deena

you, much to his delight, never let him get away with anything. you don't hesitate to wag a finger in his face when you're the one working long hours at a demanding job that pays the bulk of the bills and keeps food on the table. Toji, by contrast, lives life on his own terms: gym sessions to maintain the body he's earned, the occasional odd job he never fully explains, and a whole lot of lounging around. but domestic chores? unless it's a dripping faucet, a clogged drain, or loose hinges—because the idea of another man coming into his home with a toolbox is enough to aggravate him—he either leaves most of it to you or ignores it until you inevitably snap. 

god, you do it beautifully.

which is exactly why the apartment door slams shut hard enough to rattle the picture frames, the familiar sound carrying through the cluttered space like the opening bell of the boxing match currently playing on the television. Toji doesn't even bother looking up when he already knows what's coming, the corner of his scarred mouth curling into a satisfied smirk.

you're going to be fucking adorable.

the mess greets you immediately: takeout containers strewn across the coffee table, dirty dishes stacked precariously in the sink under the pretense of "soaking," his training gear dumped in a heap like he couldn’t be bothered to take two extra steps to the laundry basket. the faint sheen of sweat on his scarred chest and abs suggests he at least worked out earlier, but cleaning? not a single thought. it’s clear he didn't even try—no half-assed attempt, no proactive spark to surprise you after the brutal week you’ve had. just him lounging on his couch-shaped throne, one arm draped lazily over its back as he manspreads wide in those dangerously low gray sweatpants, looking utterly unconcerned with the pigsty around him. if he were sitting here with a beer in hand, it would've been almost offensively stereotypical, and even you would roll your eyes at how on-the-nose it is. thankfully for both of you, Toji has no interest in alcohol.

you drop your bag by the door with a heavy thud, wondering—not for the first time—just what the hell you’re doing with him. you could have someone motivated. someone who contributes enough to make an actual difference. someone who picks up after himself and surprises you by having dinner ready when you get home. 

unfortunately for you, that hypothetical man doesn't have Toji Fushiguro's face.

is the dick really that good? 

the traitorous thought flickers through your mind as you step out of your heels, letting them clatter where they may. the cool floor feels soothing against your sore feet after eight hours of complete bullshit at work, but not enough to quell the fresh wave of frustration. “really, Toji?” your voice is sharp but steady, and you peel your jacket off next, tossing it over the back of a nearby chair. “i specifically asked you to clean up while i was gone. one thing. was that too much for you?” you pace a few steps, fingers working the top button of your pristine blouse, then the second, desperate for a little air after a day spent trapped in stiff office clothes. "you couldn’t even throw the damn containers away? or do the dishes? you sat here all day doing jack shit like you’re counting on me to play maid on top of everything.”

Toji doesn’t move at first. he just takes in on the chin and watches you with those deep blue eyes, his smirk slowly stretching wider. the more you rant, the more amused—and aroused—he looks. this is it: that fire, that spine, his guilty pleasure made flesh. he doesn't actually expect you to mother him, of course; it's just that the dishes will still be there in an hour, the containers aren't hurting anybody, and dirty laundry is hardly a national emergency. you, unsurprisingly, disagree. constantly and vehemently, at that. which brings him to the conclusion that maybe he simply likes when you get on his case. it's such an ordinary kind of thrill, watching the woman who shares his bed march across the apartment with righteous fury, hands flying through the air as she explains exactly why he's acting like a… cómo se dice… bum.

how can someone be so dependable in one breath and so hopelessly absent-minded in the next? how does the same man who instinctively reaches for your hand in a crowded street somehow walk past an overflowing trash bag? if you didn't believe he could do better, you wouldn't still be asking him to.

you stop right in front of the couch, arms crossed under your chest and unintentionally pushing your tits closer as you stare down at the mountain of a man you somehow put up with. “do you understand, Toji? or do i need to spell it out even slower until it sinks through that thick head of yours?” 

Toji Fushiguro is fully aware he can end his conversation with a single look if he really wants to. “yes, ma’am,” he murmurs instead, the words dripping with smug amusement because you wholeheartedly believe you can keep a man like him in check—but the way his cock thickens and twitches in his boxers says he’s more than happy to let you try. 

in one smooth motion, those massive hands grab your hips and pull you forward. you land straddling his lap, skirt bunching up around your thighs, core pressed so sweetly against the growing bulge. his body heat radiates through you, that masculine musk clouding your mind easily. “keep going, sweetheart," he adds, already guiding your hips to start a slow grind against him. “don’t stop on my account. tell me what a lazy fuck i am while you rub that pretty pussy on me. i wanna hear it all.”

your breath catches abruptly, but you don’t pull away. the friction of his thick length against your neglected cunt sends sparks through you even as frustration lingers, and you roll your hips experimentally despite your stubborn frown. “you’re fucking impossible,” you hiss, bracing your hands on his broad chest. “i work my ass off all day, come home to this fucking mess, and you just… sit there.”

Toji groans lowly in his throat, the sound vibrating under your palms. his eyes are half-lidded with pleasure, but he keeps guiding your movements in those deliberate circles that press the ridge of his clothed cock right against your twitching clit. “that’s it… fuck, just like that. louder, baby. tell me how you could do better, how my dick's the only reason you put up with this shit.” his thumbs stroke your hips possessively, encouraging every grind, every complaint. 

you’re getting wetter by the second, soaking through your flimsy panties as you rock against him, tension from the day starting to melt into something needier. you keep talking, voice breathier, shakier, but you refuse to stop. “you could’ve at… at least thrown out the trash. made an effort for me—hmph—”

“mhm, yeah? show me how disappointed you are,” he rasps, one calloused hand sliding up to squeeze your breast through your blouse. “gets me so fucking hard when you boss me around. grind harder, c’mon. get yourself nice and wet for me.”

you do everything else around here anyway.

your hips start moving with real purpose now, chasing the building pleasure while venting the last of your frustrations. only when you’re panting and clearly dripping does Toji finally move. he tugs your soaked panties to the side, then shoves the waistband of his sweatpants down just enough to free his cock. it slaps heavy against his abs with an audible smack—obscenely thick, veined, already drooling salty precum down the flushed tip. 

“easy now,” he murmurs, not as mocking anymore as he notches the fat, blunt head against your sopping entrance. “you’re still tense as hell from that shitty day. relax f’me.”

or don’t. he likes feeling you struggle to take it. 

despite how many times he's stretched you open, the initial push is always intense. he’s stupidly big, that’s a well-known fact, and he's right about your body still being wound tight from stress and anger. your walls flutter and resist at first, clenching hard while you're still trying to adjust to the tip only. you hiss as he pushes in slowly, inch by careful inch, but you’d be lying if you said the burn isn’t deliciously overwhelming. 

“still so tight, huh?” he groans, head falling back against the couch for a brief moment, hands gripping your ass hard enough to bruise but letting you control the descent. “breathe, baby. let me in, nice and easy.”

