frank is so old fashioned when it comes to women and relationships, like he just seems like the type to do all the dirty work, will fix your car, build things for you, pay all the bills, etc etc and he wants you cute and ready waiting for him, always happy because you have nothing to worry about! daddy's got you :')
summary: the lads make john a hinge profile against his will, and to everyoneâs surprise, he matches with you within ninety seconds
cw: mdni, fem!reader, age gap (30/43), idk how hinge actually works tbh, john price the feminist, alcohol, insecurities, fluff, smut, oral f rec, piv (14.4k)
John has been irritable for months and it's getting worse.
He knows it the way you know a tooth is starting to rot from the inside, tongue prodding at it every hour.Â
On Wednesday, he reamed Johnny out for being three minutes late to the briefing. It was the kind of reaming that had everyone's eyes turned down into their coffees and files while Johnny stood in front at attention, toes squared, ears hot.
John went on and on, red-faced, telling him that his 'admin's a disgrace', and that he'd better 'get a fuckin' grip before you're explaining your timings to your old CO'.
Somewhere in the middle of it â around âdisgraceâ â John heard himself.
He finished the dress-down anyway. Ending on a firm threat of a year-long inventory assignment.
It was rough enough to watch that when the room cleared out, Simon hung back. He stayed in his seat, leaning back with his arms folded, eyes following John as he aggressively organized his paperwork at the front of the room,squaring stacks that were already square.
"You need somethin', Riley?" John asked, never looking up.
Simon's mouth was twisted beneath his balaclava as he weighed his options. He wasn't especially eager to be John's second victim of the day, but it'd been miserable for weeks with no stop in sight. In the end, he decided to be straightâ
"Y'need'a get laid, boss."
John's hands immediately froze.
That unyielding anger came up his chest right on schedule â insubordinate, out of line â and then couldn't quite find his footing in it because the truth was a trapdoor just under him.
His eyes flicked up and across the room, ears warming up just like Johnny's had an hour ago.
"Bloody ornery, you are," Simon went on. "'ave been."
Simon wasn't wrong, John knew that.
The work winds them all too tight â adrenaline that can't be spent, images that don't erase, choices made under duress that keep them questioning at three in the morning. And everyone's got a valve that lets the steam out. Johnny shouts his out at the football. Kyle has somewhere to be lately that he's cagey about, and Simon has whatever Simon has, no one asks.
And John drives home, shuts the door, and the house is quiet, his walls holding all the built-up pressure.
Ten months since his usual I'm-Home-Hookup found herself a steady bloke and stopped answering his calls. He'd told himself the whole time it was casual right up until it ended, when he learned it had actually been load-bearing.
And was that affecting his mood? Maybe.
His eyes narrowed on Simon and his jaw ticked at the hinge. He threw his chin toward the open door.
"Fuck off out've my briefin' room, Lieutenant."
Simon's chair scraped across the linoleum when he stood, sighing through the cloth over his face.
"I jus' thinkâ"
"OUT."
The door clicked shut behind him, and John stood in the silence for a moment.
Then he squared the stacks again.
ââ
Johnny never volunteers to bring the beer, yet here he is at half seven with a box of glass bottles rattling on his shoulder, grinning under the porch light. Behind him, the headcount runs long by one. Three men when John only agreed to two. Kyle with a canvas bag full of crisps. Simon at the back, hands sunk in his pockets.
"Thought it was just you and Garrick?"
"Aye, well." Johnny shoulders past him into the hall, close enough that their shirts drag. "Simon heard there was football."
"Simon doesn't care about football," John retorts as the rest of them push their way inside.
"I care 'bout football," Simon lies through a simper no one can see, wiping his boots on the mat.
Unfortunately for John, his team is undoubtedly adept at what they've trained in and he doesnât always catch when thereâs fuckery afoot.
Under his nose, in his very own home, Johnny distracts him with talk about the match while Kyle lifts his phone from the side table just beside his elbow. Simon waits an appropriate amount of time before slipping away to the kitchen to guess the passcode, which he manages in one go.
"Gonna have to talk to him 'bout thatâŠ" Kyle mumbles as he swipes to the App Store.
