentle, even as he quenches his undying thirst with your saliva.

“She’s nothing,” my ass.

When he pulls away, he keeps his forehead on yours. “Let’s get you cleaned up again, baby,” he mutters, and you just nod. Maybe this set up is alright… or perhaps—post nut clarity just hasn’t hit yet.

After wiping you down with another clean towel and letting you pee, he sets you back down on his bed, tucking you in so gently. “Good night, princess,” he whispers against your bruised lips followed by a barely there peck. “Good night, ‘Toru…” you respond, volume barely above a whisper.

—

The next day, you don’t wake up with a wicked hangover. Just a little throbbing pain in your noggin but that’s about it. Satoru’s just lying right beside you, sound asleep.

He looks so peaceful like this, without the weight of everybody’s gaze weighing down on everything he wants to be. You stare at him for a while, just enjoying the sweet serenity of being someone he trusts wholly for a fleeting moment.

Unfortunately, the moment doesn’t last.

After a few minutes, you hear shuffling outside the door and the distinct sound of Yuki yelling, “Where the hell is y/n, Zenin?!”

Toji raises his hands in mock surrender. “Chill, Yuks!” he says with a laugh, “She’s just with the Gojo kid, alright? Nothing out of the ordinary.”

Shoko, your “other” best friend (and in the same year as you), then follows from behind the blonde. She’s calmer than Yuki, but the two of them share the same mission: to get you out of here. “Pack it up, Toj’, she saw the video. Everyone did. This is gonna be another fucking fiasco, and we’d like to leave y/n out of it this time.”

“What video?” the large man questions.

Yuki facepalms out of pure frustration then grabs the green-eyed goblin by the collar. “Just fuckin’ show us where y/n is! I doubt you want to keep her here.”

“The fuck’s that supposed to mean??”

Shoko points at Toji’s chest as if he isn’t her upperclassman. “It means Jujutsu Phi and Alpha Kaisen are taking a break.”

“What?! That’s a long-standing alliance! You can’t break it just because of some fucking video I haven’t even seen yet!” He scrambles—not in panic but in something a little short of resentment that’s bubbling within him. Maybe, in reality, the anger’s directed towards him, and he’s just spewing bullshit at anyone who dares to cross him.

“She’s a junior officer, your frat—and most specially Gojo, bad-mouthed y/n. We have every right to cut ties right now,” the short brunette calmly explains.

Then, Yuki, the president adds with a lazy, annoyed grin, “Y’know, Toj’. Not because Fushiguro left you because you’re a manchild means you have to pull everyone down with you. So just take us to Gojo’s room, so we can take y/n home.”

Toji scoffs.

All the while, inside Satoru’s room, he finally stirs awake. With a deep sleepy voice, he asks, “What the hell is happening?” He doesn’t even look at you, just wraps an arm around your body and pulls you close.

“I don’t know,” you whisper back, “but I can hear arguing outside… I think I heard my name, ‘Toru. I don’t want another rumor…”

He immediately sits up at your tone, the comforter fallings off the planes of his toned body. “Rumor? What makes you think there is one?”

You fidget with your fingers, averting your gaze from Satoru’s hazy baby blues. His head’s absolutely pounding, but all he cares about right now are your worries. “I dunno—like last year it’s just like… a nagging feeling?” you try to explain, feeling a little paranoid as you speak.

He reaches out but then abruptly clutches his head with a hiss. “Are you okay?” you check upon him in concern, propping yourself on your knees to reach for his face.

A hint of red dusts his cheeks and ears at your actions, but you’re a little too worried to realize your position. Though, it’s kinda stupid. He’s blushing like he didn’t have his face on your pussy the night before. Sigh.

He chuckles softly, putting his large hands over your own, keeping it securely on his face. Silently, he’s hoping it covers the rosy tint that doesn’t really suit a “cool” guy like him. “I’m okay, baby, just a little—”

Just as he’s about to speak, the door flings open to reveal the voices behind the door. “Wrap it up, Gojo! You’ve been caught,” Toji says playfully even when there was nothing funny about the situation.

Yuki sighs, pushing Toji away. He stumbles back a step, but he doesn’t take it personally. “Babe, y/n, let’s go back to the sorority house,” the blonde says, ignoring the shirtless boy right next to you.

“But… what? What’s happening?” you ask in confusion.

“I think it’s better if we talk it out back at home, yeah? A few of the pledges cooked breakfast. You’re hungry, aren’t you, baby?” Shoko hums, trying to get you to leave on your on volition.

You glance between Satoru and your friends. Why the hell is all of this happening so early in the morning?! An awkward silence settles in the room as everyone waits to hear your decision. Your heart beats out of your chest, feeling a little pressured, which all the more boosts the ridiculous premonition of a conflict.

“C’mon, Sho,” you break the silence with a hesitant chuckle, “It’s not like someone died, right? Just say what you wanna say.”

The brunette sucks her teeth in. She knows that playing the leaked video here will be messy. But honestly, there was no way this situation will just blow away gently. That’s just life… probably.

After a soft sigh she hands you her phone from her pocket. “Play the video,” she instructs, and you do as you’re told.

The video plays, and at first, it’s just a video of two girls and a guy dancing, lip syncing, and having fun. Shuffling can be heard as well as a distinct mention of your name. Then, someone shouts in the background, "Get your head outta your asses and listen to me when I say I don't like her, okay? I don’t think she’s all that with her crooked teeth, painted face—uneven eyes! Just—whatever!" Satoru’s voice. It’s unmistakable. "She's nothing. We're nothing," he scoffs while the camera pans to him and the others who were part of the scene.

You can’t see their faces, but they go quiet for a second until phone picked up a short conversation after Satoru presumably left the area. “Was that about y/n?” a girl asked. “Yeah, duuuudeee! I thought he was in love with her or something,” another person replied.

“Oh, shit, I’m still—” and the video stops.

Everyone freezes, waiting for your reaction. First, you turn to who was supposedly your friend, “Did you really say that—about me?” you say calmly. There’s no need to burst out right now. You need to hear his side, right?

Wrong. You’re just in denial. Nothing can justify pointing out specific features on a person and saying that you hate it. It’s cruel. It’s shitty.

He takes a deep breath before looking you in the eyes. The truth is he said it. You already know it too. But shit. How is he just supposed to tell you?

“Princess, you know I didn’t mean it,” he says so softly that it almost chips away at the walls you just built around your heart.

“Did you or did you not, Satoru?!” you yell, and everyone’s taken aback. “Shit,” Toji mutters underneath his breath.

He turns to Toji with an annoyed glare while Yuki and Shoko look at him with nothing but disappointment and disgust. “I di—” smack! The harsh sound echoes in his room. No one dares to react as you erupt, standing up despite lacking pants.

“You fucking jerk!” you scream at the top of your lungs, not at all caring who hears. “That’s what pissed you off last night?! And you had the fucking audacity to makeout with me and eat my pussy?!!” you shout shamelessly.

The blonde and brunette turn to each other as if to say, “Do we stop her?” but they don’t. Not yet.

“What the hell is with you?! How the fuck are you so sweet behind closed doors, but you spew absolute bullshit when you’re out or when you’re drinking or when you’re with your friends? Is it about being fuckin’ cool?” you spit. “Sorority girls not cool enough for your high and mighty standards?”

“No—it’s not… it’s not you, baby—I swe-” he starts, but you cut him off, “Then what is it?!”

He gets up from his bed to hold your hands in his. The guys on the second floor start waking up and gathering inside the booming room—so nosy.

“I didn’t mean it, angel face… I promise…” he pleads with you, trying to leave a kiss on your cheek, but you swerve. You cross your arms over your chest, clearly done with the overgrown child standing in front of you.

With all his friends watching, he gets on his knees. “I’m sorry, baby. C’mon, forgive your sweet ‘Toru…” he begs. Even the frat brothers are shocked seeing Satoru so close to the ground.

It doesn’t matter though. All you can see is red. “You’re a bitch, Satoru Gojo,” you scoff, “A fucking bitch in heat. I hope you catch an STD!”

You shove everyone out of the way as you walk out with Yuki and Shoko following closely behind you. “Babe! Wait! Your pants!” Shoko hurries to give you her hoodie.

Satoru just sits there while the guys are also frozen.

It’s Suguru that speaks first after a moment of brooding. “Let’s get some breakfast, yeah? Nanamin and Haibara cooked,” he smiles gently.

Toji is the first to leave the suddenly chilly room. There’s an air of neutrality to him—and to some extent, you felt it too, but anger also sits inside you, knowing his jests fuel Satoru’s obnoxious need to be seen as “cool.”

Then again, Satoru’s a grown man, capable of making his own decisions and fixing his mindset. On the other hand (for the nth time in your mind), you know what it’s like to want to fit in. In your youth, you tried desperately to join cliques and hang around groups, and it never seemed to work. Though, you couldn’t imagine trying to keep up with those people through a fabricated persona like Satoru’s.

Moreover, you try to tell yourself that you’ll never truly understand how it is to even be a sliver of who Satoru is. He’s told you before about how heavy it feels to be the “best,” everyone expects no less than perfect from him. He’d tell you his deepest, darkest secrets with solemnity written on his face. Then, he’d kiss you and whisper how you’re the closest thing he has to a cure.

But maybe—he was just exploiting your kindness, told you stories he knows will make you stay. What makes you so angry is how it worked, and it still is working because you don’t know how to feel about the whole ordeal. A minute ago you were angry and ready to end his bloodline right then and there. Right now, however, you can’t help but feel guilty.

Empathy is a twisted curse, and you are its avatar.

—

Two weeks pass, and it seems like not much has changed. Only a few people have brought up the video, namely your family, some people from your sorority, and a few acquaintances. Though, you’ve seen an unbearable amount of sad ship edits of you and Satoru on your feed the past couple of days.

The conversation with your parents went as expected. The usual, “I knew that Gojo kid was trouble!” your father huffed at the dinner table last Friday, when you came to visit. “Honey, we should let her choose who she wants even if it ends up spectacularly failing,” your mother said, sarcasm dripping in her tone.

You only sighed while eating the supposedly delicious food that tastes bland atop the tongue you’re lightly biting.

“Princess,” your father started, “your mother and I do have someone to introduce to you though. We just waited until that boy goes.”

Your mother smiled, “He’s fairly handsome and strong, honey! He’s taking a business course in your university.” You wanted to say, “So does Satoru,” but you didn’t. That would’ve caused a whole ass scene, and you weren’t in the mood for drama.

“Who is he?” you asked. A little curious but more skeptical.

“Naoya Zen’in,” your father answered, “He’s Naobito’s son. Don’t you remember the person I mentioned about a month ago?”

“Oh, him…” you murmur.

“It would make me very happy if you agreed to meet him, my princess,” your father spoke with a honeyed tone. You felt bad rejecting him, and you saw the way mother glanced at you as if to tell you that it’s important for you to agree and behave.

“Okay, daddy,” you replied as if you were back to being their little girl, and perhaps that’s all you were to them. Maybe it just never gets better.

Now, you’re here with the dirty blond on an agonizingly awkward date probably a week after your father introduced him to you. This man hasn’t stopped talking about himself for an hour at this point! Even when he asks about you, he finds a way to circle back the conversation to himself. What the actual fuck?

“What course are you taking at the university?” he asks, trying to seem kind as he slices a piece of his steak then using a fork to put the cut in his mouth.

“Oh, I’m taking [course], I’m in my second year, actually,” you mention, thinking he spontaneously “grew” some manners.

“Cool, cool,” he says as if dismissing your answer entirely, “I’m in my first year, taking a BusFi course, if you know what that is.”

“Yeah, busi—”

“Business finance,” he interrupts because, of course.

“Yeah…” you awkwardly chime. Y’know what? You’re just glad he isn’t mentioning Satoru. Maybe his father instructed him not to. You don’t really care as long as he doesn’t mention he who must not be named.

For the rest of the night, you decide to just eat and sit pretty. You drink a bit of wine then curse your body that tonight’s the night it chooses to be a lightweight ‘cause after your second glass, you’re already a little sleepy and giggly.

“Naoya, ‘m a little warm…” you whisper, cutting him off while he was talking about something you can barely remember. You look up at him with a sultry gaze, but you’re clearly inebriated.

“Hm? Warm, huh?” he restates with a mischievous smirk creeping up his lips.

In less than a minute, he flags down a waiter for the bill and pays.

Everything that happens after is a little hazy and way too quick. You’re pulled into a hotel room—it’s nice, warm, like the luxurious beds Satoru accustomed you to.

He sits on the ottoman and you follow in suit. “You look so pretty,” he says, and you blush like you always do.

“Thank you,” you whisper like you haven’t heard the compliment a million times before—from a boy so crooked, you wish it’s him, who’s here before you, but maybe this Zen’in brat will do. In your parents’ eyes, he’s better than that “Gojo kid.”

You stand in between his legs, and he coaxes you to kneel. “You know what to do,” he muses, and you nod in response. Slowly, you undo his belt and pull the zipper of his pants. You’re soon faced with his growing bulge, only covered by his dark boxers.

From the outline, you can already deduce that it’s not larger than Satoru’s, so it should be easier, right? Maybe. As you pulled his underwear down, letting his member spring free, you give his mushroom tip kitten licks.

One, two, three. Slow and on the slit.

He groans. Beads of pre exit, and you taste it on your tongue—salty you remark to yourself. Two long veins protrude at his shaft as if to balance each other out.