Toji isn’t usually gentle when it comes to sex, but even he knows better than to slam balls-deep when you’re this close to biting his head off already… even if you do sound pretty fucking cute when you yelp in surprise. 

you sink down gradually, whimpering as he fills you completely. he stays still once he’s buried to the hilt, hands stroking your thighs soothingly once more, even as his greedy cock twitches inside your warm heat like it’s confused by the lack of action. “there we go… good fucking girl. feel that? this lazy cock stretching you open just how you like?”

the smug satisfaction in his tone lights a fire in you. you start riding him like you own him down to the very bones, equal parts determined and frustrated. your hands press harder into his chest for better leverage as you bounce on his cock, wet sounds filling the room each time you slap down against his heavy balls. Toji leans back, spreading his thick thighs even wider to give you more space, that smirk never leaving his face as he watches you fuck yourself on him. 

“shit—listen to her. she’s gripping me like she’s pissed off too. you gonna keep running that pretty mouth while you use my cock? take it all out on me?" he lets you set the brutal pace for a little while, but when your legs begin to tremble, hips stuttering as fatigue and overwhelming pleasure tangle together, he notices instantly. with a low chuckle, he takes over seamlessly, snapping his powerful hips up from below, driving into you with deep, precise strokes that make you cry out. “don’t stop now. you were doing so good owning me,” he groans, one hand moving down to rub fast, tight circles over your swollen clit. “tell me how you want it. deeper? harder? say the word and i’ll fuck you stupid.”

“h-harder!” you gasp, nails raking down his back as you cling to his neck for dear life. “just… shut up and—aah—fuck me harder, Toji!”

“yes, ma’am.” his grin turns downright wicked as he obeys instantly. his thrusts turn punishing, hips snapping up with raw strength and bullying the sweetest spot deep inside you over and over, exactly the way you demanded. it’s the combination of that relentless pace and perfect angle that finally push you right over the edge. your orgasm crashes into you hard, ripping a broken, shameless cry from your throat as your cunt clamps down around him like a vise, pulsing and fluttering wildly while you soak his lap with your release.

what's another mess in the grand scheme of things?

Toji lets out a deep, guttural groan at the feeling of your pussy milking him so desperately. he doesn't ask for permission before he simply snaps his hips up one final time, burying himself as deep as possible and holding you there as he comes; thick, hot ropes of cum flood you, painting your walls white until you're leaking around him, overstuffed.

you slump against his sweat-slicked chest, both of you panting hard, hearts hammering against each other. his arms wrap around you possessively, one large hand slowly stroking up and down your back as he presses lazy, open-mouthed kisses along your neck and shoulder. “clean up’s gonna have to wait a bit longer,” he mumbles against your skin, voice rough but utterly satisfied. “unless you got more orders for me, boss. i’m feelin’ real motivated now.”

the dick is, in fact, that good.

1 NEW MESSAGE Toji’s big debut on this blog :3 lowkey unsure what to do for the fic layout but oh well!

— divider by @/cafekitsune !!

toji waits until you're halfway down the street before opening the bag. inside is still-warm katsu curry, a bottle of water & a chocolate bar with a little sticky note folded in half.

please don't skip dinner.

that's it. no number. no name. nothing. he stares at the note for a long time. "weird." then quietly eats every bite.

he expects never to see you again. instead, three days later... you're back. same convenience store. same shy smile. same ridiculous amount of groceries in your arms. you stop when you notice him sitting on the curb. "oh." your face brightens. "hi."

toji blinks. "hi"

you hesitate. "did you like the curry?"

he almost lies. almost says it was terrible just to see your reaction. instead: "yeah"

your smile grows impossibly bigger. "good."

"that's it?"

you tilt your head. "what else would i say?"

"most people would've asked for somethin'."

"like what?"

"money."

you laugh. "i already spent my money on the curry."

he stares. you genuinely seem confused by the conversation, like kindness costing something has never occurred to you.

it becomes... a thing. every few days, you'll "accidentally" buy too much. an extra sandwich. an extra coffee. an extra pastry. and every single time, you insist you couldn't possibly finish it alone.

toji stops arguing after the fourth visit. mostly because he's starting to realize arguing makes you sad. he weirdly doesn't like that.

eventually, he learns your routine. every tuesday and thursday after work, always stopping at the same store, always carrying too many reusable shopping bags because you refuse to use plastic ones. always smiling at the old cashier & always waving goodbye. it's sickeningly wholesome.

he hates how much he starts looking forward to it. "you got a name?"

you blink, "yeah."

"you gonna tell me?"

you giggle which completely throws him off. "only if you tell me yours first."

"toji."

you repeat it quietly, like you're testing how it sounds. "toji."

he pretends it doesn't make his heart do something weird. then you tell him your name & he repeats it once. you're not sure if it's the street lamp lihgting, you'd think he was smiling.

the first time it rains while you're talking, you immediately panic. "your bag!"

toji looks over. "what about it?"

"it's getting wet!"

before he can stop you, you're dragging the heavy duffel beneath the shelter with both hands, huffing from the effort because it's apparently filled with bricks.

"there." you beam. "better."

"thanks."

"of course."

weeks turn into months. toji eventually admits he's sleeping in his truck. "that's... slightly better than the bench? do you have blankets?"

"yeah."

"are you lying?"

"maybe."

the next afternoon you show up with two thick blankets. "my closet was getting crowded."

he raises an eyebrow. "really."

"okay, i bought them."

"thought so."

you never pity him. that's what he notices. you don't look at him like he's broken or dangerous, or someone to avoid, you ask him about his day, tell him about the stray cat that's started following you home. complain about your boss. laugh over dumb internet videos.

you talk to him like he's just a person, not dirt under your shoe. it's infuriating. he'd almost forgotten what that felt like.

one evening you find him outside the store again, except this time he's standing. clean clothes, fresh haircut, a little less tired around the eyes.

you notice immediately. "you look different."

he scratches the back of his neck. got a job."

your face lights up so brightly he actually has to look away. "toji!"

before he can react, you've thrown your arms around him. the hug lasts maybe two seconds which then ends when you suddenly realize what you've done. your eyes widen. "oh my gosh—i'm sorry!" you immediately let go, mortified. "i should've asked first—"

"you happy for me?"

you blink. "of course."

he nods once. then quietly says, "do it again."

"...what?"

"the hug."

your cheeks turn pink. "are you sure?"

instead of answering, he opens one arm awkwardly like he hasn't hugged someone in years. maybe he hasn't. you smile, step forward and this time, when you wrap your arms around him, he hugs you back carefully. he closes his eyes for just a second, breathing in the faint scent of laundry detergent and vanilla.

home.

he doesn't know why that's the first word that comes to mind. he just knows that for the first time in a very long time... he isn't thinking about where he's going to sleep. he's thinking about whether you'll be waiting outside the convenience store on thursday.

after that, things change so quietly that neither of you notices at first.

he's still waiting outside the convenience store on tuesdays and thursdays, except now he isn't there because he's hungry.

he's there because you're coming.

you still bring him coffee some mornings, even though he now has enough money to buy his own. you still insist on splitting pastries in half because "they taste better when someone else steals a bite."

toji rolls his eyes every single time.

then steals the bigger half.

he learns the little things about you before he learns the big ones. that you always tear the sleeves off your coffee cups because you fidget when you're nervous. that you hum absentmindedly while reading ingredient labels. that you can't walk past flowers without stopping to smell them, no matter how rushed you are.

you're soft in ways he doesn't think the world deserves. toji has spent most of his life believing kindness always comes with conditions. people are nice because they want something, they expect something. eventually they'll remind you of everything they did for you. but you never do. you never bring up the meals. it's almost unsettling.

one afternoon he finally asks. "why?"

you look up from where you're trying to untangle the strap of your tote bag. "why what?"