"He textin' anyone?" Simon cranes his neck over Kyle's shoulder. "He used tâsee thaâ one bird⊠wot was her nameâŠ?"
"Leah," Kyle answers flatly. "Laura?" he second-guesses as he thumbs in the passcode again to approve the install: Hinge Dating App. "M'not lookin' at his texts, mate. Be lucky he doesn't RTU us just for this. Plus, I think he said she started seeing someâ"
"ây'know, Cap," Johnny's voice cuts through, a warning for the men in the kitchen. "I can get ye another beer, y'don't haveâŠ"
Simon and Kyle glance up from where they've leaned against the counter and freeze when John appears in the doorway, face screwed with suspicion. His eyes flick between the phone in Kyle's grasp and the faces lit behind it.
His initial thought is that the phone's got a nice, durable case, proper practical. His second thought is to start patting down his pockets with his free hand â which all turn up empty.
The room's gone still, a collective held breath to see which way the tension'll break.
"That's my phone."
"It is," Kyle agrees carefully.
Johnny appears at John's shoulder, squeezing past into the kitchen. "Cap, before you startâ"
"When'd you nick it?" His eyes accurately settle on Kyle, the slickest of the bunch.
"Doesn't matter when, sir. We justâ"
"It matters to me." John puts his empty beer bottle on the table and uses both hands now to pat down his pockets a second time, not quite believing his own team got the drop on him. "Professionally speakin',â he mumbles.Â
"Wot really needs addressin' is your passcode," Simon grumbles. "0-0-0-6?"
"Christ," Johnny snickers.
John chooses to ignore them and holds his hand out, palm up. But Kyle doesn't fork it over. Instead, he looks back at the screen and watches the progress ring around the icon close in on itself.
"What're we doin' right now?" John presses, stepping closer.
"Jus' take a seat, boss," Simon suggests, gesturing to the kitchen table just as Johnny yanks a chair out, beaming something mischievous.
John looks at the chair, then looks at Johnny.
"Think I'll stand."
"Suit yourself," Johnny spins the chair around and drops into it, arms folding over the back.
Kyle checks the screen one more time before turning it around. A new little white icon sits on John's home screen, Kyle points at it. John squints to read the little letters beneath it.
"What's Hinge?"
"It's a dating app," Kyle answers and places the phone on the table.
A dating appâŠ.
Grown adults sorting through each other like they're shopping. Swipe, tap, Add to Cart. He's heard the lads chat about it for years â the 'ghosting', the games â and always thought: thank god that's not me.
Under the simmering contempt, the idea of typing hello to a stranger who might simply never reply (left on read, whatever ungodly hour of the soul that phrase was invented in) shoots something cold through him.
There's a beat of hesitation before his eyes snap to Simon, the scowl on his face carrying the weight of Wednesday's interaction.
"This is you, then?"
"Team effort," Simon corrects without a flicker of shame.
"It's no' the dodgy kind of app, it's for relationships," Johnny explains. "Says so in their slogan: 'designed to be deleted'. You make a profile, upload a few pics, answer someâ"
"I know how online dating works, MacTavish."
Johnny squints. "Do ye, though?"
"You've been rank for months, sir." Kyle tells it plainly. "Whole teams sayin' it."
John feels like heâs been put on a rinse cycle in the wash. His nostrils flare as he snuffs his irritation back down his chest lest he prove them right in his own kitchen.Â
"So that's what all this is? A Friday night welfare check?"
"It's no' a welfare check," Johnny defends poorly, voice cracking at a pitch too high.
"It's a bit of a welfare check," Kyle shrugs.
"Right." John reaches for his phone. "Well, thanks for the concern, lads. Truly. Warms the heart."
Kyle slides it just out of reach. "Just give it a shot, sir," he implores. "Try it for the weekend. If you still hate it, I'll delete it and we'll never bring it up again."
John's chin tucks to his chest and he glowers at him from under his deeply furrowed brow. "You'll delete it now," he orders, except these men have never listened to him off the field.
"I could," he agrees, wrestling a smirk. "And you can keep spending your Friday nights with us."