“You’re—hah! So good at this…” he breathes as your hands make its way around his dick. You pump slowly—once, twice, just to tease the bully.

Your mouth, already accustomed to Satoru’s cock, takes Naoya’s with indifference. The curve isn’t the same, but really, what’s the difference? It’s just a boner that’ll soon soften.

You go slow at first, bobbing your head then swirling your tongue on the top. Gluck. Gluck. Gluck. The noise is pornographic as it echoes against the walls. What would your father think if he saw you right now? His beloved daughter, the one who he set up, sucking off his business partner’s son.

You giggle softly as he starts to make meeker sounds. “Fuck, where’d you learn this shit?” he rasps, trying to keep in a mewl. Ultimately, he fails, moaning into his hand whenever you pull back because you suck him off like it’s a straw. “Shit, so fuckin’ dirty, ma.”

His hips buck into you, almost using you like a damn pussy. And when he’s close, he holds your head down. Satoru rarely did that with you, but you don’t really mind. “Drink it all, okay? Don’t fuckin’ waste it or I’ll make you lick that shit on the floor.”

You try to babble, “I won’t, I won’t!” but the words drown in your throat as he releases his seed into your mouth. Warm and sticky—yet a little too salty for your liking. Like instructed, you drink it all up without breaking a sweat.

Out of the blue, he strikes your cheek softly. Your eyes widen, but he doesn’t care. “Good girl,” he grins, and somehow, you now feel like letting him into your life was a grave mistake.

The next day, you slip out of the barely made bed and collect your clothes. You're as quiet as a mouse while rummaging through the blurry floors. It's crazy how hungover you are.

On the bed, Naoya hardly stirs even when you accidentally bump your big toe on a corner. You have half the mind to just scream!

Fortunately, you were succesful enough with gathering your items.

You hurriedly enter the elevator, looking as disheveled as ever and not even wearing your heels yet. Upon reaching the ground floor, you put on your shoes and exit the facility to hail a cab.

"To the university please, greek row," you say while handing the driver a few hundred yen. He only nods and speeds through the streets like he lives only for himself.

Once you reach the campus gates, you show security your student ID, so they'll let the cab in. The guard nods upon seeing your face, already familiar with who you are. You smile, waving politely.

You're immediately greeted by Shokko when you arrive, so you thank the older man and hop out of the vehicle. "Babe!" she exclaims, throwing her arms around you. "Everyone's been calling you for hours."

"You said you were going on a date with Naoya, and we all got scared when we didn't see you home the next day! Like literally!" she says. All the while, inspecting your body for any signs that you were mistreated—because duh! It's fucking Naoya Zenin. You can never be too sure around him.

"Did he hurt you?" the short-haired brunette continued to ask as the two of you enter the house. "DID YOU SLEEP WITH HIM?!" she questions as if that's the worst thing you could've ever done (which maybe... she's right about).

"W-Well yeah? Kind of..." you answer. "But like! It wasn't that good."

"Oh my god!" Yuki screams from the kitchen. "You slept with him?!"

You sigh. Well, the whole sorority now knows you slept with a notorious fuck boy. It can't get any worse than the scandals you had with Satoru though, so you don't really mind anymore. Still, this situation deserves a disappointed sigh more directed at yourself than anyone else.

—

Things for the blue-eyed piece of shit wasn’t any better. Satoru hates how Naoya’s been around you recently. It’s uncanny. You? Pretty, kind, and smart with that dirtbag excuse of a person? Un-fucking-believable. To be fair, he was a pretty shitty person around you, so he guesses Naoya’s right up your alley.

His mind’s a fucking minefield of memories of you.

Satoru’s been reflecting—trying to improve, but he did pick up some old habits he told you he left in the past—namely smoking. It started a few days after Toji caught wind of the whole situation regarding you and his cousin. After hearing the news, Satoru just spiraled.

He grabbed a red pack for the first time in months, grumbling under his breath as he walked up the flights of stairs.

“Hm, you haven’t taken a hit in a while,” Suguru chuckled as Satoru approached him on the balcony.

“‘Guess I like the smell again,” Satoru fibbed as he dragged a long puff.

“You don’t have to lie y’know, it’s just us,” the raven-haired hunk said, “We both know you quit ‘cause the smoke makes her cough.”

The sky-eyed boy still didn’t let up, “So? It could’ve just coincided.”

His friend laughed again, “Y’know, Satoru, you’re really fuckin’ smart, but you can’t seem to understand that you’ll lose her if you don’t stop playing around.”

“Why? ‘Cause you’ll go after her?” Satoru challenged.

“I might,” is all Suguru said before extinguishing the flame of his own cigarette on an ashtray nearby.

Satoru inhaled, deep. He let the smoke fill his lungs as if it kept him alive and sane. It was at that moment he decided that when the time comes, he’ll swoop in and take you back. All he needs is a chance and for Suguru and Naoya to not notice it.

—

Since that night, Naoya’s been hovering around you on campus. You guess you like him. He’s nice for the most part, but he’s utterly—boring and to some extent, misogynistic. He comments on your clothes, makeup, and even the stuff you like. Satoru never did that! If anything, he was waaaayyyy too dirty about it.

It really is a "pick your poison" situation.

Ring! Finally, your final class for this hectic week’s done. You can relax, lay down and— “Hey, babe, let’s go to that convenience store by the ramen shop downtown.” Suddenly, an arm is around you before you can even take three steps out the door. It weighs you down more so than your books already are. Naoya’s been getting more touchy in public, but it always made you so uncomfortable. You avoided his advances like the plague. You sucked his dick ONCE, and now he’s acting like you’re married.

He doesn’t make you feel safe like Satoru did. Yeah, he’s big, bad, and strong, but Satoru was just—everything. If anything, Naoya Zenin made you feel like there's always a target on your back.

He doesn’t even offer to carry your things—not even some textbooks or your ipad at the very least. “I dunno, Nao… I’m pretty tired… and um. I told you, stop calling me babe. People are going to think you’re my boyfriend,” you all but whisper.

“So? It’s not like you’re still with Gojo,” he scoffs.

“He wasn’t my boyfriend.”

“Sure.”

“I just don’t want to go,” you say, pleading clear in your tone.

“Why not? It’s just a convenience store run. Then we can eat at the ramen shop before or after, yeah?”

You just sigh, knowing he’ll just keep yapping, “Okay… let me just leave my books in my locker.”

—

At the store, he’s a little more tame yet still annoying and persistent while looking through the selection of snacks and other things. At the very least, he's no longer trying to grope you anymore. “Come on, y/n… give me a kiss… I took you all the way here, didn’t I?” He says while grabbing your waist. “Let go, Naoya.. plus, you were the one that wanted to go,” you whisper, not wanting to cause a scene. You’re quite literally in line and barely anyone’s making a peep. This is just embarrassing.

“But, princess…” Princess? Only Satoru and your father calls you that nickname… it feels weird to hear it from someone else.

Behind one of the aisles, unbeknownst to you, Satoru’s listening in. It just so happens that he got here first, looking through the selection of the new collaboration candies! But alas, fate had been cruel to him and slapped his biggest mistake right in his face.

“I really don’t want to, Nao'…” you try to reason, but he only pulls you closer to his side ('guess you spoke too soon).

You lightly push him off. “Stop,” you mutter.

“Nah, don’t you wanna be held? I’m sure you miss it,” he snickers, and your expression turns sour. You step out of line and scoff, “Naoya! I said let go!”

Instantly, his playful demeanor shifts to something possessive—controlling. He holds your arm and drags you away to a blind spot in the corner. “Really? You want me to let go?” he mumbles in your ear like a threat.

“She said let go, asshole,” a familiar voice comes from behind Naoya. The jerk turns, but immediately, he catches a fist on the side of his face, and you shriek.

“You fucking—“ the disoriented guy immediately gathers himself to strike back, and you make out the other person to be Satoru.

You state his name in confusion and Naoya takes it as an opening as the taller man turns to you. Unfortunately for him, Satoru dodges and takes the fight outside, dragging the petulant boy by the collar.

You look over to the people who just witnesed the conflict arise and apologize for the two men’s delinquent behavior, leaving the items you were supposed to but at the counter. You then run outside the store before one of them commits murder.

Outside, they’re hitting each other like they’re in an octagon. It’s brash, juvenile—overall fucking stupid.

“If the both of you don’t fucking stop, I’m calling the cops!” you yell.

Satoru pushes Naoya to the ground and stops hitting. Naoya looks at you, somehow still cocky as ever. “Bullshit, you wouldn’t,” he spits.

“Scram, Naoya,” Satoru deadpans, but Naoya turns to you to see what you’d decide. You look away from the dirty blond, silently choosing your white knight, Satoru.

He stomps as he walks away—what a fucking joke. How were these men able to make it past the sixth grade? Seriously? The immaturity is astounding.

Satoru doesn’t move from his place and neither do you. Honestly, what is there to say? “Hey, I’m sorry for blurting out your deepest insecurities that you’ve only told me and no one else!” Be so for real right now.

“Let’s go inside?” he breaks the silence, and you just nod. Is this what shell shock feels like?

You beside him as you both enter the establishment. His lip bleeding and a gash is present on his cheek. You know you have to patch him up. So for the first time in a while, you hold his hand, dragging him to the small medical supplies aisle. Silently, you grab Betadine, cotton, and bandaids then a lukewarm water bottle.

Like always, Satoru pays for what you got. Then, you make him sit on the curb outside the convenience store. You stand in between his legs as you start cleaning his wounds with the water. Then, dabbing on Betadine generously, except for the cut on his lip, just a bit on the skin. Lastly, you put the bandaid on gently, careful as to not place the sticky area on any wounded part.

After the process, he hugs your thighs to the side of his face without warning. “I’m sorry, y/n. Please forgive me,” he murmurs.

You’re absolutely stunned, “…Satoru?”

Hot tears cascade down your legs. To him, there is nothing better in his godforsaken life than being close to you.

He sniffles, “Forgive me. Please, y/n. Please—say you forgive me.”

“What is there to forgive?”

“I’ve already told everyone that I didn’t mean it. I told them that I’m an asshole and that I can’t spend another minute without you because—because I love you,” He confesses.

“No you don’t,” you respond too quickly. Cold, practiced, like you knew it was a prank (it’s not) before he even spoke. Then, you add, “You can’t love someone and say all that, and even if I do fucking love you, I don’t know if I can ever stop thinking about what you said.” You avert your gaze.

“Angel, please, I’m so sorry, I’ll do anything…” he throws onto the cool air, where no warmth can be palpable. “Just let me stay close,” he adds quietly.

There’s a brief moment of silence—perhaps clarity. Maybe it’s acceptance or something less comforting, but your anger or whatever you felt towards this whole kerfuffle shifts.

You hold his head to make him look up. His expression—absolutely wrecked. You lean down to kiss his temple, and all he could do is nuzzle. Nuzzle into your warm skin that once accepted his asshole self, he’s hoping this is forgiveness.

“We should stay as friends,” you whisper against his pale skin, still leaning down. His features are illuminated by the soft glow of moonlight—it’s poetic, really. How he’s prettier at night when it’s quiet and barely anyone can see. Maybe you just think it’s better this way because without everyone else, he’s just yours.

His heart shatters, but he doesn’t overreact, “Friends, right. Yeah…” he tries to seem cool about it.

You don’t know if you’re ready to fully accept the gravity of the situation, but you still somewhat accept his teary apology. “Just friends,” you mirror his words.

You’ve been bullied and made fun of, so it wasn’t really new, but coming from Satoru, it all felt worse. He didn’t just call you names. Satoru took your insecurities and announced them to the world. Someone who could just throw everything away and do that—even if intoxicated, just isn’t the kind of man you’d want to spend your whole life with.

Uncomfortable silence settles outside the convenience store after the confrontation, and neither of you want to break it. But you know Satoru, he’s restless, so you outlast him. “Take me with you,” he begs, unable to look into your eyes.

“To the soro—?”

“Yes,” he interjects.

“And what if Utahime crucifies you?” you scoff playfully, trying to fix the dampened mood with your dry tone.

“Let her. I deserve it, don’t I?” he pouts, hugging your thighs tighter as you fully adjust yourself up. You push his face away, laughing at his desperation. It’s mean, but you can’t help but love the power you hold over the hunk everyone wants. He takes it all without complaint.

“If you need to be mean, be mean to me, baby,” he smiles through tear-stricken cheeks that you caress away with your thumbs. Your smile fades, and he’s a little confused.

“What’s wrong?” he asks with a sniffle, but you don’t have an answer. Seeing him sad doesn’t make you feel good or better—if anything, it makes you feel like shit.

“Nothing, Satoru…” you smile, and it barely reaches your eyes. He mimics your expression, and it’s weird yet comforting.

The breeze of the night is cold and piercing as the two of you make your way to the sorority house. Satoru tries to hover close to you, but you discretely try to move away. Though, you’re clearly trembling as the first few drops of the holiday spirit fell on top of both your heads. He’s already carrying the bag you didn’t leave in your locker—and you’re grateful he took it.

Honestly, despite the whole ordeal earlier, a part of you still thinks he’s trying to get into your pants—or under your skirt. Though, you’re really trying to let go of the ugly thought, trying to start a fresh rapport with the notorious playboy.

Your body continues to shake under the first winter breeze, and Satoru can no longer take it. He wraps an arm around your shoulder and pulls you to his side without a word. Yeah, the action is verbatim of Naoya’s, but this time, you don’t swerve. Even without saying it, you’re thankful for his warmth—although, maybe the redness of your face already says too much.