"why'd you help me?"

your brows knit together like the answer is obvious. "you looked like you needed it."

"that's it?"

"yeah."

"you didn't even know me."

you smile softly. "i know."

his first paycheck isn't much. after rent on a tiny apartment and replacing clothes that have seen better days, there isn't much left over. still.

the following thursday, he gets to the convenience store before you. he waits outside, hands shoved into his pockets. when you finally appear, smiling the moment you spot him, he awkwardly holds something out.

it's a paper bag. you blink. "what's this?"

"bought too much."

you look at him. "toji."

he shrugs. "couldn't finish it."

you laugh so hard you have to cover your mouth. "you're terrible."

"learned from you."

inside is your favorite sandwich. the strawberry milk you always buy and a chocolate bar. tucked inside is a tiny sticky note with handwriting so bad it takes you several minutes to decipher it.

please don't skip lunch.

your eyes immediately sting. "you kept the note."

"yeah."

"why?"

he looks at you like you've asked the dumbest question imaginable. "'cause you wrote it."

you don't realize you're crying until he sighs. "aw, don't do that."

you sniffle. "i'm not."

"you're literally cryin'."

"happy crying."

"still counts."

you laugh through your tears and, without thinking, throw your arms around him again.

this time he doesn't hesitate.

his arms wrap around your waist almost instantly, pulling you close with a quiet little huff, like this has become the most natural thing in the world.

months later, you're helping him unpack the last box in his apartment. it's tiny. the couch barely fits. the kitchen only has enough room for one person at a time. the bedroom window sticks whenever you try to open it. you think it's perfect. "you've got a home."

toji looks around the room. "yeah."

but he isn't looking at the apartment anymore. he's looking at the girl kneeling on his living room floor, carefully placing cheap mugs into the cupboard like they're priceless antiques.

the girl who fed a stranger because she thought he looked hungry and who bought blankets without making him feel like charity. who never once looked at him with pity, just warmth.

he walks over before he can think too hard about it. "hey."

you glance up. "hm?"

he crouches in front of you, takes your hands. "i got somethin' to ask."

"okay."

he scratches the back of his neck, suddenly looking strangely nervous. "you've been buyin' me food for almost a year."

you giggle. "i have."

"think it's about time i returned the favor."

"toji."

"let me take you to dinner."

you smile. "that's your big question?"

"yeah."

"i thought you were gonna ask me to help build ikea furniture or something."

he snorts. "don't push your luck."

you laugh, squeezing his hands. "i'd love to."

the smile that spreads across his face is small, crooked. so unbelievably boyish that it barely resembles the guarded man sleeping on a park bench all those months ago. you don't think you'll ever get tired of being the reason for it.

years later, whenever someone asks how you met, toji always tells the story wrong. he'll lean back in his chair, completely serious, and say, "she wouldn't stop feeding me."

you'll gasp dramatically. "that's not true!"

"is."

"i offered you one curry!"

"then coffee. then pastries. then blankets."

everyone laughs.

you bury your face in your hands. "i was just trying to help."

toji reaches over, intertwining his fingers with yours beneath the table. his thumb brushes across your knuckles. "i know." his voice is quieter now, only meant for you. "best thing that ever happened to me."

and every single time he says it — he still sounds like he can't quite believe someone as kind as you stopped walking that first afternoon. all you thought you were doing was buying lunch for a stranger.

you never realized you were giving him a reason to believe life could be gentle again. or that one warm paper bag and a little sticky note would eventually lead him home.

He steps closer, slanting the large umbrella until you are entirely enclosed within his space, the clean scent of cedarwood and expensive starch instantly neutralizing the damp smell of the campus. "I was worried about you. Let’s get you out of the cold."

He doesn't ask how the exam went. He simply takes your heavy canvas backpack from your shoulder, his large, calloused hand wrapping around the straps with an easy, effortless strength that tells you he’s been waiting to do it all day.

When you get to his car, the passenger side is already warm, the heater set to a perfect, comfortable temperature. Sitting in the cup holder is a hot container of the specific ginger-pork soup from the deli near his apartment.

"I figured you would be hungry," he murmurs, closing your door gently before walking around to the driver's side.

You sit there as the car pulls out into the city traffic, the windshield wipers clicking a rhythmic, soothing pattern against the glass.

You look at the soup, then down at your own hands, and before you can even process the sudden, overwhelming relief of being taken care of, a hot tear slips down your cheek, followed by another.

Kento doesn't slam on the brakes, nor does he offer a clumsy, panicked speech. He simply keeps his left hand steady on the steering wheel, while his right hand moves across the center console, his long, warm fingers wrapping completely around your trembling hand. He squeezes once, a solid, anchoring pressure that lets you cry until the highway opens up.

"You worked hard," he says softly into the quiet car. "That is more than enough."

..............

The apartment is always quiet. Kento’s home is a reflection of the man himself, minimalist, organized, and deeply intentional. There are no dishes left in the sink, no loud televisions blaring, no unpredictable shifts in temperature. It is a sanctuary.

But the habit of being a burden is a hard thing to unlearn.

An hour later, you’re sitting on the edge of his plush cream sofa, your fingers nervously picking at the hem of one of his oversized navy sweaters.

He steps out of the kitchen, carrying two mugs of barley tea. He sets them on the table, his eyes instantly tracking the tense, curled-up posture of your shoulders.

"I can clean the kitchen," you say quickly, the words tumbling out before you can stop them. "I know I’m bothering you by staying over on a weeknight when you have that audit tomorrow. I'll get up early so I'm not in your way—"

He doesn't answer immediately. He slowly drops to one knee on the dark wood floor right in front of you, bringing himself down to your eye level.

He reaches up, his large, cool hands gently capturing your wrists, uncurling your frantic fingers from the sweater fabric and holding them steady within his palms.

"Who taught you," Kento asks, his hazel eyes locking onto yours with a sharp, heavy seriousness that makes your breath catch, "that existing requires an apology?"

You freeze, your lips parting but no sound coming out.

"You are not a project, Y/N," he says softly, his thumb tracing a slow, soothing circle against the inside of your wrist.

"You are not a chore that needs to be managed before I can rest. You don't have to earn kindness with me. Your presence in this space is entirely permitted, at any hour, under any condition."