It's meant as a joke. It doesn't land as one.
Because John looks around at the three of them and knows in a few hours their engines will fade down the street and that hulking quiet will pour back in, the one he keeps calling peace.Â
So⊠he pulls out a chair.
Simon pushes off the counter and Johnny's grin pulls wider.
"Go on," John surrenders, falling into the seat with a sigh. He does not look at any of their faces because whatever's on themâs going to make him cross.Â
Chairs scrape and Kyle settles down at Johnâs arm, Simon looms over them from behind, all crowded around the one screen.
The basics go quick â name, age, pronouns. Kyle finds his rhythm working through the questions.
"Drinks? Socially. Smokes�" Kyle seesaws his head a bit. "We'll say no."
"I smoke cigars," John protests.
"That's a personality trait, not a habit." Kyle scrolls. "Height?"
"Six-two," Johnny says immediately.
"He's six-foot," Simon corrects.
"Aye, and on the app he's six-two."
Kyle selects 6'. "Occupation?"
That one hangs in the air a bit longer than the rest, and John doesn't quite know why. His hands turn palm-up on the table with the question.
"Consultant," Simon offers.
"Civil servant," Kyle tries.
"Military," John answers irritably off the edge of a scoff.
Three sets of eyes come up off the phone â Johnny's eyebrows go high, Kyle's mouth opens to argue, Simon tilts his head just enough, as if to say: if you say so.
"It's not a state secret that I serve," John says, eyebrows pulling close with confusion.
Kyle types it despite whatever he's got hanging on the tip of his tongue. And in the little silence afterward, the obvious question finally comes to mind.
"What've you lot got on yours, then?"
The simple question sends a tidal wave of overlapping chatter and excuses over the table.
"Ah, wellâ" Johnny starts.
"I actuallyâ" Kyle says, at the same time.
"Different app," Simon adds, under both of them.
"âsee, it depends," Johnny goes on, trying to gain volume over the others, "I like to keep the profile fresh. Rotate the pics, the bioâ"
"âdon't have one," Kyle is saying over the top of him, "because me and Amara areâ well, it's not official-official, but it's a thing, soâ"
"Been usin' Feeld," Simon finishes.
When the wave recedes, the full picture comes into view: Johnny reinvents himself on a cycle, Kyle has Amara, mentioned now for the first time ever. And Simonâ
"What's Feeld?" John asks.
"No," Kyle says before the question has its punctuation, quick and stern, head whipping back and forth. âAbsolutely not. We'll talk about that another time."
"It's not for you," Simon adds.
"Right," he mumbles, taking a pull of his beer, settling back against the chair. He inhales and looks off at the window. "M'glad it's amateurs running my love life."
"Enthusiasts," Johnny corrects.
The rest goes quicker.
"What kind of connection?" Kyle reads. "Options are: Long-term. Short-term. Short-term, open to long. Long-term, open to short."
"Short, open to long," John answers without hesitation.
Johnny opens his mouth but Simon glares at him just as quickly through his ragged eyeholes, and he closes it without a word.
His profile photos have to come off the lads' phones since John's camera roll offers nothing but screenshots of maps, car parts, and three random pictures of the K9, Xena, from another unit on base (heâs been trying to snatch her for his own team for months).
He watches the photos of himself go by and it's a strange census, seeing a year of himself entirely through other people's eyes. Makes him queasy, so he takes another bitter gulp to wash the feeling out.Â
There's a short argument about the proper order the pictures should be presented, Johnny wins.
After, Kyle starts explaining what a good prompt does, how to choose one. He hardly gets any words out before John's holding his hand out the same way he did half an hour ago.
"I'll do these myself."
This time, Kyle hands the phone over.
The lads drift to the far end of the table to finally give John the space they've neglected to all night.Â
Fresh beers are cracked open and a bag of crisps demolished as they fold into their own conversations. The match theyâve been ignoring comes first, then Amara, whom Kyle spends five minutes refusing to elaborate on, and somewhere in there Simon mentions an oddities shop heâs been meaning to stop by.
John sits with his reading glasses on, typing slowly, brows low in concentration.