Satoru sees the hue and smiles slyly to himself. He’s going to get you back. He has to.

—

“Finally,” you pant softly as you finally reach your destination: the sorority house! Satoru laughs at your reactions as you walk with him side by side.

You start climbing up the porch when there’s a sudden gnawing feeling that’s rising up your chest. And a realization hits just before you turn the doorknob. Would your peers think of you as stupid or would they pity you for letting him back in? You pause.

To be honest, you don’t really want to know.

Behind the door, you hear chattering, a blender whirring, and footsteps. The girls are awake, obviously. Why wouldn’t they be? It’s only 7PM. But fuck, you really don’t want to see the disappointment on Yuki and Shoko’s faces when you walk in. You’re sure they’re there because you can hear them arguing about who gets control of the TV remote.

“Can we go through the back?” you ask him with a pleading look on your face as you look to meet his baby blues.

“Tryna sneak me in?” he snickers, but you deadpan in return, “Yeah, something like that.”

He isn’t taken aback. He gets it. Plussss, he knows that guys aren’t usually allowed to enter the “feminine sanctuary” as your senior, Utahime, playfully cals it. “Let’s be stealthy then,” he smirks.

The two of you keep your heads low as you sneak around the garden to get to the back door. Thankfully, through the window, you see that no one’s in the laundry area, so you just waltz in with Satoru.

Now, the problem is going upstairs.

You look around, trying to gauge where everyone is like some kind of psychic or otherworldly being able to sense seismic waves. “What the hell are you doing?” Satoru whispers, but you shush him abruptly.

In your head, you’re mapping out the best route to take. From the sounds, you can deduce that the TV is turned on to some movie starring Andy Samberg, which means Shoko and Yuki reached an agreement on who gets to choose tonight’s feature. Since the screen faces away from the stairs, the two women will not be able to see you. Then, you hear two doors shutting from above, signaling that some other occupants have retreated to their personal quarters—you assume it’s Utahime and Mei. Since it’s Thursday, you assume the pledges are just about to come home from their last class. It really pays to be observant, huh?

“Okay, I have a plan. Just follow me, okay?” you turn to Satoru to say, and he nods, “Okay, pretty girl.” Fuck him and his charm. You’re blushing, and it’s not even cute. It’s the tint from someone who walked a few miles and an omega in heat. Shitty combo? You think so. He giggles like a schoolgirl at your flushed expression probably thinking something along the lines of, “God, I’m glad I’m not a fuckin’ uggo.” And in your head, you jest.

You hold his wrist to lead him in, but he chooses to intertwine his fingers with yours. At this point, you don’t argue, and just try to stick to your plan. Theoretically, it should work.

But unfortunately, you’re no omniscient omnipotent deity. Just as soon as you make your way out of the laundry area and into the connecting kitchen, you’re met with a hungry, now, shocked Shoko. “Hey…” you awkwardly cut through the perpetual staring contest.

“Hey…” Shoko awkwardly replies while eyeing Satoru up and down then turning her gaze to you. She then greets again, “Hi…”

Silence.

“Your… friend is back,” she says like it’s a betrayal to everything she’s ever known.

“Yeah—yes. Yes, he is…” you straighten up and clear your throat. “We’re just friends.”

“And you’re sneaking him in?” You nod in response. Your head whips to Satoru, but he just looks back at you. Useless. Well, clearly, the brunette is just justifiably skeptical. Last time you let him into your life again, he still decided to act like you were unimportant. What poppycock is this?!

You’re ready for a barrage of warnings or a huge conflict, but it never comes. Instead, she shrugs and sighs, “Babe, it’s your pussy, ‘can’t really dictate what you do with it. Just scream bloody murder, and I’ll throw him out.”

Her words make you turn unbelievably… elated?

“T—Thanks?” you reply in confusion, hurriedly dragging the large man upstairs to avoid any other awkward interaction with a sister.

—

You shut the door to your room and lock it, double checking by turning the knob once. “No one’s going to just barge in to watch us, y’know?” Satoru jokes, but you ignore him.

He’s about to sit on your bed when you call his name like a thunderclap, “Satoru!” You glare at the snowy-locked manchild as he stands back up before your plush mattress. “Wash up and change your clothes first. Don’t use your outside clothes on my bed,” you huff.

“Right, right, the angel’s laws!” he chides as you rummage through a drawer of his stuff, handing him a change of, well, everything—even boxers! You might as well have been living together before all this happened.

“Y’know, it’s much more efficient to shower together—to lessen droughts ‘n’ all,” he starts. “Since when did you care about efficiency?” you raise an eyebrow at his crystal clear ploy.

“Since I fucked up, so now, I’m very eager to show my princess how sorry her ‘Toru is,” he pouts, feigning melancholy as he moves to stand behind you.

But once you make your hesitance known, the sultry tone he used with practiced ease falters. “I dunno, Satoru… I don’t think we should have sex,” you admit, averting your gaze as if taboo topics exist between the two of you.

He laughs lightly, and you’re sure there’s no hidden truth. “It’s okay, baby. I get it, just had to shoot my shot, y’know?” he says with that boyish grin plastered on his perfect face.

Curse him.

Before he could reach your small private bathroom, you speak, “But uh—we can shower together… if you’re alright with just… coexisting?” Maybe you should’ve just let the words die down in your throat.

Lord, please let the ground just swallow you whole.

Satoru doesn’t deserve to still be treated so nicely—everyone knows and thinks the same, but a part of you still yearns for his presence. He’s Satoru Gojo—your Satoru Gojo.

“Mhm, of course, angel,” He speaks, voice sounding tired but hopelessly lovestruck.

You just smiled sweetly. Was it still worth it to accept him into your heart? You’ve been warned before that this was the kind of person he is and always be. Now that it’s happened, would it be stupid for you to give him another chance?

Fuck, you know it is…

Still, you let him take you away, trailing behind him as you both enter the bathroom. It’s a little cramped since it’s only made for one, but you make do. He helps you undress like he always does, and you help him shed like you always do.

The air feels light even if neither of you dare to make a sound.

Water cascades on your skin and his. It falls to the ground rapidly, not an obstacle in its path. That is until Satoru decides to place his hand above your hip, which allows the water to swerve due to the curve of his palm and onto the fat of your ass.

You let his hand stay, not minding the contact. He’s not pushing further, not being annoying, so who were you to complain, no? He uses the same soap as you do when you finish siding it over the planes of your skin. He wishes to himself that he has the option of not showering for a couple days after this just to let your scent linger on him. What a weirdo. He even snickers aloud, which just makes him look crazy because you can’t hear his nasty thoughts.

“Don’t laugh at me,” you say without looking back.

“I’m not laughing at you, baby, I’m sorry,” he replies.

“Promise?” you ask, and he spins you around. A childish smirk tugs on the corner of his lips, “Promise,” he repeats, intertwining his pinky with yours.

In a flash, his gaze falls on your chest then back up at your face. Your perky tits are staring right at him! It would be rude to ignore his girls.

“Perv,” you mutter playfully, pulling away from his finger and turning back around. “I’ll just stare lower then,” he jokes.

Then, you playfully throw your soap at him. “If you’re gonna stare, at least be helpful,” you spit, telling him to help you wash. And he does so—with gusto even!

The steamy air in the bathroom feels light, and you let your worries fade. “This is nice,” he whispers against the shell of your ear.

You smile, genuine as you turn your head to the side to glance toward the bare boy. “It is,” you utter.

After you rinse and wring yourself dry, Satoru can’t help but hold you close with your back to his chest, spooning you—still naked yet no longer wet, afraid to lose what he loves once again. “I really am sorry, baby…”

“I know…” you reply, “I know, Satoru.”

Satoru hides himself on the crook of your neck as if embarrassed. And truly, he is. He’s ashamed that it took him so long to realize that he’s got it good, being by your side.

He keeps apologizing while hot tears run down his face and onto your skin like they’re racing to be on the mounds of your chest. “I’m sorry,” he says. You only reply in a quieter tone, “I know, Satoru…”

The intimacy of being held skin-to-skin… god, it’s unmatched. But a part of you wishes you felt for another man—someone who won’t break your heart even if other’s see him as less of a superior being because of it. Alas, your body betrays you. Without warning, you limp against him, and he catches you.

Wordlessly, he lays you on your bed, climbing on top of your form while kissing your warmth. And his lips—they leave goosebumps in their wake.

—

Fast forward to the night before Christmas break, the whole conflict basically started around a month or two ago, and about a week since you and Satoru “made up.” Toji’s apologized for the shit he said, and he even made up with Fushiguro, who trying things out with again. You’re happy for them, really! But you’re just a little bitter that they got the happy ending while you’re stuck next to Satoru, semi-sulking because he got back into smoking.

Jujutsu Phi and Alpha Kaisen are currently throwing a joint Winter Wonderland Christmas Party. The houses—adjacent to each other are decorated with holiday streamers, cut out snowflakes, and a ton of edible glitter. Blue sparkles and silver sequins shimmered on the doorway and the roof as real snowflakes fell atop.

On the couch in the living room is where you’re sat next to him. “Seriously, ‘Toru?” you whine and pout upon seeing him take a cigarette from someone that offered.

“C’mon, baby, just tonight, okay?“ he rasps, “Just got back into it when we weren’t talking.” He takes out a lighter, the one you thought he threw away months ago, and burns the end of the stick.

You huff at his answer, excusing yourself from the area. “Whatever, I’m gonna go get drinks,” you tell him while he just shoots you a wink. “Okay, angel face, get me something fruity, m’kay?”

In return, you rolls your eyes, not bothering with a verbal response. “What’s wrong between you guys?” Choso asks from across the den.

Satoru only shrugs, “Nothing, she’s probably just in a bad mood.” He doesn’t take it seriously—doesn’t read into it too much, but the chocolate-haired hunk in front of him senses another brewing scandal afoot.

Still, Choso just watches as you make your way to the kitchen like you’d break if he says something out of place—if he makes it known that he can perceive your emotions through your face. Additionally, It’s clear that the people who were seated by you, could sense your growing frustration and Satoru’s dismissive (rather, his normal) attitude. Those who admired him feigned kindness, and everyone in between acted indifferent.

Typical.

—

A few moments later, Suguru, enters the kitchen, walking over to you by the counter, where you’ve been pretending to pour yourself a drink for almost ten minutes.

“Satoru’s wondering where you are, y’know..” Suguru speaks as he stands next to you, actually pouring alcohol into his cup with another bottle

“I know,” you deadpan despite not wanting to sound too harsh.

Suguru chuckles at your tone, “Are you high or something?”

“No, I don’t do those stuff,” you reply a little more calmly.

“Oh? Hm.. ‘guess you really are a good girl then,” the raven-haired hunk says as he takes a massive swig of his drink.

You pout at his words, finally putting alcohol in your cup only to take a small sip.

He laughs, “From the amount you put, I thought you’d down it all. And ‘cause Satoru’s being an ass.”

“What?”

He shrugs, “I mean, I thought you’d drown your sorrows in alcohol or something. No one would blame ya, y’know?”

“Well, Satoru’s not really being him right now, so I don’t really feel safe drinking my mind away,” you scoff.

“Why does it have to be Satoru?”

“What?” you repeat.

“Why lean on Satoru when you can lean on me?” he says with brazen confidence.

You snort, “Aren’t you supposed to be his actual best friend?”

That comment should’ve bothered him, but it doesn’t. “Aren’t you supposed to be his, quote, girlfriend?” he doubles down.

“Touche,” you mutter, “Is that all you came here for? Flirt with me but because it’s met with rejection, you kick me while I’m down?”

He laughs, leaning back on the counter with his hands in his pockets. “Nah, just came here for a drink, you being here was just a bonus, angel,” he says while amethyst eyes peer at you through foxy slits.

Well, it can’t hurt to just strike up a conversation, right? Right! If he can indulge in a bad habit, then you can make this small, somewhat bad, decision. “How long have you been friends with Satoru?” You ask.

“Long enough,” he replies lazily while stepping right next to you to mix himself a different drink.

“Come on, that isn’t much of an answer…” You whine to which he chuckles.

“Okay, yeah, sorry, sweetheart.” Why was his voice so calming? So grounding.. “We met when we were in high school with Shoko, Nanami, and Yu. ‘Guess you can say we all really grew up together,” he says.

“Woah! That’s cool!” you say with a smile. “Has he uh… always been like that?”

“Like an asshole? yeah, but it wasn’t always that bad,” he scoffs with a chuckle that he’s trying to stifle. “He really tried to keep it in for you though.”

“Doesn’t feel like it…” you respond, your happy expression slightly faltering.

“I know, and I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, it’s not your fault,” you let out with a soft smile. “How was he in high school… aside from the whole asshole thing.”

Suguru finishes mixing his concoction and brings it to his nose before answering your query, “Still the same, really. He’s fun, light, someone you’re glad to be around. But he’s always had a bad habit of putting the world on his shoulders then pushing permanence away by filling his world with temporary strangers.”

“Then why am I at arm’s reach?” you question as if Suguru was omniscient.

He takes a deep breath, and you feel the subtle shift. “He needs permanence to feel human, but when it’s too much, he’ll make himself temporary. It’s a cycle, and honestly, Shoko and I don’t understand why or how you still stay.”

“Stupidity and a whole lot of romantic loneliness, I guess,” you laugh bitterly. When his eyebrows furrow, you immediately try and change the topic, “What did you mix?”