The silence that follows is thick, but for the first time in months, it doesn't feel heavy. It feels like a space where you are allowed to simply take up room.

As the final semester bleeds into winter, you begin to realize that Kento’s love isn't something he speaks; it’s something he executes with a quiet, terrifying efficiency.

He is the man who always waits in the idling car until he hears the click of your apartment deadbolt before he drives away into the midnight fog.

He is the man whose glove compartment is a curated survival kit for your chaotic schedule, containing your specific brand of painkillers, spare hair ties, a portable charger, and the exact honey candies you like when your throat is dry from presentations.

You find yourself falling asleep everywhere around him.

You fall asleep in his home office while he’s quietly reviewing legal briefs, your head resting against his spare desk. You fall asleep thirty minutes into movie nights, your cheek pressed against his broad shoulder. You fall asleep in the car before he even exits the parking garage.

And he never wakes you.

Every single time, you wake up hours later to the realization that you’ve been lifted with a smooth, iron-clad carefulness and tucked securely into his bed.

The lights are always dimmed, the ambient temperature adjusted, and his heavy charcoal winter coat is always draped over your shoulders if you’ve fallen asleep on the move.

One evening, after a grocery run where you had mindlessly thrown three separate bags of sugary snacks into the cart out of pure stress, you look down to find him quietly adding fresh berries, spinach, and a high-end iron supplement beside your items.

"You'll thank me later," he murmurs, his face entirely serious as he checks the expiration date on a carton of milk.

"Probably," you laugh softly, leaning your head against his upper arm for a split second, feeling the immense, solid warmth of him.

Later that night, you’re sitting on the living room rug, your legs stretched out under his low table, watching him read a financial journal under the soft amber light of the floor lamp.

He’s wearing his reading glasses, his shirt collar unbuttoned by two notches, his large hand rhythmically turning the pages with a slow, deliberate slowness.

You look at the quiet room, the steady rise and fall of his chest, and the total absence of chaos in your mind.

You used to think love was supposed to be exciting, a series of high-stakes dramas and reckless fires that left you burnt out and breathless.

But as you look at Kento, you realize that excitement is a young, unstable thing.

What you actually needed was this. You needed the quiet hours. You needed the certainty that someone was holding the perimeter so you could finally close your eyes.

"Kento," you call out quietly.

He doesn't look up immediately, but his hand pauses on the edge of the page. "Yes?"

"Nothing," you whisper, sliding down further against the couch cushions, a small, breathtakingly content smile touching your lips. "Just... thank you."

A very small, nearly imperceptible smile tugs at the corner of his mouth behind his journal. He adjusts his glasses, his voice dropping into that low, protective rumble that makes your whole world feel safe.

"Go to sleep, Y/N. I’ll wake you when it’s time."

Thank you for reading till last. I'm working on another fic right now, that's why I almost forgot to post here.

The smell of your favorite takeout hits you before you even get the door fully open. Your hand stills on the handle, your bag slipping lower on your shoulder as you step inside and find Valko standing in your kitchen with the paper bags open in front of him, transferring food onto plates. A small smile tugs on your lips, because there is something ridiculous and tender about the sight of him there, too tall for the space, too broad beside your cabinets.

Valko looks up as soon as he hears you.

“There you are,” he says, his voice warm with the usual excitement.

You close the door behind you. “I’m impressed,” you say. “You were smart enough to order takeout instead of trying to cook without me.”

He huffs out a laugh, glancing down at the plates. “I know my strengths.”

You manage another smile as you take off your shoes by the door and set your bag on the small table near the entry.

In the kitchen, Valko keeps moving, the plates clinking as he finishes dividing the food. “How was it?” he asks. “You had a good time?”

You head toward the sink instead of going to him, reaching for a glass from the cabinet before you answer. “Yeah,” you say, filling it with water. “It was good.”

You take a sip of water and keep your eyes on the glass.

You hear Valko move behind you, and when you turn, he is near enough that you have to tilt your chin to meet his eyes.

“Hi,” he says, softer now, like the first greeting had not counted because he had been too far away.

“Hi,” you answer.

He leans in for the kiss he always takes when you come home to him. You give him just a quick press of your mouth to his, and then you pull back with your glass still in one hand and your other palm braced against the counter.

Valko does not comment on the kiss, but you catch the brief change in his face before he turns back toward the food, a small crease between his brows, there and gone quickly enough that you could pretend you missed it.

“So,” you say, lifting your glass again as you move closer to the food, “what did you order?”

His gaze stays on you for another moment. “The usual,” he says, reaching for one of the containers, “and something from the new place across the street because I wanted to try it.”

“Of course you did.”

“It looked good.”

“You say that about everything.”

“Not everything.” He opens another box and tips his head, considering it. “Most things.”

Despite yourself, you smile as you step beside him, looking over the spread he has arranged – the familiar dishes are there, warm and fragrant, but there are two new ones too, both still steaming as he moves them onto the plates. “Okay,” you admit, “that does look good.”

“Obviously,” he says, with the confidence of someone taking credit for cooking it himself. “And if we’re having cocktails later, we should eat properly first. Especially you.”

You let out a small chuckle, setting your glass down. “Yeah, yeah. You’re probably right.”

Valko asks if you want to eat at the table or on the sofa, and you say, “Sofa’s fine,” without really looking at him.

This time, he does not move back to the food.

You notice the way he turns fully toward you instead of only glancing over.

“Okay,” he says, his voice lower now. “What’s wrong?”

You shrug too quickly. “Nothing.”

His eyes stay on your face. “I know you.”

“It’s really not a big deal.”

“Then tell me.”

You breathe out through your nose and look away first, because the last thing you want is to drag the ugliness of it into your kitchen. Still, the words come out after a moment, plain and clipped, enough to explain but not enough to make a whole scene out of it. You tell him that, on your way back, some jerk threw a crude comment at you, that you ignored him, that it annoyed you more than you wanted it to, and that it was stupid anyway.

By the time you finish, your own mouth has twisted with irritation.

“Whatever,” you mutter, shaking your head as if that can knock the feeling loose. “It doesn’t matter – ”

When you glance at Valko, the look on his face makes the rest of the sentence disappear.

His jaw has gone tight, the easy warmth from a minute ago pulled into something harder and much less familiar. You have seen him annoyed before, but this is different.

“It’s not nothing,” he says.

The roughness in his voice catches you off guard, even though you know it’s not aimed at you.

You shrug again. “It’s fine. It’s not the first time, probably won’t be the last, so there’s no point making it into something.”

“Don’t do that.”

You pause.

His tone has gone firmer, and when you look back at him, his attention has not moved from you. For a second, neither of you speaks. His expression shifts into something more careful, and his shoulders ease a little as he reaches for you.

Your body moves before the rest of you catches up.

You take a small step to the side, barely anything, but enough for his hands to stop between you.

You turn toward the counter, taking the plate. “It’s not worth thinking about,” you say, a little too lightly. “Let’s just eat.”

For a moment, you can feel him watching you, and you keep your attention on the food. Then he picks up his own plate and follows you to the sofa, giving you enough room to sit first before he settles beside you.