When he finally sets the phone down, all three of them quickly move behind him.
"So, their profile comes up on screen," Kyle reaches over to demonstrate. "Have a look, read the bio. If you wanna chat to her, tap the heart. If you don't, hit the X, and you'll never see her again. Simple."
The first woman is on a beach holding a cocktail the size of a fishbowl. X.
"Okaay," Kyle drawls, mouth pulling straight. "Sure. Was there a reason, orâŠ"
"No."
The next woman is at a festival covered in glitter and feathers. X.
So is the one after. X.
A woman in her work scrubs. X.
A woman holding a child. X.
A woman in a bikini on a lake (his eyes linger). X.
It's not that they're not lovely. Some of them probably are. But every picture is a performance â arms out, teeth out, look how much fun I am. Advertisements.
"The fish," Johnny mourns as another goes down, a woman on a small boat holding a big trout up. "Cap, she was fishin'. You love fishin'!"
"Wasn't her fish," he grumbles under his breath.
"Whose fish d'you reckon, then?"
"Bloke she cropped out," Simon says, and John tips the neck of his beer toward him.
"Give me criteria," Kyle pleads, both hands on the back of John's chair, gripping with restraint. "I can work with criteria."
"He's calibratin'," Simon says. "Let 'im work it out."
Simon's giving him too much credit. He's not calibrating. He's not reading these women, he's not even really looking at them. Each X is just the whole premise being declined, proof accumulating that he was right about the app all along, and if the profiles run out, well, he tried. Right? The lads witnessed it. He can get back to his peace with a clearâ
His thumb stops and hovers, then pulls back to the outer edge of the phone case.
Huh.Â
There you are.
Up a trail somewhere, hills of green grass rolling behind you, hood half-blown off, one hand trying to catch it. You're laughing at whoever's taking the picture, smile wide.
John's not sure he's ever seen eyes twinkle before, but that must be what yours are doing, shimmering even under overcast.
You're very pretty.
For the first time, John taps the profile open.
30. Executive Assistant. 4 Miles Away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.
Executive Assistant, so you likely work too much. That's familiar to him, something he understands inside-out.Â
There's a photo of you in office clothes at what looks like a retirement party, smile an edge more saccharine than the one on the hill.
Another of you criss-cross on the floor, a black and caramel cat stretched out and content in your lap, belly-up. Shirt low cut, cleavage to feast on. He is sixty percent gentleman about how long he looks at it.
And at the bottom:
The best way to ask me out is by: using words.
I recently discovered that: I'm better in person than I am on here.
John huffs an amusement through his nose. He spent more time on his profile than he thinks you spent on yours. Seems like you're tired of the same things he's already tired of, one night in.
Behind him, the lads have gone silent, holding their breath.
John taps the heart and his screen goes bright with a wash of confetti, both your photos ringed together:
IT'S A MATCH!
"Oh, shit, she already matched with you," Kyle cranes his neck closer to inspect.
"Gimme that." Johnny plucks the phone from John's hand. "No way," he scoffs. "Fuckin' fit. A bit young for you, Cap, aye?" He looks at John, then back at the screen like the two won't reconcile in his brain.
"Careful," John warns mildly.
Johnny hands the phone back, muttering something in Scots only Simon could translate.
John doesn't hear much of it anyway. He's already looking at your photo again.
Better in person.
Yeah. He'd bet you are.
"Right, sir," Kyle says. "Now we wait. Midday tomorrow the earliest. Message her any sooner and it reads keen."
"It'd be accurate," he deadpans.
"There's rules, Cap," Johnny says. "No messagin' straight away, no double-textin', keep a wee bit of mystery."
John turns in his chair with a scowl to look up at the three of them.
"So, you're tellin' me a woman says she's interested in you and you⊠make her wait?"
Silence.
"I mean, when you put it like thatâŠ"
"Yeah, s'a bit fuckin' rude, innit?" John derides, turning back around.
He's already typing, screen tipped away.
"Sir," Kyle pleads. "At least let us read it."
"This is a two person conversation, not a five piece."
He presses send and quickly pockets the phone.