“Oh, um,” he was just about to acknowledge what you said, but then you sprung a tangent. Maybe you didn’t want to talk about Satoru anymore, which is fine, he guesses. “Just some fruity syrups and straight vodka. It’s a little strong, but my flight home isn’t until the morning after tomorrow.”

“Can I try?”

For a moment, he’s taken aback in a non-negative way. Just shocked since you’re not all that close. Still, he hands you his solo cup, “Sure, take a sip first. Don’t want ya throwing up, pretty girl,” he winks.

—

Back with Satoru, the people around him are now playing spin the bottle, and he refused to play even when two girls started pleading!

He just notices that Suguru isn’t in his seat anymore and that you haven’t gone back in so long. Despite the pretty women on either side of him right now, he rises and extinguishes his second cigarette on the ashtray above the mahogany coffee table.

“Gojo-senpai!” the two whine, but he doesn’t even give them the time of day.

He stomps towards the kitchen, where you’re now sitting on the counter next to Suguru, once again, drunk out of your mind (you really need to go sober at this point), leaning on him while he’s telling you a long story from his childhood.

“Baby, I didn’t know you were talking to Suguru,” Satoru says as he climbs on the marble, sitting on your other side.

You glance to the side, a hazy view of snowy locks blocked your vision of the raging sea of dancing bodies. “Satoru?” you croak. “Yes, angel face, Satoru,” he chimes, giving the apple of your cheek a sweet kiss. You giggle and lean on Satoru’s body instead, squished between the two men.

Suguru’s amethyst gaze fall on Satoru’s baby blues—stare full of annoyance. “What’s wrong, Suguru?” the taller man smirks.

“Just surprised you’re here so soon,” he chuckles, relaxing his body against the cool counter.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Satoru says, wrapping an arm around you, securing your place by his side.

“It means,” Suguru sighs, “You’re only here when someone’s about to sweep her off her feet because you’re afraid that she’ll start to realize how shitty of a man you really are.”

Satoru stays silent.

Suguru breathes out then holds a hand out to caress the side of your face gently—too tender for it not to mean a thing. You look him in the eyes, the usually intimidating glint is now lavender for you. He leans in, leaving a barely there peck on your alcohol-stained lips.

“Run to me when you leave him,” he whispers before pushing himself off and walking out.

You’re dumbfounded by what just happened. You sit up and turn to Satoru as if asking for help with your hazy mind.

“Princess, you’re blushing,” he coos, “D’ya like Suguru more than me now?”

“N—No… he’s just nice…” you murmur in response.

“So you like nice?”

“Are you saying you’re not nice, ‘Toru?”

He pauses. “What if I am saying that?” he challenges.

Your eyebrows furrow as you search for a hint of mischief in his eyes, something that’ll tell you that he’s just your silly Satoru, but there is none. And quickly, self-preservation takes over. “Please don’t be mean to me…” you plead.

“I dunno… you seemed so close to Suguru earlier.”

“We were just talking,” you reply.

He grabs your face a little aggressively, “Oh? Then why’d he kiss you before leaving? Were you provoking him?” How he missed tormenting his princess. The way your nose curls in disgust is just toe-curlingly adorable. He knows his best friend has a HUGE crush on you, but he’ll still lead you to believe that it’s your fault.

“No—”

“Then why were you leaning on him before I walked in?” he questions in an accusatory manner.

“He was just telling me a story from his childhood…”

“I can tell you stories too,” he immediately retorts.

“You were too busy smoking,” you huff.

Then, he slumps a little, and his demeanor shifts to something terrifyingly playful. “I’m never too busy for you, angel face. And I said it’s a one-time thing, didn’t I? If you needed company, all you had to do was ask,” he smiles as he grounds his feet to stand in between your legs, effectively trapping you against the, now, freezing marble.

“Aw? Are you shy?” he mocks while poking your cheek. “I suppose I’m into meek little girls as well,” he shrugs.

You try to push him off, but he doesn’t budge. “That sounds so wrong, Satoru,” you whine, looking away.

“What does, baby?” he asks, feigning innocence. “Honesty isn’t wrong, no? You’re meek, little, and a girl—and me? I’m into that bullshit,” he says gruffly as he grabs you by the chin, almost squeezing your cheeks into your mouth.

“Can you do the same for me?”

“Same what?” you try to say, though, a little slurred, but it’s not due to how intoxicated you must be from Suguru’s tropical mix.

“Describe me like I did with you,” he grins—boyish yet almost villain-like.

“What games are you playing, Satoru?” you peer, kicking him away with a force not enough to leave a bruise. His smirk only grows; it’s fucking uncanny yet undeniably arousing. He knows the buttons to push, and you hate yourself for it.

“Why, pretty? You wanna play aggressive now?”

“What? No—what? Let go!” you yell and thrash against the brute as he lifts you up into his arms. “Satoru, what the hell?!” You immediately sober up at his actions, continuing to be difficult as he expertly maneuvers the way through the sea of people.

Of course, he brings you to his room, slamming the door with his foot then dropping you on the bed as if it wouldn’t grant you the chance to escape.

You immediately roll over and land on your feet. You speed to the door, but it’s no use. He’s faster, and he moves as if he’s already planned out everything that he’ll do down to how you’ll react.

He wraps his arms around you, lifting your body above the ground. “Satoru! You’re scaring me!” you finally sob instead of fight.

Like a switch flipped, his demeanor shifts in ab instant. From eerily intimidating to the puppy dog boyfriend from the time he was pleading for your attention. “Scare you? No, no, no, baby… I just want you to stay…” he mewls, setting you down, yet not letting go.

You shake your head, trying to push him away as he desperately tightens his grip while keeping your head under his chin. “You’ll just be rough again! I don’t want to do that, ‘Toru!” you shriek.

If there weren’t a party going on downstairs, the whole Greek row would’ve heard your screams.

“Shit—no! I promise, I won’t be…” he murmurs softly in your ear as he feels your body start to tremble out of fatigue. He runs his palm over your back gently, trying to soothe you.

“You’re lying…” your voice turns shaky as you no longer prevent the tears from falling.

“Pretty girl…” he coos before carrying you back onto the bed, setting you down gently and wiping the tears on your face with his thumbs—now, hovering over you. “Fuck, I’m so sorry—I don’t know what came over me… don’t cry, please…”

“You’re making it worse,” he adds.

“Worse?” you question through sniffles, gripping onto his sheets because of anxiety.

“I want you so bad, princess… can’t you see? So fuckin’ bad…” he rasps while guiding your smaller hand to his annoyingly massive bulge, “And a part of me feels so bad when you cry, but I really just want to bottom out in your mouth.”

For a moment, you’re silent, afraid of doing—anything as he allows you to palm him.

“I’m trying to be good for you, baby. I really am, but can you be good for me tonight? Please, sweet girl?” he groans while cradling your head in his other palm then resting his forehead on your own.

It’s nauseating, how intimate it is. From pain to confusion to lust to something not even latin could quite describe… it’s all so tiring, and it’s just too easy to fall into his arms.

Your heart aches at the thought of rejecting him. It always does. It’s like you’d rather be hurt near him than be happy far from. His air of familiarity is comfort, and to him, your air of sweetness is lust wrapped in joy. “O—Okay, ‘Toru,” you reply.

In your ear, he whispers, “Thank you, angel,” while peppering pecks on your face. “Thank you. Thank you, baby girl… you’re so sweet to your ‘Toru…”

He starts with the usual, making out with your lips and skin until you’re bruising all over. Well, honestly, it’s only a few spots, but still! Visible hickeys suck!

As expected, Satoru’s a little less patient tonight. He undresses you and himself simultaneously, as if he’s wishing to spontaneously grow two more arms just for the efficiency of it all during sex.

Then, he rips your underwear off—bra and panties, which has you almost writhing in shock. “Satoru!” you huff while holding onto his beefy biceps. “You said you’d be gentle!”

“I am though, sweets?” he says in confusion, “Is this not gentle enough?”

“Ripping off my panties is not gentle…” you whine.

He pouts, “I’ll buy you a new set, I promise…”

“Three sets,” you childishly reply, trying to calm your jittery heart.

He chuckles, “Okay, angel face, three new sets.”

Prepping your pussy isn’t all that hard, especially since you’re embarrassingly dripping right now. He’s sure that his dick could slide right in, but he, at least, wants to do a few things right.

He inserts a few fingers first, curling and scissoring against your sweet g-spot. “So pretty, he compliments, and you’re back arches every time. He’s hits each sensitive area like there’s a clearly marked target in his mind. Utterly unbelievable.

You grip his sheets so tightly that your fists start to turn white. “Satoru!” you mewl, drooling in your mouth and your lower lips. His mouth is occupied on one of your tits while his other hand rolls a nipple against the lengthy appendages.

“Shit—!” you shriek as you cum, and he immediately dives down to taste your sweet juice on his tongue—still better than any concoction Suguru can make up.

He pulls the three fingers out, and you make a porno hum. It’s cute. He loves it when you try not to make “gross” sounds. “Open your mouth, baby,” he instructs.

You follow, letting your tongue out like you know he wants. “Good girl,” he whispers with a chuckle, placing his fingers on your pretty pink appendage, “Suck,” he commands.

“Tastes good, no?” You nod your head in response.

He chuckles, low, “You think you’re ready now, baby? Ya look like you’re clenching on nothing.” He laughs while removing his fingers from your mouth. You dribble a little and he leans down to lick it. He can’t get enough of whatever he can taste from you. You’re sure that if you’d let him, he’d eat your ass.

“Satoru! You can’t just do that…” you scold.

“Why not? I’m sure if you were in my shoes, you’d want to do it too,” he jokes.

“Just—fuck me already…” you murmur the last few words, barely audible, but he catches it.

“What? I can’t hear you if you’re too quiet, pretty,” he pretends.

“Satoru! You know you heard me,” you pout.

“Nah, I don’t think so princess,” he shrugs.

You turn away, blushing furiously, knowing he won’t let you have what you want until you give in. “Please… just fuck me…” you whisper a little bit louder.

He snickers, “See? That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

You shake your head. Then, you finally notice his cock, dripping in pre and standing proud. Your eyes widen—the same reaction you have every time. For the nth time tonight, he laughs, “Still scared, seriously, baby?”

“Well… if you were in my shoes,” you mimic his words from earlier, “You’d be scared too, ‘Toru.”

“Point taken,” he says, but you know he’s brushing off your statement. “Counter point, you always love it. Don’t ya? My little cockslut,” he smiles while reaching for a condom on the shelf above his headboard.

You help him put the rubber on, feeling filthy as your skin touches his. “You make it sound so dirty,” you complain as you feel his tip on the edge of your folds. He’s only coating the shaft in your slick, but every time it hits your clit, you whimper.

“But it is dirty, isn’t it?” he hums in your ear as his dick starts to protrude through your gummy walls. It’s slow at first. He doesn’t want to hurt you, of course.

He may be an ass, but he isn’t a monster (kinda).

When he’s halfway in, he pauses.

“Is that it…?” you nervously ask.

“Only half,” he tells you gently while scratching your head to help you relax.

“So full…” you murmur. “It can’t just be half, ‘Toru… you’re lying…” you accuse the large man.

He chortles, “I’m not! I swear! Maybe it’s because we haven’t done it in a while, princess.” He continues to pet your hair. “C’mon, relax f’me. It’ll start to hurt if you tense up.”

You take deep breaths at calculated intervals, evening it out. He gives your neck a few kisses as if to praise your actions.

After a few minutes of holding himself back, Satoru finally bottoms out. It’s like you can feel him in your cervix. “It’s like a little baby, no?” he giggles.

He moves a little, just about an inch out then in. “Mnh… it feels—nice, ‘Toru…” you coo as wet squelches echo in his room.

“Yeah? Does it, pretty?” You wrap your arms around his neck and nod, “Mhm… it’s… hah! It makes me wanna pee!” you softly squeal.

“You know you can say squirt, right? I won’t make fun of ya,” he mocks a little.

You hum in annoyance, which signals him to pick up the pace. Can’t be annoyed when you’re fucked dumb, yeah?

Plap! Plap! Plap!

The sounds are so wet and loud that it’s drowning out all the pornographic moans you’re making. At this point, Satoru’s even whining praises in your ear. “You’re so cute, mwah!” He presses a soft kiss to your cheekbone. “C’mon, don’t hide your noises…” he gradually quickens his pace.

“Fuck, don’t squeeze my cock like that, pretty. I don’t wanna cum so early,” he licks your ear and you clench again.

His hips stutter for a moment. “So close already, baby. ‘Toru’s so close, yeahhh, fuck! Keep clenching… jus’ like tha—hah..t!” he groans and you wrap your legs around him, pulling him impossibly close to your heat.

He keeps rutting into you, leaving little hickeys on your collar and chest since the ones from that night are now gone. “So pretty, don’t cover ‘em up, okay? We gotta show that Zenin loser and Suguru that you’re mine.”

You whimper, “You’re mine too, right, ‘Toru?”

He huffs and fucks harder into you. One of his hands journeys low to claim your bud. He rubs circles on it, using your slick to lubricate his movements.

Tears prick the corners of your eyes as his motions become rougher. “Right, ‘Toru?” you manage to babble, but he just lets out a gruff sigh. Seriously, what’s wrong with this man? “Shut up,” he rasps.

You sniffle as you feel a pooling sensation in your core. It’s weird. Your heart feels heavy and yet your orgasm still finds a way to take over.