The TV comes on a minute later, filling the silence. Valko eats beside you, quieter than usual, though his attention keeps coming back to you.

Instead of pressing you further about what happened, he asks about your friend.

The question helps more than you expect. You tell him about the bookstores you wandered into and the café you found by accident, all pretty lights and beautiful little details, with coffee that was better than you expected and dessert good enough to make you regret not ordering a second one.

As you talk, the better parts of the day start coming back in pieces.

You remember the table by the window, the sound of your friend laughing across from you, and the comfort of staying longer than planned because, for once, neither of you seemed to be rushing anywhere.

He listens like the details matter.

You are grateful he doesn’t ask why you stayed out longer than you said you would. He could have. The two of you had plans, and he had still come over on time, still ordered dinner, still waited in your apartment while you turned an afternoon coffee into nearly three hours outside. Instead of making you feel guilty for enjoying it, he seems pleased that you did.

You tell him about the lipstick your friend gave you. “She gave it to me because she thought the color would suit me,” you say, glancing toward your bag near the entryway. “It’s still in my purse.”

Then your gaze drifts to him.

He is already dressed for later, and you notice it properly now that you are sitting beside him. He looks handsome enough that, on any other night, you would have teased him for it immediately, just to see the pleased little spark in his face when he realized you had been looking.

You glance down at your plate instead. “You know, we don’t really have to go out.”

Valko turns his head toward you.

“We can just stay in,” you continue, already reaching for a lighter tone. “We still have food, and we could try to make dessert or do some terrible homemade cocktails. Then we can just cuddle and watch something.”

You expect him to agree before you finish speaking.

Valko has never needed much convincing to stay close to you for hours, especially when there is food, a sofa, and an excuse to tuck himself around you until you can barely move. It is one of the things you love about him, how openly he wants the simple comfort of being near you, how little shame he has about reaching for it.

Instead, he pauses.

His face shifts into something more serious, and the change is small enough that anyone else might miss it. You do not.

“Do you want to stay in,” he asks, “or do you just not want to be seen tonight?”

You stare at him for a second. Part of you wants to be annoyed that he did not take the offer, because staying in would be warm and easy and comfortable. Another part of you knows this should not surprise you at all. Valko is sweet, almost painfully so sometimes, but he has never been the kind of sweet that lets you hide behind a convenient lie.

You look away first. “I’m a little tired.”

He keeps his attention on you.

“I know you dressed up,” you add, softer now. “Sorry, I just – ”

“That doesn’t matter.”

You stop.

He sets his plate on the coffee table and turns more toward you. “If you’re tired, we stay here. I’ll make bad drinks, you can tell me they’re bad, and I’ll still pretend I did well.” His mouth curves slightly, though his eyes stay serious. “But I’m asking if that’s the real reason.”

You press your lips together.

He waits, and somehow that makes it harder.

After a moment, you stand and take both plates. “I’m just going to rinse these.”

Valko lets you go, then follows with the empty glasses, taking his place beside you at the sink. The two of you work in silence for a minute, you rinsing, him clearing the leftovers and wiping the counter, the routine familiar.

Then he speaks more quietly.

“We can go out,” he says. “You can wear whatever you wanted to wear.”

Your hands slow under the warm water.

“I’ll be there,” he adds. “You can just enjoy your night. If someone wants to be stupid, I’ll handle it.”

The words warm your heart, and this time the smile that comes to your face feels genuine.

The question is still there, waiting for an answer you do not have yet.

“I’m going to take a quick shower,” you say.

Valko nods. “Okay.”

*

By the time you come out of the bedroom, your skin is glistening from the body lotion, your makeup is fixed, and the dress you picked for tonight is smoothed down over your thighs, though the zipper sits open along your back where you couldn’t reach it.

You pause in the doorway with one hand holding the fabric in place.

The living room has changed while you were gone. Only the lamps are on now, with pillows and a blanket spread across the sofa and a TV show playing quietly in the background. Valko’s waiting on the sofa, and when he sees you, his attention lifts immediately, his face easing into a smile that is softer than his usual grin.

You suddenly feel a little shy standing there with your back half-open and your dress held together by your fingers.

“Can you zip me up, please?” you ask.

Valko stands without making you ask twice.

His fingers find the zipper carefully, and his other hand settles near your shoulder blade just long enough to keep the fabric steady.

When he finishes, he lets his hands fall away before you turn to face him.

“So,” he says, looking you over with a small smile, “we’re going out.”

You nod, smoothing your hands down the front of the dress. “Yes. Unless you really want to stay in now.” Your gaze flicks toward the sofa, the blanket, the pillows, the room made soft for you. “It looks like you already started getting comfortable.”

Valko shakes his head. “I was ready for either answer.”

That makes something in your chest loosen.

His eyes move over your face, then settle on your lips. “Do you need to finish your makeup?”

“Oh.” You glance toward your bag. “Yes, actually.”

Valko stays where he is while you use the mirror by the door, giving you space to apply it without leaning over your shoulder.

You press your lips together, studying the color first, then the rest of your reflection. A pleased smile forms on your lips, your posture straightening a little as you look at yourself.

“There she is,” Valko says softly.

You turn toward him, suddenly flustered by the realization that you were almost posing in front of the mirror while he watched.

“You look beautiful,” he says.

“Thank you,” you say softly, your cheeks still a little warm.

Shortly after, you leave the apartment together.

*

By the time you return to the apartment, the warmth from the cocktails has already begun to fade, leaving behind only a pleasant looseness in your body and the ache in your cheeks from smiling so much.

Valko holds the door open for you, and you step inside with your heels clicking softly against the floor. After he slips out of his shoes, he heads towards the kitchen while you stay at the entryway, still taking off your heels.

While he pours the water, you look at him properly.

You had noticed him before you left, of course, but now you let yourself linger on it – the way his hair has fallen slightly out of place, the fabric of his shirt pulling around his biceps, the rolled sleeves showing his forearms. He looks unfairly handsome like this, and the sight of him makes something sweet spread through you.

When he comes closer and hands you a glass, he catches you staring.

“What?” he asks, smiling because your expression must be giving you away.

You take the water from him and let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “Nothing.”

“That doesn’t look like nothing.” His eyes narrow playfully. “Do I have something on my face?”

“No.” You take a sip, then lower the glass, still smiling at him over the rim. “I was just thinking that you look really handsome tonight.”

The faintest color rises in his face.

“I see the alcohol is still in your system,” he says.

You roll your eyes. “It’s mostly gone.”

“Mostly?”

“I can feel my feet again,” you say, glancing down at your feet. “That’s how I know.”

Valko laughs under his breath.

“Sit down, sweetheart,” Valko says, taking the glass from your hand before you can ask why.

You let him lead you to the sofa, where he drapes a blanket over your lap.

“Stay here,” he says.

“Where else would I go?”

“With you, I never know.”

You make a face at him, but he only smiles and disappears toward the bathroom.