ââ
Four miles away, a phone lights upâŠ
ââ
Your windows are open to the last of a long evening, warm air breezing through the sheer curtains. Youâre finally on the couch. Shower taken, its heat still damp in your skin. A glass of off-dry riesling teeters precariously on the arm, cold from the fridge and sweating through its stemless glass.
Twix is a puddled tortoiseshell furnace against your thigh, one paw twitching through a dream, her purr winding down as she drops deeper. And on the telly, Last Christmas is on. You've seen it a dozen times, that's why you leave it â it's mindless.
The second glass goes down easier than the first, tart on your tongue, blooming warm in your belly and over your cheeks.
Somewhere in the lull, your thumb opens Hinge, a reflex to being bored. You don't really expect anything from it anymore.Â
A man holding a fish, sunglasses on. X.
A man whose photos are all group shots. X.
A man who is 6'2" and it's his entire personality. X.
Your thumb knows the rhythm without you.
The next profile slides into view and you pause, thumb hovering.
He's handsome in that sort of rugged, classic way. His beard is salted at the edges, lines beside his eyes creased deep, cheeks faintly rosy. He's mid-laugh at what looks like a Christmas party, red and green tinsel drooping off the beams behind him; head slightly tipped, one heavy hand flat on the table. He's not cackling, you can tell it's more reserved, but it's probably still more than he usually offers.
John. 43. Military. Four miles away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.
The one thing you should know about me is: I'm gone a lot for work. But when I'm home, I'm home.
Most men bury the catch in the fine print, but he's leading with it.
You don't know yet whether that's honesty or efficiency. You suspect that with him they might be the same thing.
His second photo is of him on the tailgate of some enormous vehicle, fatigues taut over his thighs, thumbs hooked through his bulky khaki plate carrier, looking up from under the brim of his hat.
Two truths and a lie: I've never seen Star Wars. I have a lie-in every Sunday. I've had tea with a warlord.
The sky is pink with the morning in his third picture. He's thigh-deep in a lake, turned away from the camera entirely. (You're noticing it's a common theme that he does not look at the camera for any photo.) The sunlight catches the breadth of his back and shoulders, cotton molded around muscle.
Don't hate me if I: call instead of text. It's quicker.
You giggle just enough that Twix's ear rotates toward you in reproach.
It's kinda cute when older men put more effort into their profiles.
But the alarm is already going off somewhere in the back of your skull â too good, probably old photos, probably has a wife â it has never once failed to ring. But you're two glasses in, and the heart really costs nothing even if the conversation seems off.
You tap it, and put the phone facedown on your thigh.
On the telly, Emilia Clarke is busy falling for a man you happen to know has been dead the entire film. You mouth one of his lines along with him, not really invested, wine warm in your chest, Twix breathing slow against your leg.
Then your phone buzzes against you once, and you ignore it, because you have rules about lunging for male attention. But then it buzzes again, and, well, you just turn it over to have a look. Maybe it's your mum, you don't know!
HINGE: You and John matched!
HINGE: 1 New Message
You open it.
Evening. Not much good at using the app, but I really wanted to chat to you. How's your Friday night?
You hum to yourself curiously. Not an innuendo or emoji in sight.
i actually volunteer helping the elderly with technology, happy to walk you through it.
friday's been average. wine and a movie on the couch. how's yours?
You put the phone back down and focus on the film, but his reply comes within the minute.
Ouch. Friday's alright. The lads invited themselves round for the match. Still here, unfortunately.
you're messaging me with guests in the house? terrible host.
They invited themselves. Hosting rules don't apply.
What movie are you watching?
You glance at the telly where a dead man is mid-song and weigh lying about it.
You could be watching anything. You could pick something more interesting, something with a deep lesson, educational, historical, something niche to come off cool and worldly.
you're not allowed to judge me.
Judging is sort of my life's work, but I'll do my best.
You snort. Twix relocates to the far cushion in protest.
it's called 'last christmas'. i don't know why it's on in july, but i've probably seen it twelve times. it's good background noise.
The reply takes slightly longer this time. You picture him all big hands, small phone, and then stop picturing him, because that's how it starts.