Again, Satoru’s hips stutter. Three heavy strokes and he cums into the rubber. How he wishes he can coat your baby room in white. He rasps your name as he lets his body lay limp on yours.

“Satoru!” you mewl, drooling onto his pillow. Your legs shake lightly as your pussy continues to slobber.

A white ring forms on the base of his cock as you cream, and he doesn’t stop thrusting. Though, it’s soft and slow, just to let the both of you ride your respective highs. “You’re so heavy,” you whine, and he lifts himself up a little.

As post-nut clarity sets in, you sob not because of pleasure but because of confusion. You’re utterly unsure whether he wants you or not—and whether he’s ready accept his feelings or let you go. Okay, maybe he is a monster.

While he keeps himself up with his elbow, he wipes your tears away with the back of his knuckles, knowing full well that he’s the cause. “You keep asking questions you don’t want the answer to, princess,” he starts, placing his lips on the corner of your own.

“I said I want you back, didn’t I?”

“You did but…” you whine, tearing up a little more.

He pouts mockingly, “Oh, baby, you’re dampening the mood and my sheets.” His mouth starts trailing down your body to leave soft kisses everywhere.

And after his exploration, he sits up. “On the floor, now, pretty,” he commands as he leans back on his hands, spreading his legs wide on the edge of his bed. You see his dick, still standing, still ready for more.

You do as you’re told, bringing your shaking body down to his carpet and kneeling in front of his hard member. He looks down at you with a cocky expression pasted above the vulnerability he wants to expose.

Your arms reach for his shaft, and at your light touch, it twitches. His hand shoots behind your head, you flinch, but his touch is gentle. “Hm, you’re so sweet,” he purrs as he runs his fingers through your hair, still relaxed, still open, still leaning as if he’s content, knowing you won’t run or bite.

He smiles as you take him inside your warm mouth. God, you’re so stupid, and he loves it. He loves how sweet you are, how you’re so eager to make him feel good. He loves that you’re so book smart and that you help him with his homework when he pretends to be a stupid fuck. He loves when you look at him or when you cry because of something he does. He loves when you compliment him and hide shyly behind your manicured hands. He loves how kind you are even towards people who don’t deserve it. He loves when you make him wait for you outside your lectures with a snack and drink in hand. He loves the way you smile when you catch him with a trinket or large gift. He loves when you’re red and embarrassed after he whispers a dirty joke. He loves how you allow him to think deeper about the world and he helps you let go for a bit. He loves how you make him feel human when everyone else treats him like a curse or god.

You pull back, confusion written all over your face as he looks like he’s spacing out. “Are you okay, ‘Toru?” you ask, putting your hands on his thighs to lift yourself up and look him in the eyes.

Your irises meet his baby blues, and he swears he cums without contact.

Then, like the stupid man he is. He finally allows himself to realize that fuck, he loves you.

🗒️: lwk, Satoru’s reminding me of Clavicular (sorry for the late post)

smau

It stayed heavy on your mind. It wasn’t as if you didn’t have the natural urges for intimacy, you were a grown woman after all, but the right opportunity never seemed to preset itself, and that wasn’t a fact you often dwelled on. You didn’t want to give yourself up to a one-night stand, risk a bad first experience, but you also rarely had time to go on dates and uncover a real connection.

So you avoided it all together.

However, it’d be a lie to say you haven’t been under extra stress lately. Not for any particular reason, you’ve just seemed more prone to feeling overwhelmed. You’ve tried mediation, yoga, breathing exercises, more midday walks. Nothing has seemed to work.

One of your friends recommended sex.

And surprisingly, you haven’t been able to stop considering it. The more people you talk to about it, the more people who vouch for the fact that it’s the perfect thing to help you relieve how tense you’ve been.

But you can’t just spontaneously go out and bring someone to bed, at least not yet. You need a way to break the ice, have a nice first experience full of trust and comfort to erase your hesitance. After that, you can be impetuous. Stop fearing something not working out, because it won’t be your first encounter, and it won’t be your last.

So, you need to find someone to lose your virginity to. Someone you trust, who you know respects you and wouldn’t take advantage of your vulnerability for their own gain. 

There’s one person in your life who fits that description, and you’re on your way down to see him right now.

-

Wriothesley smiles at you when you reach his office at the top of the staircase, but it falls a fraction when you don’t return it. You’re nervous, is all. It isn’t everyday that you ask someone, whose relationship with you has been entirely platonic up to this point, if they’d be willing to have sex with you purely so you can gain the confidence to go out and do so with other people.

God. He might never want to talk to you again.

“Hi,” you greet, forcing the word out through the smallest opening in your windpipe. Your throat feels all clogged up, your anxiety visible everywhere from the spike in your heart rate to the your fingers nervously fidgeting with your shirt.

Wriothesley frowns when you take a seat across from him, a cup of tea already prepared in front of you. He’s clearly picked up on your state. “Are you feeling alright?”

You manage a nod, cupping your hands around the warm ceramic cup. “Yeah, I’m fine, I’m just…” You knit your eyebrows together, your mouth hanging open as you reluctantly meet his eyes. His brows are resting low above his blue hues, a crease between them enunciating his concern. “I wanted to talk about something.”

Wriothesley grins at that. “You can talk about whatever you want. Is something troubling you?”

“I—Well, sort of.” You settle on. “Do you remember what I brought up a few weeks ago?”

Wriothesley chuckles, taking a sip from his own tea, the cup already half empty. You showed up a little bit later than usual, but only because you turned around about five times on the way here before ultimately deciding you had to at least try. “I’m going to need you to be a little more specific.”

Right. You’ve talked about a lot of things. Still, you were hoping he’d get the message just so you wouldn’t have to say it.

“We were talking about dating,” you confirm, and Wriothesley offers you a brief nod. “Um, I mentioned a… Lack of experience.”

Wriothesley looks you up and down, his face twisting like he’s surprised to see you bring this up again. You suppose he did dismiss the subject quite swiftly last time. “I see. Yes, I remember.”

“Okay. Perfect.” You drop your hands to your thighs, nervously flattening your palms over the fabric of your skirt. “It’s about that.”

He nods slowly, his confusion radiating off of him in a way that somehow makes you feel warmer. For a man that’s meant to personify ice, you consider him anything but cold. “Alright.”

You clear your throat, and suddenly your train of thought is lost to the currents on the other side of these metal walls. You bite down on your lip, looking anywhere but his eyes. 

Will you have sex with me?

Too blunt. Way too blunt. 

“Um,” you nearly choke. “When we spoke, and I told you that I, um, have never really gone further than kissing with anyone.”

Wriothesley nods along again, like the trajectory of this conversation even has him too freaked out to verbally guide you along your rambling. You’ve been vulnerable with him before, with embarrassing childhood stories or your deepest insecurities. You probably looked similar to how you do now, shying away from his gaze while also over analyzing every muscle in his face, the most microscopic movements, wanting to know what each word makes him think of you.

Then, he would help you along, shooting out encouraging sentences about how your secrets were safe with him and how he thought too highly of the woman you were now to be too judgmental of any mistakes made in the past. It was a grace you offered him, too, when he told you about how he wound up in the fortress in the first place.

However, you always thought what he did back then, despite how the court viewed it, was a perfect reflection of the man he grew into. Selfless. Assertive. Caring. A person willing to put their bodies and their images on the line in favour of another who might need their help, especially those more vulnerable than them.

You falling face-first into a mud puddle in front of all your peers at the ripe age of seven was surely not a reflection of who you are now. At least, you hope he didn’t think so.

“You said something to me,” you continue finally. “You said, ‘really? You?’”

Wriothesley cocks an eyebrow, one hand wrapped around his teacup and his opposite forearm resting against his desk. He leans forward, as invested in what you have to say as ever. “Um, I did say that, yes.”

“What did you mean by that?”

Wriothesley barks out a small laugh, his rested arm coming up to his jaw as his eyes flicker away for a second. Awkwardness from him is an odd sight. Even when he opened up to you about his life, each word was without stuttering or hesitance, and he held your eyes during even the most gruesome details. Now he can barely look at you.

“I just meant, well, look at you.” He gestures to you subtly, and your face shifts. “I was just caught off guard to find that opportunities haven’t arose for you already.”

“I…” You start, thrown off even more by how he started that sentence. Look at you. Look at what? What is anything he says ever supposed to mean? “Opportunities have come around, I had boyfriends when I was in school and stuff, it’s been more of a choice thing.”

He drops his arm to the desk again. “Hm. May I ask why?”

You shrug, pulling your chair a bit closer, some of your tenseness easing away now that you’ve managed to begin the discussion. However, you’ve yet to ask him to sleep with you in a friendly-favour way. “I didn’t want to give that part of myself to someone who would make me regret it, or look back at it with resentment. I want to have a good first experience, and I’ve never met anyone that made me confident it would be good with them.”

You meet his eyes, finally, looking you over in thought. “That’s respectable.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Is it?”

“It’s just admirable that you’ve maintained that respect for yourself, and didn’t lose it to teenage impulsiveness or the similar urges that come with adulthood. I respect that, is all. The restraint, I suppose.”

The compliment, if that’s what you would call it, drills it’s way into your bloodstream, a new, unfamiliar warmth flowing through your veins. 

“And did you?” You ask quietly. 

He chuckles, dropping his head. “Well, I’ve been a free man for quite some time. I’m not in the same boat as you, but there’s nothing significant enough in my list of experiences to dwell on.”

Comforting. You think. Maybe?

He looks up at you again, rolling his shoulders like he’s trying to ease out the tension of such a delicate subject. “Is that all you wanted to discuss?”

“Uh, no.” You confirm quickly. You can quite literally see the way his body stiffens once more. “I’ve, uh, been thinking lately.”

“Okay. And?”

“I’ve been stressed out.” You say quickly. “You know how busy I’ve been, I mean, you’ve been busy, too, with paperwork and a rise in inmate incidents and—”

He utters your name to cut you off, your eyes snapping to his.

“May I ask, does this subject still pertain to your virginity?”

You nod weakly. You don’t believe you ever worded it so bluntly yourself, but alright.

Wriothesley looks confused, sipping his tea. “…Alright. Go on.”

You huff. “Again, I’ve been really stressed, and I haven’t been able to figure out how to feel better. I’ve gone on more walks, I got into yoga, I’ve been sleeping more, eating healthier, I even paid a visit to Sigewinne while visiting a few weeks ago, and she prescribed me medication that hasn’t done a thing.”

Wriothesley furrows his eyebrows, a deep frown enveloping his features. “I’m sorry. You never mentioned this to me. I have herbal teas that help me when—”

“Thank you, Wrio, but that’s not…” You grip the edge of the desk, sighing. “I’ve tried everything. The teas, the exercises, name it, I gave it a shot. To no avail. I started talking to a lot of my friends about it, and the only thing any of them have recommended me that I haven’t already tried is, well,” you pause for a moment. “Sex.”

He freezes, eyebrows firmly planted high on his forehead, the pale skin crinkled in surprise.

“Oh.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah. Which is a little bit of a roadblock for me, as I’ve explained.”

Wriothesley carefully places his teacup down, the ceramic hitting the plate with a soft clink that manages to rattle you. “I see.”

“I can’t just…” You breathe deeply, your voice shaking with the vulnerability of all this. “Go out and find someone to help me alleviate my stress. Like I said, I at least want my first time to matter, to be memorable and comfortable. Then, after that, I can be reckless without it tainting a milestone that’s important to me.” 

You pray that your words make sense to him. That he doesn’t think you’re being silly or unreasonable. 

He watches you closely, taking in your words. “Have you tried…” He makes a face, halfway between a cringe and an embarrassed scowl. “Doing it yourself?”

Your heart skips a beat. “Uh—Um, yeah, I tried. It’s not really the same.”

It’s true. If anything, trying to handle it yourself just stressed you out more, because it suffocated you with the feeling of it not being enough. You need more.

Him. To be specific. You need him.

You haven’t quite found a solid opening into confessing that yet.

Wriothesley wets his bottom lip. “Okay.” He enunciates the word. “I—What—What’s your plan, then?”

You’re my plan.

“I want that option,” you mumble. All your blood, equipped with the extra warmth he orchestrated, floods your face. “To be able to go out and let off some steam when I get like this. But like I said, I need to have a good first experience first.” You study his plain expression, whatever is going on inside his head barely displaying on his masculine features. “Does that make sense?”

You can feel yourself stalling, word-vomiting all over his wooden desk. You feel a different kind of exposed than you have with him in the past. Not less comfortable, but more expectant. More scary, maybe. Like it holds more weight.

Wriothesley huffs, sluggishly leaning back in his seat, his limbs stiff and constantly readjusting like he doesn’t know what to do with them. “Um, I mean, alright. Yeah, that makes sense. I know some men that I trust would be good to you, and I’m sure they’d be—”

No. God no. 

“No—Wriothesley, I don’t want a stranger.”

“I know.” He nods. “It wouldn’t be a stranger. Do you remember Nick? He was at that event Furina invited us to last month, you guys seemed to get along—”

“I don’t know Nick, Wriothesley. I don’t trust him. Especially not with this.”

Wriothesley stares you down, the gears turning in his head. You can tell by the narrowness of his eyes and the slight redness in his cheeks that he has an idea of what you might be implying, but doesn’t want to say it out loud.

“So.” Wriothesley clears his throat, sitting up a little, clearly restless. “Do you have a plan?”

“Somewhat.” You murmur.

“And?” He cocks an eyebrow.