For a minute, you sit there with the TV playing in front of you, your glass of water waiting on the coffee table. You can hear him moving around in the bathroom, the rush of water, the opening and closing of a cabinet.

When he returns, he’s carrying a basin filled with warm water, faintly cloudy from the bath salts dissolving inside.

Your expression softens. “Valko.”

“What?” he says, setting it carefully on the floor in front of the sofa. “Your feet hurt.”

You look down at the water, then back at him, and the fondness in your chest feels almost too full for something so simple. “You didn’t have to do that.”

“I know.”

You dip your feet into the basin, and the first touch of warm water makes your eyes close for a second as you sink deeper into the sofa.

Valko sits next to you, looking a little pleased with himself.

By the time the episode ends, the water has cooled and your whole body feels heavier in the best way, softened by the warmth, the drinks, and the steady comfort of Valko’s presence beside you.

He gets up before you can decide whether you should move, disappearing into the bathroom and returning with a towel in his hands. When he sits back down, he spreads it over his lap, then pats it lightly.

“Feet here.”

You lift your feet from the basin and place them over the towel on his lap. Valko wraps the towel around one foot first, drying you with gentle movements, then does the same with the other. He folds the damp towel aside and places your foot between his hands, pressing his thumbs into the sole.

“Oh,” you breathe, your head falling back against the cushion. “That feels really good.”

His mouth curves, but he keeps his eyes on what he is doing. “Good.”

“Thank you.”

“You don’t need to thank me.”

The TV keeps playing, though you stop following the episode after a while.

Your attention drifts instead to his hands, to the way they move over your foot and up to your ankle, then higher to your calf when he shifts closer and draws your leg a little more securely across his lap.

A soft smile stays on your face.

You look from his hands to his profile, letting yourself linger on the slope of his nose, the line of his jaw. He looks calmer now than he had earlier, though there is still something attentive in him, something that keeps checking on you without needing to ask every few minutes.

Valko’s thumb presses into a tender spot near your heel, and you let out a small sound.

He glances at you.

You clear your throat and look back at the TV as if you have been paying attention the whole time.

His smile deepens, but he says nothing, only continues the massage on the other foot with the same patience.

After a while, Valko’s hands slow, his thumbs resting lightly against your arch as the episode continues playing in front of you.

You draw your legs back slowly, feet settling on the floor as you turn toward him. Valko’s gaze follows, shifting from your face to the way you’re leaning closer now.

“Tired?” he asks, softer than before.

You shake your head. “Not yet.”

Your eyes drift to his lips. When you glance up, he’s already watching you with that adoring gaze that stirs butterflies in your chest. He leans in just a fraction, then holds there, waiting.

So you close the rest of the distance yourself.

The first kiss is gentle, almost testing, your mouth brushing his before you press closer. Valko answers immediately, one hand lifting toward your back while the other stays on the sofa, giving you room to decide how much of him you want.

You kiss him again, longer this time, letting yourself sink into the warmth of his mouth, and the low sound he makes when you lean in more fully sends a pleased little shiver through your body.

After a few moments, you sit up and move before you can overthink it, swinging one leg over his lap until you are straddling him.

You slide your hands to his shoulders, then up to the sides of his neck, feeling him beneath your palms, solid and close and real. His hands settle against your back and pull you nearer before one slides down to your calf, almost absentmindedly, his fingers finding the same sore place he had been working on before. The touch is still gentle, still soothing, but now it runs through you differently as his thumb presses into your skin while his mouth moves over yours.

A small sound slips from you.

Valko’s hand pauses for half a second, then continues, slower than before.

You smile into the kiss, and he catches it, his mouth curving against yours as his palm slides along your calf. Your dress rides higher over your thighs as your fingers curl lightly at the back of his neck, and every slow movement of his hand makes you lean into him more.

Your heart beats harder in your chest, a sweet ache spreading low in your belly as his fingers trace idle patterns along your skin. You pull back just a little, and the words slip out in a soft whisper against his lips.

“Take me to the bedroom.”

Valko’s breath catches for the briefest moment, and then his arms tighten around you – one hand splaying across your lower back while the other cradles your thigh. “Hold onto me,” he murmurs. You wrap your arms around his shoulders, fingers threading into the soft hair at his nape, and hook your legs around his waist as he rises from the sofa with effortless ease, as if you weigh nothing at all. The movement presses you even closer, your chest flush against his as his arms hold you securely, his mouth never leaving yours.

When he reaches the bedroom, the lamplight from the living room spills through the doorway, casting warm shadows across the bed. Valko sits down on the edge of the mattress with you still wrapped around him, so you settle easily back into his lap, straddling him once more.

His hands stay gentle at your waist, holding you steady on his lap as the kiss lingers between you. Being this close to him makes something in you ache softly for more. When you finally draw back enough to speak, your lips brush his.

“Unzip me, please.”

He does not hesitate. One hand leaves your waist and finds the zipper at the small of your back. He takes his time, pulling the zipper all the way down before his palm rests lightly against the bare skin he has uncovered.

Only then do you break the kiss. You rise just enough to slide the dress from your shoulders and over your hips. You step out of it slowly, standing before him in the lamplight while his gaze follows every movement.

You unhook your bra next, the straps slipping from your shoulders, and you let the garment fall away. Valko’s breath leaves him in a low, appreciative sound, but he does not reach for you yet. He waits, watching as you hook your thumbs into the waistband of your panties and ease them down your legs. They join the rest of your clothing on the floor, and when you straighten again you are bare before him – every inch of skin touched by the soft light and the heat of his undivided attention.

A quiet thrill moves through you at the way he looks at you, like you are something precious he has been given permission to cherish.

You take a step toward him, ready to return to his lap, but his fingers wrap gently around your wrist before you can climb back onto the bed. The touch is light, yet it stills you completely. He draws your hand toward him and presses a soft kiss to the back of it, then turns it over and brushes his lips against the sensitive skin of your inner wrist. The touch sends a small shiver up your arm.

Without a word, he guides you closer to the bed. His hands settle at your waist as he helps you onto the mattress, and you lie back against the pillows.

He lifts one of your legs, his mouth finding your ankle with a slow press of lips before he gives the other the same lingering attention. Then the heat of his mouth trails upward, each kiss drawing closer, and something low in your stomach tightens with anticipation.

You watch him as he settles between your thighs, his eyes never leaving yours. The first slow drag of his tongue through your folds makes your breath hitch. He does it again, firmer this time, and your thighs instinctively part wider for him.

His hands slide under your hips, holding you steady as he licks into you with more purpose now – slow, thorough strokes that have you growing slicker by the second. When he finally seals his lips around your clit and sucks, your back arches hard off the bed with a broken moan.

Your fingers thread into his hair as your hips start to move on their own, rolling against his mouth. Valko groans at the movement, gripping your hips harder and letting you grind against his tongue, meeting every roll of your body.

The pleasure builds fast now. Every stroke of his tongue, every time he sucks on your clit, sends sparks racing through you. You can feel how wet you are, how easily his mouth moves against you. Your moans grow breathier, your thighs starting to tremble around his head as the tension coils tighter in your stomach.

You keep your eyes on him the whole time. His gaze is locked on your face, but there’s a new tension in his expression now – his pupils are blown, brows drawn, like he’s fighting to stay focused on you while his own hunger bleeds through.

And then you notice the rest of him.

His hips are moving in small, involuntary thrusts against the mattress, rutting into the bed in time with the way his mouth works over you. The sight of it – how turned on he is just from tasting you – makes you clench hard around nothing.

His name slips from your lips in a broken moan, soft at first and then louder as the heat inside you coils tighter and tighter. Valko answers with a low sound against your soaked folds, and then he murmurs right against your skin.

“I can feel you getting close... Come on my tongue, baby – I want to taste you when you do.”

One of his hands finds yours, threading your fingers together and holding on tight. Your hips move faster now, grinding down against his mouth with desperate little rolls. The moment his lips close around your clit again, the tension finally snaps.

It rolls through you in heavy, pulsing waves. Your thighs shake around his head as your fingers tighten in his hair, and a string of broken, breathless sounds spill from your lips – his name tangled with soft, incoherent praise you barely register saying.

A deep, rough groan tears from his throat as his hips jerk harder against the mattress, the movement no longer small or controlled, and the hand holding yours tightens. His eyes stay locked on your face even as they darken further, that faint crease between his brows deepening as he fights to keep his focus on you.

The knowledge that your broken praise is undoing him only makes the pleasure burn hotter, dragging another helpless moan from your throat as the last ripples of your orgasm roll through you.

For a little while, neither of you speaks. Your body feels pleasantly spent, your fingers still loosely threaded with his while your other hand moves slowly through his hair in gentle, absent strokes. Valko stays exactly where he is, his breath warm and uneven against your soaked skin. For a long moment he doesn’t move, only presses soothing kisses along the inside of your thigh, then higher, brushing his lips over the soft curve of your stomach and the sensitive crease where your hip meets your leg.

Then, instead of rising, he begins to kiss lower again.

His mouth trails back down, lips parting against your still-sensitive folds as if it is the most natural thing in the world for him to keep going.

Your fingers tighten in his hair.

“Valko,” you breathe, your voice still shaky.

He lifts his head immediately, eyes finding yours.

You swallow, your hand sliding from his hair to gently touch his jaw.

“Come here,” you say softly.

His voice comes out low and rough. “I am here.”

You shake your head, a small, almost shy smile tugging at your lips.

“Up here.”

He hesitates for a second – just long enough for you to see the way he is still caught in that deep, giving place he goes to when he has his mouth on you. Then, slowly, he begins to crawl up your body, pressing kisses as he goes. His mouth moves over your stomach, the center of your chest, your breasts.

When he finally reaches the crook of your neck, he pauses there, nuzzling into the warm space under your jaw, his nose brushing your skin as he breathes you in.

You stay like that for a while, your fingers still moving slowly through his hair while his face remains tucked against your neck.

After a moment, you speak, your voice soft and a little hoarse.

“Are you planning on taking those clothes off at some point?”

Valko lets out a quiet huff of laughter against your neck.

He lifts his head, and you see the familiar teasing smile on his lips. “Why?” he asks. “Do you want me to?”

You roll your eyes, but the smile that follows gives you away completely. Your hand slides from his hair down to the back of his neck as you pull him closer until your lips are almost brushing his.

“I need to feel you against my skin,” you whisper. “I need your warmth. Your everything.”

The teasing in his expression softens. His hand tightens gently around yours where your fingers are still linked.

Valko doesn’t answer with words. Instead, he kisses you once more before pulling back to sit up. You watch as he reaches for the buttons of his shirt, his fingers working them open one by one. The fabric parts gradually, revealing his chest and the defined muscles of his torso. He shrugs the shirt off his shoulders and lets it fall somewhere beside the bed, never once breaking eye contact with you.

When his hands move to his belt, the quiet clink of metal and the slow drag of leather send a fresh, unexpected flutter through your already sensitive core, making your thighs press together. He notices, and the corner of his mouth lifts before he finishes undoing his belt and pushes both his pants and underwear down in one smooth motion.

He steps out of the last of his clothes and returns to the bed completely bare.

The sight of him makes your breath catch. In the dim light, his cock stands thick and flushed a deep, aching red, the head glistening with precum that has already begun to leak down the shaft. He braces himself above you on one forearm before lowering his body until his full weight settles over you. The pressure is immediate and sweet, sinking into your skin and muscles in the most comforting way. His mouth finds yours at the same time, lips locking in a hungry kiss as his tongue slides against yours. You can taste yourself on him, and the realization only makes you kiss him harder, your fingers digging into the muscles of his back as you hold him close.

When you wrap your legs around his hips, the movement drags the thick length of his cock through your soaked folds. The blunt head nudges against your clit, and a broken moan slips from your throat into his mouth. He’s so hot and heavy against you, the underside of his cock gliding through your wetness with every small shift of his body.

You start to move first.

Your hips roll upward in a slow grind, coating the length with your arousal and his saliva. He follows your rhythm, the tip nudging just barely at your entrance before sliding past again, teasing you both with how close he is to sinking inside.

“I need you inside me,” you whisper against his lips. “I want to feel all of you.”

You spread your legs wider for him, opening yourself completely as he begins to ease inside, slowly and carefully. The stretch is intense and delicious, your body yielding to him while his eyes stay locked on your face, watching every flicker of pleasure that crosses your expression.

Your arms wrap tighter around him, one hand sliding up to grip the back of his neck while the other stays curled on his shoulder. He holds you just as close, one arm braced beside your head, the other sliding under your back to pull you flush against him as he sinks deeper.

“You okay like this?” he asks quietly.

When you nod, he leans in and presses a soft kiss to the corner of your eye. He stays there for a moment, buried deep inside you, his forehead resting lightly against yours as he just breathes with you.

Then, slowly, he begins to pull back – almost slipping out – before sinking back in. The movement pulls a soft sound from your throat, your hips lifting instinctively to meet him.

He picks up the pace gradually, each thrust growing a little heavier, a little deeper. Your arms stay wrapped tightly around him, holding him close as soft moans spill from your lips with every stroke. The heat between you builds quickly – the slick drag of his cock inside you, the way his pelvis grinds against your clit on every downward thrust, the way his breath fans hot across your mouth.

You can feel how close he is.

It’s in the way his cock keeps twitching inside you, in the tension locked through his shoulders, in the rough, broken groans that escape him. His face is tight with pleasure, brows drawn, jaw clenched as he fights to keep control.

You whisper against his lips.

“You can let go… I want you to. Don’t hold back.”

Valko shakes his head once.

“No,” he breathes. “I just… want to savor this a little longer.”

After a moment, Valko shifts his weight and wraps both arms tightly around your torso. In one smooth motion he sits up, bringing you with him until he’s kneeling on the mattress with you straddling his lap. Your legs instinctively wrap around him as you adjust, your arms sliding around his shoulders while your chests press flush together. The new angle makes him sink even deeper inside you, and the sudden fullness draws a breathless moan from your lips.