You take a deep breath. The worst he can say is no. At least you’ll know you tried. Maybe then you can just go out, find someone random and hope for the best. But you’ll be glad you tried with him.

“I just really want it to be with someone I trust. That’s my biggest condition.” You reiterate, pulling your chair in again, even closer to him when he leans forward in sync with your movement. “I don’t have a lot of men in my life I trust…” 

You stare at the liquid in your tea cup.

“Except for you.”

Wriothesley’s breath hitches, the noise only loud enough that you just barely catch it. You keep your eyes down, unable to draw your gaze to his, but you picture his reaction vividly in your head. Eyes blown wide, lips parted, hands gripping the armrests of his chair. Whether he does those things out of shock, disgust, or something else entirely, is the fear that makes you refuse to face him.

He says your name, but still, you keep your head down.

“What are you saying?” His voice is controlled, but deeper than before. 

“I just…” Just say it. Stop stalling. “Okay.” You sigh. “I understand if this isn’t something you’re comfortable with, if you say no I won’t take it to heart and we can just… Forget this ever happened.”

You finally meet his eyes. Whatever expression he wore before must’ve fizzled out, because his face has shifted to something more neutral, listening intently while watching you closely. 

“I’m asking if you’ll do it. If you’ll sleep with me. Just once! It doesn’t have to mean anything—It won’t mean anything. I just don’t trust anyone else.”

Wriothesley doesn’t speak right away. His eyes widen for a fraction of a second before settling again, indicative of the fact he had already caught on and was simply waiting for his suspicions to be confirmed.

He opens and closes his mouth, then pushes his eyebrows together and looks away.

“I really do understand if you don’t want to.” You say to the side of his face, hands lifted in front of you in a surrender gesture. “You don’t have to sugarcoat a rejection. It’s okay, I can handle it. I just figured I’d ask.”

He draws his gaze to yours, eyebrows still pressed low, and he breathes deeply through his nose.

“If I said no, what would be your next move?” He asks, a bit strained. 

“Uhm, I’d probably just resort to, I don’t know, A Nick type or something. Just hope for the best. But—” You shake your hands. “Don’t worry about that. Seriously. It’s not your responsibility, I’ll be fine. I only want you to say yes if you want to.”

He says your name, resting both forearms against the desk in front of him. “Are you… Sure about this?”

You manage a nod, dropping your hands back to your lap and intertwining your fingers. “Yes. I’ve had a lot of time to think it over. I trust you, and I mean, I’ve always wanted an excuse to break that ice for myself. I’ve just never met anyone to do it with.”

He nods slowly. 

“It really doesn’t have to mean anything,” you repeat in a whisper. “Just think of it as a favour for a friend.”

He laughs at that lightheartedly, lifting one hand off the desk to run it over his hair. “You know, I’ve had many favours asked of me in my time, but never something like this.”

His calm demeanour soothes you, his normal self shining through the awkwardness. Even if he ultimately decides to turn you down, at least he doesn’t seem to find the proposition off putting.

“You don’t have to decide right now,” you tell him. “I can give you time to think.” You blink, a million thoughts rushing through your brain. “…I could write up a contract.

“A contra—What? No—No, you don’t need to—Archons. I don’t…” He sighs, looking at you. “If I can do something to help you, I always want to do it. No matter what it is. I just never expected anything… Like this.”

You smile softly. “I never thought I’d be asking it, either.”

He nods along, biting down on his lip. 

“So, to confirm…” He straightens. “Just once. You lose your virginity to me, and then you…” He urges you to finish the sentence for him.

“Won’t have to be so anxious about sex in the future,” you verify. “I can be like my friends, go out and have one night stands without worrying too much about bad or inadequate experiences, because it’ll just become a small tick on my… Sexual timeline with no significance.”

You cringe at yourself.

“Sexual timeline, huh?”

“Shut up.” You grumble, squeezing your own hand in your lap.

He grins, crossing his arms over his wide chest, the backrest of his chair holding his weight as he loosens up a bit. “Okay.”

You raise your eyebrows. “Okay?”

“Okay. I’ll do it.” He nods. “I’d much rather it be me than a stranger or someone you don’t fully trust. If this whole good-first-experience-to-break-the-ice,” a mouthful, really, “is important to you, then it’s important to me, too.”

You breathe out a sigh of relief. “Alright.” You nod quickly. “Thank you. Uhm…”

“Maybe I should come to your place?” He offers gently. “Above the surface? Sometime this weekend?”

You nod again, your words jumbling together in your throat. This weekend. “My place, yeah, okay. Uh, Saturday night?”

He smiles. “Good for me. I’ll be there.”

Holy shit. Holy shit. He said yes. You didn’t really think he’d say yes. 

“Okay. I’ll, uh…” You stand on legs that feel like jelly, leaving your tea behind. “Go now. I’ll see you then.”

Wriothesley doesn’t encourage you to stay longer like he usually would, but you don’t take it as something negative. He understands if you stay another second, you might melt to a puddle of humiliation on the floor.

He bids you farewell, repeating the circumstances of your plans one more time before sending you off, and part of you feels like he did so just to tease you. The second the elevator out of the fortress hits the surface, the Fontaine air hitting your skin everywhere it’s exposed, it really dawns on you.

You’re going to have sex with Wriothesley.

Holy. Shit.

-

What the fuck did people do before a hook up?

You did the routine stuff, things you were able to easily come to the conclusion needed to be done. You cleaned your apartment. You took a long shower, almost three hours in length with everything you felt should be covered in there. You nearly passed out four times, but managed. 

And then you started freaking out. What will he think if you put in too much effort to be presentable? Will he believe you’re trying to court him? That your tangent about this being meaningless was nothing but a cover-up? That this is all a ploy to get in his pants?

And then, there’s the fear if you don’t put in a lot of effort. Might he believe that you don’t respect him, don’t find him worthy of the most put-together version of yourself? That you don’t care to make this enjoyable for him, too?

Ultimately, you decided you’d rather feel good about yourself, but the fears that he’ll believe this means more to you than it does lingers.

You put on your nicest dress, a length that goes to your mid-thighs and a colour awfully close to that of the tie Wriothesley often wears. You doused yourself in a perfume he complimented once. You decided against candles and rose petals, but you did brew a tea you have on hand that you know he enjoys.

You quickly opted out of alcohol. Being inebriated would take away from the whole point of this experience. 

You spend enough time on your hair to look nice, but not so much so that you’ll be upset if it gets ruined. Jewellery that’s easy on the eye, but also comfortable and easily discardable if you decide to do such.

By far, the hardest thing to pick was what to put under the dress.

You were worried if you opted for your nicest lace set, that you bought on a whim and never let another person see, he’d, again, think you were genuinely trying to seduce him. But, he’s a man, and he has needs, too. It felt only fair to do whatever you could to help this be something he found enjoyment in.

But, what difference would it make if he’s not even attracted to you?

…

You chose the lace set. It’s red and black and leaves almost nothing to imagination. Just looking at yourself in the mirror made you feel a level of scandalous you never really have before.

Now, the time you two agreed on is rapidly approaching. You’re reapplying your lip gloss for the nth time, having wiped it off countless times already by nervously nibbling on your lip. You’re reconsidering every choice you made tonight. You’re thinking he might not even show up. You—

Three knocks at the front door nearly make you yelp, dropping your gloss onto your vanity with a muted bang.

You hastily collect it, dropping it in the drawer and slamming it shut. 

You start to rush to the front door, but slow down a bit as you fear seeming too eager. When you reach the door, you take a deep breath before turning the lock and pulling it open.

Wriothesley stands there, and his eyes widen for a moment when he takes in your appearance. His outfit is nicer than usual, but nothing you haven’t seen him wear before. He holds flowers. Your favourite.

He brought you flowers?

“Hi,” you greet, your voice quiet and shaky.

Wriothesley offers you a kind smile. “Hello. You look nice.”

You take the flowers when he holds them out to you, mumbling a quick thank you before inviting him in and rushing to the kitchen to put the flowers in a vase filled with water from your sink. He follows close behind, taking in your organized apartment, his gaze continuously flickering back to you and your outfit.

“You didn’t have to doll yourself up so nicely for me,” he tells you, and you turn to face him. “Don’t get me wrong, you look amazing, but I didn’t agree to this on the condition that—”

“I know,” you interrupt, flattening your palms over the front of your dress, Wriothesley’s eyes trailing your movement, his throat bobbing with a thick swallow. “I just—I’m new at this, y’know? It felt right to… Look nice.”

“You always look nice,” he insists, which flusters you. “But, if your objective was to amplify that, you’ve been considerably successful.”

You smile nervously, his tender words making your head feel fuzzy. You appreciate the environment he’s trying to create more than you can put into words, especially not right now. You’re not sure you can manage more than two sentences. “Uh—Thank you, Wriothesley. You look lovely, too.”

“Aw, shucks,” he grins, walking over to the counter and leaning his hip against it, his body barely a foot from yours.

“I made tea,” you spit out. “Would you like some?”

He hesitates before nodding. “If you’d like to have tea first, of course we can.”

You nod back. The two of you take a seat across from each other with your respective teacups, blending into nonsensical conversation almost immediately that nearly makes you forget the circumstances of tonight. Your anxious tics fade out of frequency, and your tense muscles relax. You’re reminded how easy it is to be calm with him, and the more he studies each comfortable movement you make, the more you think that was exactly his goal.

Wriothesley drinks the rest of his tea, your eyes watching the way his throat moves as he swallows it down.

It’s impending now, and while realizing such does still make a hint of that nervousness return, it returns with something else. Something unfamiliar. Something eager.

Wriothesley meets your eyes, and you offer him a soft smile in which he returns. He leans his forearms forward against your kitchen table.

He says your name gently. “I want to give you a chance to back out of this. Of course, at any time, you change your mind, and we stop. But I just want to remind you that there’s no pressure on you.”

“I know,” you assure him, folding your hands together in your lap. “I haven’t changed my mind.” You pause, watching him closely. “Have you?”

He shakes his head before you even get both words out. “Of course not. I would just hate for you to think I’m expecting anything from you besides your trust.”

“You have my trust,” you tell him.

He nods. “Then we’re okay.”

“We’re okay,” you repeat, your eyes gliding from his empty cup to yours, also bone-dry. You flush.

“Uh…” You look at him, and he raises an eyebrow. “Should we go to my room, maybe?”

“If that’s what you would like,” he responds easily.

You offer him a brief nod before standing on uneasy feet. His passiveness, his willingness to let you have full control, is almost something you’re averse to. He’s the one with more experience, but you don’t exactly know how to ask him to take the reins. You don’t want this night to peak with the dull request of should you put that inside me, maybe?

As you walk down the hallway, overthinking every movement of one foot in front of the other, something else floods your mind. You imagine him in control, him bringing the assertiveness you’ve witnessed in the fortress to this experience. It makes something twist low in your stomach, and if he weren’t no more than a foot behind you, you’re sure you wouldn’t be able to fight off a more physical reaction to the thought.

The way he doesn’t even have to raise his voice to demand respect in the underworld, how just the cock of an eyebrow will have even the most unruly prisoners compliant at his feet. You can see yourself being just as obedient, becoming putty in his hands at a single murmured request.

That was the whole point of this. He’s the only one you can trust with that, trust to put him in full control and do with your body what he understands both of you will enjoy.

You start to feel that twist in your stomach blend into that physical reaction, a tingling sensation flushing your skin and making your clothes feel too tight, the apartment feel too hot.

Once you’re standing in the middle of your bedroom, you turn to him. He scans the room, illuminated by only a lamp on the right-hand side. Your bed is made nicely, curtains closed, floor vacuumed, smelling faintly of the fragrance you coated yourself in shortly before his arrival.

The two of you lock eyes. The lighting in this room reminds you of that in the fortress when it gets to be dark outside. The metal stronghold is close enough to the surface that the shifting of day and night lightens or darkens the surrounding ocean, dimming the interior through the glass windows. 

Those times are when you’ve most often had the pleasure of seeing Wriothesley in his element, commanding abidance with ease.

Fuck. You can feel his eyes everywhere.

“How do you want to do this?” Wriothesley asks suddenly, the quiet question followed by your name, said in a way that makes you throb. You didn’t think you could get to this point so quickly with nothing but your imagination and a little bit of eye contact. “Would you prefer to maintain control?”

The fact a man of his calibre would even offer submission to you is exactly why you knew from the get-go you could trust him.

You shake your head. “No,” you confess hoarsely. “I wouldn’t even really know what to do.”

Wriothesley nods, the ease in the action making you think he expected that answer. “So, you’d like me to be the director here?”

You pinch the fabric of your dress on either side of your thighs, half-fidgeting, half trying to contain how trapped and warm he’s making you feel. “If that’s… Alright with you.”

He grins. “Of course. I can handle it. Being in charge is my job.”

He steps closer, and all you can bring yourself to do is stare, your feet bolted to the ground beneath you.

“Can I kiss you, then?”

Holy shit. You had barely even considered this. I mean, you got the whole platonic-sex thing out of the way, but you didn’t discuss kissing. You didn’t prepare yourself for kissing.

You nod without a thought in the world, a purely reflexive response, like your instincts and the need starting to course through your veins are taking control of your body like a puppeteer. 

His calloused hand finds the side of your face, his fingers sliding over your hair. You sink into his touch, dropping your eyes to his lips as he leans closer, your own parting in preparation.

The second his mouth presses against yours, the warmth surges through you at a degree so intense your hands immediately find his shoulders for support. You feel the hard bone hiding beneath the fabric of his shirt, and when you squeeze, it feels like the shape was perfectly crafted to be in your palm. You melt into the kiss, into his figure, pressing yourself to him firmly.

He’s so articulate, and God, it’s paying off in your favour. His lips move against yours with a level of precision only such a disciplined man could possess, and when his hand that isn’t on your face glides to your lower back, even more of your nervousness, if any even existed anymore, fades into sheer excitement.

You hook one arm over the back of his neck, pushing up onto the tips of your toes, kissing him with more fervour. The action greatly contradicts your plead to give him full control, however, he doesn’t fight you on it. Instead, he matches the pace you’ve set to regain dominance, guiding the movement of your feet until the two of you separate just long enough for you to collapse back on your bed.

You try to prop yourself back up on your elbows, but Wriothesley slips his hands under your body to sweep them out from under you, pinning both your wrists above your head in one swift movement. Your next exhale comes out as a whine, and he drinks up the sound by pressing his mouth back on yours.

“This okay?” He mumbles against your lips, a roughness to his voice that greatly differs from the one that appears in his exhaustion or frustration. No, what he’s feeling right now is something you’ve never had the pleasure of knowing before this moment.

You prop your knees up, squeezing around his hips, slotting him perfectly against your body with no escape. Your dress rides up your legs, bunching up around your thighs. You nod once, tangling your fingers in his hair.

“I’d appreciate if you’d use your words,” he suggests, his lips grazing along your face until he’s planting kisses across your jaw.

“Yes,” you breathe, tugging the dark strands by the root. “It’s okay.”

He groans at the pull, but doesn’t deter you, dropping his face further as he starts kissing and sucking at your neck. You tilt your head back, granting him as much access to your skin as possible.

It’s hard to ignore how much more intimate this feels than what you expected. What you expected was sex, which of course, is an extremely intimate act, but you also prepared for sex. You didn’t prepare for the taste of him, faintly resembling a mix of mint and the flavour of the tea you brewed for him, the combination working through your bloodstream like an aphrodisiac. You didn’t prepare for the feeling of his mouth on your neck, taking the first opportunity to mark you, sucking and biting the skin in a way that would surely linger for days to come, a reminder of what the two of you had done. These weren’t the kinds of deeds you thought people performed for one night together. 

Were you going to complain about it?

Like hell you were.

You mumble his name in response to his teeth sinking into the skin above your collarbone, and he grunts in response, his hips shifting between your thighs. Holy shit.

His mouth travels back up to yours, less careful this time, like he’s already come to realize how welcome he is against you. He pulls your lip between his teeth and bites until you gasp, using the opportunity to slide his tongue against yours.

You moan at the feeling, your hand that isn’t knotted up in his hair clutching the fabric on his side for support. You let him take the lead without any battle for dominance, entirely consumed by his kiss, in the way he conducts it. 

You’re suddenly shifted further up the bed, your head elevated as he tucks a pillow beneath it. You pant, watching with stars in your eyes as he sits up between your thighs, kneeling with your legs tossed loosely around his hips. Your mouth waters.

He shrugs off the top layer of his shirt, revealing a plain white tee beneath it. In a silly way, the simplicity of it once again makes this feel more intimate, almost too much so. You aren’t used to seeing him look so casual, so comfortable. This should be reserved for something different. Something real.

Your train of thought derails when he throws the shirt away and reaches for his belt.

The sound of it being unbuckled is like the crack of a whip, sending jolts of electricity all throughout your body. The sightis something else entirely, the way his lips are parted, chest rising and falling, as the most calm and collected man you’ve ever known fumbles with the accessory like he’s lost all sense of coordination.

You reach forward without thinking, and Wriothesley drops his arms to his sides with a groan when you tug the belt out of his pant loops for him. He’s quick to collect it from your hands, tossing it carelessly onto the floor beside your bed. 

His hands slide up the outside of your thighs, your red dress scrunched up around your waist, your lace underwear barely hiding behind the rolls of fabric. You watch Wriothesley’s face as he examines you, eyebrows furrowed in a deep concentration.

“Can I lift this?” He purrs, his voice a melody that entirely disarms you. You’re gone. You’re entirely gone. You’re beneath him, you’re warm, you’re bothered, and you are gone.

You get halfway through a nod before your lips part. “Yes.”

Wriothesley doesn’t miss your consideration of his prior command. “Good girl,” he praises, pushing your dress higher.

Archons. Add that to the list of things you didn’t expect from casual sex.

He curses at the sight of your underwear, and your skin warms. Red and black lace, the colour scheme happening to match that of his regular uniform. He can’t seem to peel his eyes away, a few beats of silence passing as neither of you make a move.

“Are you okay?” You ask quietly.

He blinks, snapping out of it. “I—Yes. Of course I am.” His hands start sliding up and down your thighs again, a soothing gesture that barely serves its purpose. “I just—Fuck.”

You swallow hard, pushing yourself up a bit. Wriothesley doesn’t coax you back down again, he just watches as you hook your hands under the bundled up dress, peeling it off the top of your head. The noise Wriothesley produces borders on a whine, like the action has fully defeated him.

He helps you strip it entirely, adding it to the pile started by his black blazer and belt. He takes in the sight of your matching articles, the lace bra and underwear, gently guiding you back onto your forearms so he can get a full view of you.

You can’t imagine how erotic the vision is. You’re before him, legs wrapped around his hips, thighs separated, entirely at his disposal wearing nothing but two small, revealing pieces of clothing that also happen to mimic colours he associates with himself. You worry it’s too personal, but he doesn’t wear the face of a man urging to complain.

“You are…” He shakes his head, breathless. “Sneaky.”

You furrow your eyebrows. “I’m what?”

“I’m just starting to think this whole proposition was a ruse to kill me,” he confirms, his gaze not leaving you once. “You should know it’s working.”

You manage a smile. “Didn’t take you as a man to surrender so easily, Your Grace.”

He chuckles lowly. “I usually wouldn’t.” His hand is on your stomach now, enveloping the space between your bra and underwear. “I’m a lot of things,” he utters your name, “but I’m not foolish enough to fail to pick my battles.”

You bring both your hands to his, one wrapping around his wrist while the other finds a few of his fingers, holding him flush to you. “And what battle are you picking?”

“The one where I die right here,” he says without missing a beat. “At your hands. I’d go a lucky man.”

Was that a casual thing to say?

Regardless of the way the words go over in your head, your body reacts to them by greedily popping up and forcing him to lean back over you. Your mouths slot back together, and the way you’re depriving him of oxygen makes it believable that you truly are trying to kill him.

You slide a palm up the front of his shirt, feeling the warmth of his scarred skin. He doesn’t shy away from you. He’s never hidden from you, in fact, you’ve already seen the permanent markings of his past that are forever engraved in his skin, and it’s because he chose to show you.

Something crosses your mind, the way this encounter isn’t just about your belief in him. He’s putting himself on the line here, too, offering you vulnerability, offering you his trust.

Wriothesley takes your wandering hand as in invitation to tug the fabric over his head, discarding of it. Both your hands are exploring now, planted just above the hem of his pants and gliding upwards until they’re clutching his bare shoulders.

You push, guiding him to lean off you just enough for you to take in the sight of him. The ragged lines cutting through his skin, a canvas of pain he endured before you even knew his name.

His next breath is uneven.

You meet his eyes, his gaze locked on yours, like he’s studying your reaction to the sight of him in this context.

“I think you’re beautiful,” you tell him, voice quiet, like you’re trying to enunciate how those words are only for him, despite how alone you already are. They aren’t even for the echos between the walls, the four words are for nothing but his own ears.

His jaw tightens, his eyes trailing down your body before flashing back to your awaiting stare. “I think you’re…” He swallows. “Perfect.”

Your breath hitches, reaching for his shoulders instinctively. His words, his touch, it all feels too real. Too honest, too against the words you two shared in his office mere days ago.

You should push him away, tell him how your heartfelt promise of this being meaningless is already starting to fade from reality. You don’t even know how to define the difference between meaningless and meaningful sex, you have no comparisons to make, but you wouldn’t pin a single thing he’s said or done to the former. 

You should really tell him.

But you think he might already know.

He says your name, and you look to him with expectant eyes.

His hands travel downward, hooking under the lace that’s currently the only thing separating him from the flood of arousal he’s already created. 

“Can this come off?”

You whine, your heart rate picking up before you nod.

“Words,” he reminds you, his thumb suddenly finding and pressing against your clit through the fabric. You moan, your neck arching, head pressing against the pillow he placed. You can’t spit out a word right away, clutching the sheets as he draws firm, slow circles, pleasurable but insufficient. “Come on, baby. You can do it.”

Gods. Who’s trying to kill who, again?

You buck against his hand, nodding again. “Yes—Yes.”

He doesn’t waste a moment following your verbal approval, situating himself off the bed, your legs untangling from around his waist. He gently tugs you back down to the edge of the mattress, and then he’s delicately pulling the fabric down and off.

You gasp at the feeling of the cold air hitting you. Wriothesley curses, seeing the way you’re dripping helplessly for him despite the fact he’s barely touched you. He forces your thighs open wide, and your eyes screw shut at the feeling of his gaze studying you, spread open for him like this.

“Fuck…” He says lowly. “Can I touch you?”

You shift, gripping the sheets tighter, your eyes opening. Your voice comes out strained and whiny. “Of course you can, Wriothesley.”

“Archons,” he chokes out, and then he’s lowering to his knees before you. Your legs rest on either side of his figure, held open by his shoulders between your thighs. One of his hands inch up the bed, finding yours.

His hand envelopes yours, encouraging you to release your death grip on the sheets. “It’s okay,” he assures you, first are foremost. “Relax for me, baby. I’ve got you.”

You nod, his tender words and action working in his favour. You manage to loosen up your tense muscles, taking long, deep breaths per his command. “I trust you,” you whisper, allowing him to intertwine his fingers with yours.

He grunts, his other arm wrapping around your thigh, forcing it up onto his shoulder. “Good.”

His palm flattens against your lower stomach, his thumb poking out and finding your clit again. You gasp out, back arching at the feeling of his skin against you. He applies the perfect amount of pressure, rubbing slow circles experimentally, like he’s doing his best to understand your body.

“Wriothesley,” you moan.

“Oh, fuck.” He drops his head to your inner thigh, nipping at the skin there. You gasp again. “You’re killing me, saying my name like that.”

You exhale shakily. “Noted,” you manage, forcing words out despite the way the pleasure shooting you makes your wind pipe feel small. “That’s my goal, according to you, right?”

He chuckles, moving his head to lick a stripe up your cunt, collecting your wetness until he’s moving his thumb away to lap at your clit. You cry out at the sensation, squeezing his hand and darting your free one to grip his hair. 

He pulls back, and when you crane your neck to look at him, you see yourself coating his lips, and he looks fucking drunkon you, a competitive glimmer in his gaze. He meets your eyes and grins. “We’ll see if I don’t take you out first.”

Your comeback dies in your throat when his lips wrap around your clit, sucking firmly. You whimper his name, spurring him on as he hungrily works at you, and fuck if this feels like the amount of effort anyone would put in as a favour for a friend. It feels so real it would scare you if you had time to worry.

“Gods,” he murmurs. “You have no idea how good you taste.”

“Wriothesley,” you whine. “Don’t… Say that.”

He laughs lowly. “Why? Am I winning?”

Your chin tilts back, eyes fluttering shut. “For now.”

He hums, pressing the vibration right against you. “We’ll see about that.”

His thumb pokes back out, drawing those same firm circles on your clit as his tongue starts to tease your fluttering hole. Your grip on his hand tightens, and you buck against his face, making him chuckle.

“Eager,” he notes, though the way the word emerges from his throat makes it seem like he’s more amused than mocking. 

All you can manage is a nod.

His tongue dips inside you, just barely, but it makes you moan out anyway. He repeats the action, dipping in and out of you over and over again, before his hand retreats from your clit and his mouth is back. 

“Shit, Wriothesley,” you choke out.

“I know,” he mumbles reassuringly against you, before suddenly doubling his efforts. His tongue strokes your clit, deliberate and hungry. You squirm and moan, sputtering out incoherent pleads as he periodically responds with choked praises. He sucks hard, a flick of his tongue making you writhe. His hand, which he had resting on your stomach, moves until he’s probing your opening with his fingertip.

Your breath hitches, opening your eyes to catch the moment he peers up at you, silently asking for permission.

He lets you off the hook with a nod this time, sluggishly licking your clit as he presses his middle finger inside your cunt. You pull your lip between your teeth at the feeling, good but unfamiliar, foreign but undeniably him. This wasn’t ever the part that worried you, your lack of partners didn’t take away from your natural inclinations to explore your own body, it was always about who would take permanent residence in your list of lived experiences as being your first time.

With each passing second, you are infinitely happier with your choice.

His finger drags against your walls, his ministrations on your clit never faltering. He rolls his tongue over you again and again, suctioning in a way that has you nearly pulling his dark hair out at the root. He simply grunts, and you’re sure a bullet wound wouldn’t be able to hinder him at this point as he finds the perfect point to curve his finger, and suddenly a coil is winding tight deep in your stomach. You gasp his name.

He recognizes your warning, humming as he continues to devour you with reverence. His finger caresses that spot inside of you just right, and it isn’t long until you’re shaking, holding your breath as you barrel so close to the edge.

“Let go,” he murmurs against you, and it sounds the most like a demand out of anything he’s said all night. “Go on, baby.”