He holds you close – one strong arm wrapped around your back, the other hand gripping the curve of your ass, keeping you anchored against him. Your bare skin slides against his with every breath, your nipples brushing his chest. Neither of you speaks for a moment. You simply breathe each other in, bodies locked tight, his cock pulsing deep inside you while your arms stay wrapped around his shoulders like you never want to let go.

You begin to move first, rocking slowly against him.

Valko lets out a low, guttural sound the second you start moving. He kisses you again, but this time there’s nothing controlled about it – his tongue pushes past your lips with no hesitation, sliding against yours in a wet, hungry glide. The kiss turns messy fast. It’s all heat and spit, the wet sound of it mixing with the low groans rumbling from his chest as his teeth catch your bottom lip, grazing, nipping.

His hand on your ass tightens, fingers spreading wide as he begins to guide you. The motion stays shallow, limited by how tightly you’re pressed together, but even with how little you can move, it feels devastatingly good. Every slow circle of your hips makes his cock rub against that sensitive spot inside you while your clit drags over his pelvis, slick and swollen and aching.

“That’s it… take what you need,” he murmurs against your lips. “I love feeling you like this.”

The fullness is constant, overwhelming in the best way – every tiny shift of your body makes you feel stretched around him. Your nipples slip and slide against his sweat-damp chest with every movement, the friction making your body grow hotter.

“I can feel how close you are,” he murmurs against your lips. “I can hear it in the way you moan for me. You’re gonna come again, aren’t you?”

You can only whimper in response, your arms tightening around his shoulders as you hold on. You can feel how close he is too – the way his cock keeps twitching inside you, the tension coiled so tightly through his body, the way his breathing has turned ragged and uneven. He’s holding back, barely, and it only makes you want to push him over the edge with you.

You shift your legs, planting your feet flat on the mattress on either side of his hips. The change in angle lets you lift yourself higher, and when you sink back down, you take his thick length even deeper than before. The helpless, strained whimper that tears from Valko’s throat makes your pussy cream around him, slick and messy. His forehead drops to your shoulder, hot breath fanning over your damp skin as his arms tighten around you like he’s trying to hold himself together.

Valko lets out another broken sound against your neck as you start lifting and dropping on him. His arms lock tighter around you as he tries – and fails – to keep guiding your hips the way he was before. The new angle has him sinking impossibly deep with every stroke, and a wrecked groan tears from his throat.

“Fuck – you feel too good,” he pants, voice strained. “I’m trying to let you have this… but – ha-ah – you’re gonna make me lose it.”

You slide one hand up to the back of his neck, fingers threading into his damp hair as you roll your hips again, using your new leverage to grind down on him harder.

“I want you to come,” you breathe. “I need it. I need to feel you.”

That’s all it takes.

Valko’s hand squeezes your ass in a bruising grip as his hips jerk up to meet yours in short, desperate thrusts. His mouth latches onto the side of your neck, sucking hard while his tongue drags over your skin between bites. His sweaty chest slides against yours with every desperate grind, your nipples dragging over the slick, overheated skin. His pelvis is soaked with your arousal, and every roll of your hips grinds it firmly against your swollen clit, sending sharp, relentless sparks racing through your entire body. The combination is too much – the way he stretches you open with every thrust and the constant, filthy pressure on your clit. It builds so fast it feels dizzying.

Your climax crashes into you with overwhelming force.

A silent whimper catches in your throat before it breaks into a loud, shattered moan. Your walls clamp down around him in hard, rhythmic pulses, your thighs shaking as your fingers dig into his shoulders. The pleasure is blinding, ripping through you so intensely that all you can do is cling to him, your body trembling as wave after wave crashes over you.

Valko’s arms lock around you the second your orgasm hits. His forehead presses hard into your shoulder as his cock throbs violently inside you, and you feel the way your pussy squeezes around him, milking him. His whole body goes tense, muscles straining as he fights to hold on for just a few more seconds.

“That’s it – I’ve got you –” His voice cracks. “Just hold onto me – please – ”

His breath hitches.

He yanks your hips down hard and holds you there as he starts to come. You feel every thick pulse of his cock as he fills you – hot spurts that seem to go on and on while he keeps grinding you against him through it. His mouth finds yours in a breathless, messy kiss, all tongue, groans, and the sharp graze of teeth. He kisses you like he’s drowning as he empties himself inside you in thick, relentless waves.

He holds you so tightly against his sweat-slick body that you feel every tremor run through him, his cock still twitching and spilling deep inside you.

For a long moment, neither of you moves. You just stay like that, chests pressed together, breathing hard against each other’s skin. Then Valko tilts his head and kisses you again – slower this time, softer, lingering. When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t go far. He presses a kiss to the side of your neck, then higher, brushing his lips against your cheek.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod, a small smile tugging at your mouth. “More than okay.”

He makes a soft sound of relief and nuzzles into the crook of your neck, his nose brushing your skin as he just breathes you in. You smile against his hair, your fingers grazing his undercut… until a dull, tingling ache starts to spread through your thighs.

You shift a little, wincing. “Okay, wait. My legs are going numb.”

Valko lifts his head, blinking at you for a second. Then a quiet chuckle rumbles out of him.

He carefully helps you untangle your legs from around his waist, one hand supporting your lower back while the other guides you down onto the mattress. You stretch out with a soft sigh of relief, the sheets cool against your overheated skin. Valko stays close for a second longer, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead.

“Don’t move,” he murmurs. “I’ll be right back.”

He disappears into the bathroom and returns a moment later with a warm, damp towel. You feel a little flustered when he settles between your legs again, but the look on his face is so gentle and focused that you don’t stop him. He cleans you with careful strokes, the warmth of the cloth soothing against your skin.

When the towel grazes your still-sensitive folds, you flinch a little.

“Shh,” Valko soothes, caressing your thigh with his free hand. “Just a little more.”

He finishes with the same tender care, then leans down and presses a soft kiss to the inside of your knee.

“There,” he says, tossing the towel aside. “All clean.”

He crawls back up the bed and pulls you into his arms again, tucking your head under his chin. One hand starts slowly stroking up and down your back, warm and steady.

He murmurs your name against your hair, barely more than a breath. “You okay? Really?”

You nod, your cheek pressed to his chest. “Yeah… Just a little floaty.”

He makes a pleased sound and presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“Good,” he says quietly. “You were so beautiful like that. I loved every second of it.”

You smile against his skin, a little shy. “You didn’t have to clean me up, you know.”

“I wanted to.” His fingers keep tracing slow paths along your spine. “I like taking care of you.”

There’s a short, comfortable silence. Then he shifts just enough so he can look at you, his thumb brushing your cheek.

“You need anything?” he asks. “Water? Snacks? Or just me?”

You laugh softly and burrow closer. “Just you, baby.”

He chuckles and wraps both arms around you more securely.

“Alright then,” he says, settling back against the pillows with you. “You’ve got me.”