His words, the authority behind them, are the last push until you completely shatter for him. You cry out, your body thrashing as he pulls his hand from yours to hold you down at the hip. He works you through every wave, studying the way you moan and twitch for him, and only when you make a whine-like noise of defiance at the overstimulation does he pull back.

He’s panting, both his hands on the tops of your thighs now as he studies the way you slowly float back down to this plane of reality. You’re near limp against the bed, and only when you peer down at him does he ascend back up your body, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead.

“Are you okay?” He asks gently, stroking the side of your face.

You lean into his touch. “Mhm…” 

“Don’t believe that counts as a word,” he notes, a hint of humour in his tone. Your eyes flutter open, meeting the frost hues staring down at you. There’s a look in his eyes you can’t place, but it makes you feel like your heart is swelling to three times the size, and you imagine you’re mimicking the expression as you look up at him.

It feels almost natural, holding his gaze in this way. Somehow, it feels even more natural than your friendly lunches spent in each other’s company, or your casual conversations about the weather or your careers that precede deeper ones about things you’ve only ever shared with one another. 

It’s a look you’ve only ever offered him, fuelled by a feeling only he’s ever drawn out of you.

What is this?

Your mouth twitches up in a small smile. “I’m okay.” Your hand threads through his hair. “Should I do something for you?”

His eyebrows knit together. “Hm?”

You swallow hard. “To help you…”

Realization flashes in his eyes, and he laughs lowly before reaching for your free hand, guiding it until he’s pressing your palm to the front of his pants. “You don’t have to worry about that.”

Your breath hitches, heart racing as you feel the bulge insistently pressing against the thin fabric. He keeps his hands over yours, and when you start to massage the tent in his pants, he pulls you away.

You whine his name.

He shushes you by pressing his mouth to yours, and the taste of yourself on his lips is so erotic it makes you buck your hips against his. He grunts, hooking one of your legs over his waist before he grinds himself against your bare pussy. He keeps kissing you, maddeningly slow, rocking his hips with precision.

“Oh Gods,” you whimper against him, slinging an arm over his neck, the other grasping his side.

He says your name, pulling back from you and meeting your eyes. “We can stop here,” he offers, pressing a peck to the corner of your mouth. 

You shake your head. “No—I want to keep going.” You blink at him. “Do you want to stop?”

“No—Archons, not at all.” He sounds almost offended. “But more than anything, I want to give you whatever the hell you want.”

You press your hips up, clenching around nothing at the sensation of his hardness rubbing against you. “I want you.”

He curses, dropping his forehead to yours. “Gods—I want you, too.”

One of his hands travel upwards, cupping your breast through the lace. You tilt your head back, listening to his heavy breathing. He sounds like he’s barely keeping himself together, like every bone in his body is screaming with how desperately he wants to be inside of you, but he’s utilizing his restraint to focus on you and your needs above himself.

“Take it off,” you tell him.

He’s quick to take you up on that, helping you lean up so he can reach for your back and unclip the garment. He’s gentle as he pulls the straps down your shoulders, and his eyes study it one more time with appreciation before tossing it aside. 

He swallows when he looks down at you, now fully naked and on total display for him. You expected to feel awkward or exposed, but you don’t. Not now. Not with him.

He leans down, taking one of your nipples into his mouth as he continues to fondle your other breast. You grip his shoulders, letting him do what he pleases. His mouth travels to the curve under your chest, sucking and biting enough to leave more marks in his wake.

He thumbs your nipple, taking the nub between his thumb and pointer finger before squeezing gently. You whimper, bucking your hips again.

“You’re doing so well,” he tells you, voice thick with arousal. “You’re such a good girl, you know that?”

“For you,” you murmur without thinking, mind fogged by your need for him.

“Yeah?” He pushes, dragging his lips over your chest, up until he can put his forehead against yours again. “For me?”

You nod rapidly, your hands reaching for his pants, gripping the hem.

“Just me?”

Fuck. Two words further prove to you that this has become nothing like what it was supposed to be. Nothing about this is serving the purpose it was meant to, because hell if you were going to use this incredible experience as motivation to go out and have other mediocre experiences with mediocre men. Your stomach twists just thinking about it, being anywhere but here, with anyone but him.

You start to push down his pants. “Yes,” you breathe. “Just you.”

He doesn’t stop you, mumbling something under his breath as he instead helps you discard of the clothing until he’s kicking it off his feet. He stands then, readjusting you on the mattress again, slipping that pillow back under your head, and he reaches for another to place beneath your lower back. You trust the way he situates you, laying there obediently, waiting for him.

He grabs his pants for a moment, reaching in the pocket for his wallet, and then in his wallet for a condom.

You watch with anticipation as he hooks his fingers in his boxers before he’s pulling them down, too, freeing his cock. Your thighs push together automatically at the sight of him. He’s big, and the head is flushed and dripping precum down his thick shaft. He doesn’t give you the pleasure of ogling for long, crawling back on the bed and pulling your legs open before kneeling between them. You whine at the sight of him ripping open the rectangular package before he’s rolling the condom onto his length.

Your heart pounds against your chest. He catches the bewildered look on your face, dropping down to plant kisses all over your skin, anywhere he can reach, until he feels you start to relax under his lips.

“You’re still sure?” He murmurs.

“Yes,” you say, your voice betraying you with the slightest shake.

“I’m going to take care of you,” he promises, getting so close that his mouth it right by your ear, and his chest is against yours. “I’ll be gentle, alright?”

You nod, both your arms wrapping around his shoulders. He takes this as an invitation to reach between your bodies, grabbing his cock at the base and sliding the tip from your entrance all the way up to your clit, collecting your arousal. You choke out a whine every time he drags back up, nudging the oversensitive bundle of nerves firmly, and eventually, he presses the head against your opening until he’s just barely pressed inside of you.

You gasp at the slight stretch, your head falling back against the pillow. “Wriothesley.”

“I know,” he says, voice rough. His lips find yours, and even as you struggle to reciprocate at the feeling of him pushing you open, it soothes you. “Such a good girl.”

Your arms tighten around him, holding him flush to you as he rocks his hips, filling you another couple inches. You blubber out his name in the midst of a string of moans and gasps, your walls aching around the intrusion. He pauses momentarily, letting you adjust.

“Look how good you’re doing,” he purrs, mouth hovering just above yours. “Taking me so well, aren’t you?”

“Yes.” You cry, moving one hand to his shoulder so you can dig crescents into his bare skin. He grunts.

“There you go,” he encourages. “Just hold onto me, sweetheart. I have you.”

Does he ever.

All the air in your lungs rushes out when he finally starts to press forward again, filling you slowly, and Wriothesley grunts at the way your walls clench around him as his cock bullies it’s way deeper into you. He studies you, every movement, every breath, only giving you more when he’s sure you can take it, and he makes these judgments without you needing to say a word.

You cry out when he fills you completely, his hips flush against yours. The overload of sensation makes you feel like you’re already falling apart for him, breathing in quick moans and squeezing around him like you’re trying to pull him impossibly deeper.

“Fuck,” he curses, bracing an elbow next to your head, making you feel beautifully caged in by his form, trapping you somewhere you’d happily stay forever. “Look at you. Taking all of me.” He kisses you once. “Good girl.”

The praise sends a pleasurable jolt through your bones, your hips shifting in a way that makes him feel deeper. You tremble, unable to form words, and he doesn’t push you. He just peers down at the way he has you filled to the brim, and then his gaze snaps back to your face, all needy and fucked-out, and he’s not even close to done with you yet.

His trails kisses all over your face, down your neck, between your breasts, and you feel like you’re being worshipped. Wriothesley was never one to be too outspoken about the presence of Gods in the world you two shared, but in this moment, you’re sure that would change if you yourself had such status. He praises every inch of you like an altar with no hesitance, no shame.

“You can move,” you manage to tell him, your words ending in a squeal when he shifts the slightest bit.

He adjusts himself above you, one arm resting beside your head again, while the other reaches for your hand, limp against the bed, and interlocks your fingers. You squeeze when he draws his hips back, until you’re only about halfway full of him, and then he thrusts forward once more.

The sounds he pulls from your throat only motivates him further, and he sets a steady, cautious pace, stuffing you to the brim over, and over again. He groans from above you, the feeling of you around him tearing him apart bit by bit. You can’t do anything but helplessly squirm and moan beneath the weight of him, soaking in the soothing kisses and bites he smothers you with as he fucks you.

“Harder,” you gasp out, back arching into his chest, his skin warm and coated in a layer of sweat. “I can take it.”

“Shit,” he murmurs, dropping his forehead to your shoulder as he fulfills your request. He pulls his hips back further than before, and then he drives back into you all at once. He coughs out your name, your entire body jerking with the punishing thrust. Your mouth falls open in a silent scream, his cock dragging along all the right parts of you as he sets a new pace. 

He begins fucking you with abandon, his hips snapping against yours until your eyes are screwed shut so tight you’re seeing stars. Your nails rake down his back, layering old scars with new scratches, covering bad reminders with what can only be described as the best you’ve ever felt in your life. You angle your hips to let him in deeper, and he slams against a part of you that makes you scream.

“Wriothesley—Wriothesley, oh God.” You cry, clinging to him like he’s your only lifeline.

“There you go, baby,” he growls, his pace never faltering as he presses his mouth by your ear. “Keep screaming for me. Let all of Fontaine know who’s fucking you.”

Like your body physically rejects the idea of not obeying him, every snap of his hips makes you scream for him again. You blabber nonsensically, about how good he makes you feel, about how bad you need him, and the last thing on your mind is how far from casual this is. 

His hand retreats from yours, landing on your hip to hold your writhing body still. He grinds all the way to the hilt, and you’re already longing for the feeling of being this close to him before it’s even over.

Just like all your friends said, you can feel all your stress, all the worries of the last week, last month, last year, whisk away under his touch. The pit that’s been living in your stomach explodes and paints the rest of your body with the warmth between you and Wriothesley, and the terrors that have been plaguing your restless mind reform to the shape of his perfect face. He’s all you can see, all you can feel, all you can afford to let haunt you.

When his thrusts pick back up, he’s moved his hand from your hip so he can rub your clit as he fills you. You shriek, a shudder washing over you.

He kisses you again, leaving you with nothing to do but hold onto him and let him drink up every sound you make. His hand leaves you hurling towards your peak, and he chases after it, deliberately fucking into all the right spots as his hands works tirelessly at your clit.

“Come for me,” he urges against your lips, the strain in his voice giving away just how close he is to tipping over the edge with you. “It’s okay, baby.”

He undoes you with his words, your orgasm crashing over you so powerfully you’re left in an absolute daze, all tense muscles and throaty cries, pulsating around his twitching cock. You can do nothing but greedily take the continuation of his bruising thrusts as he works you through the climax, and by the time you’ve come down enough to remember your own name, Wriothesley groans it as he presses all the way into you before spilling into the condom.

He huffs above you, keeping himself buried deep as you both use the sounds of each other’s breathing to ground yourselves. You’re still holding onto him, and he slowly starts to kiss your cheeks, and then your temple, your forehead, your eyelids, mumbling praise after praise like he’s never known something more magnificent.

“Beautiful,” he says quietly, and you hum. “Did so well. So proud of you.” He buries his face in the crook of your neck. “So fucking happy you asked me for this.”

“Me too,” you whisper back, chest rising and falling under the reassuring pressure of his body on yours.

He slowly pulls out of you, groaning as he leans off like it physically pains him to separate from your embrace. You lay there, feeling weightless with all of your limbs so tuckered out they’re near numb. Your eyes beg to flutter shut, but you can’t bring yourself to exit this moment yet, watching him as he slowly navigates around your room, discarding off the condom before pulling nothing but his boxers back on. 

He offers you a reassuring smile, promising his return, before dipping into your bathroom. He returns with a damp cloth, and he doesn’t let you move an inch to assist him as he cleans you up. 

When he’s finished, he finds a pair of underwear and a large tee shirt in your drawers and redresses you with a tenderness so potent it makes you ache. He lifts you into his arms, sitting against your headboard and placing you in his lap.

You clutch his shoulders as he kisses at your neck, soothing the raw marks he left behind. You relax against him, allowing him to tend to you.

He says your name, bringing your attention back to him. You lean back, half-lidded eyes meeting his.

He cups the side of your face, his gaze flickering all over you, studying you like he’s trying to commit you to memory.

He swallows hard. “You’re happy?” He asks gently.

You smile softly. “With your favour for a friend?”

He chuckles at your sarcastic tone, the skin on his face flushed a light pink. “Among other things.”

You cup each side of his neck, feeling so deprived of the closeness already. You don’t know if it’s because you’re still coming down from what just happened, but your want to be near him feels more real than anything.

“Plan went a little off the rails,” you admit warily.

He cocks an eyebrow. “Yeah? What part?”

“The not-meaning-anything part.” 

He pulls you forward, your foreheads pressing together. His breath trembles, one of his hands sliding up and down your back through your shirt. “You’ve never meant anything but everything to me.” He nuzzles his face in your neck. “Fuck, I swear, if you were serious about seeing other guys after this…”

You giggle, hugging him. “I won’t,” you promise, your face pressed against his hair. “Like I said,” you whisper. “Just you, Wriothesley.”

✿ Author's note: second solo wrio fic wooo!!! my biggest roadblock in writing wrio is not wanting to give him too much sexual experience because it seems ooc but also wanting to make him an exceptional lover because that''s my truth. let's just say he reads a lot!!!! hope u guys enjoyed :)))