Twelve times? Must be decent.
it's objectively not. the love interest is dead the entire film lol
Dead?
it's a twist. it's festive!
You and I have very different definitions for "festive". I've got a few questions. But I'll save them.
You smile.
so, your lake photo. did you catch anything that day?
Not a thing.
hours in freezing water for zero fish?!
The fish aren't the point.
do tell, what's the point?
The mist off the water. The quiet. The no one expecting anything from you.
It's the first real answer a man has given you on this app in, like, six months.Â
You feel oddly like you've been handed something and should keep your hands still so it doesn't spook.
that actually sounds really peaceful.
i've never been fishing, but i do love nature in the mornings. i have a trail by me that i like to trek early on weekends.
That the trail from your photo?
it is! my best friend actually made me go that day, i wasn't in the mood. complained the whole way.
Doesn't show.
Good photo of you.
Beautiful, actually.
You stare at the screen and feel warmth tickling your nape, sliding lower, molten and slow.Â
Every instinct you have reaches for deflection.
oh! thank you. the wind did most of the work lol
No it didn't.
â and he just takes the deflection off you, like being returned something you've dropped. You press the cool curve of the wine glass against your cheek and remind yourself, sternly, that this is a stranger on the internet.
well, for the record your photo's not bad either. handsome smile.
Somewhere past ten, you notice the conversation keeps not ending.Â
how long have you been on hinge?
It's my first night, actually.
first night???
Profile's about two hours old.
yikes, so i'm just the practice woman then, huh?
Practice implies I'm planning to do this again.
ââ
John's still at the kitchen table, reading glasses pushed up into his hair now, beer gone warm at his elbow. The lads have migrated to the living room doorway â close enough to monitor, far enough to pretend they aren't.
He knows they're watching, and he's been watched by better.
What he can't seem to manage is his fuckin' face â it keeps doing things beyond his control, and every time your reply comes he has to reel it back to neutral, and he can tell by the quality of the silence behind him that he's not reeling nearly fast enough.
"He's smilin' again," Johnny murmurs, elbowing Simon in the ribs.
"Shameless," John mumbles, without looking up. "All of you."
He's typing when the floor creaks jus to his left. When he glances up, Johnny has drifted to his shoulder under the pretense of collecting empties.
"Need another, Cap?"
"I need you three feet back, MacTavish," he replies, thumbs tapping away.
A minute later it's Kyle from the doorway, "If she asks about hobbies, don't lead with the cigars. They poll badly amongst females."
"'Females'?" John grimaces, face down, thumbs still at it. "Say it with me Garrick, 'women'."
Then Simon, who hasn't moved or spoken in twenty minutes, asks, "Wot's she sayin', then?"
John rolls his eyes and sets the phone face-down, pushing himself up out of the chair.
"Time to go, lads," he says with an obviously fake smile, gesturing his arm out towards his front door. "Goodnight."
"It's no' even eleven oclock!" Johnny complains.
"Then the night's still young. Go on, fuck off."
They go â bottles gathered, snacks cleaned up, Simon herding Johnny down the hall as heâs still negotiating.
Then their engines fade down the street, and the quiet pours back in, right on schedule. Except tonight it arrives and there's a phone lit on his kitchen table with your name on it, and the quiet â for the first time in a long while â has to wait.
He locks up, kills the TV, then drops into his armchair with the phone already unlocked.
did the football finish? who won?
He glances at the dead telly. Hasn't a clue.Â
Couldn't tell you.
omg lol you had ONE reason for guests tonight!
I got distracted.
by what? đ
I think you know by what.
Nothing comes back for a minute. He pictures you on your couch, that cat beside you, deciding what to do with it â and it occurs to him, mildly horrifying, that he's enjoying this. The wait. The little emoji with the halo, transparently unrepentant. He finds himself smiling at the ceiling like there's something written on it.
anyway!
Anyway.
He'll allow it: retreat granted. There's no rush.
The cat in your photo. Yours?
yes! thatâs twix. she's a menace.
Good name.
she prefers men that ignore her.
Then we'd get on fine. I'm very good at ignoring cats.
It goes on just like that: easy.
You ask if he's a morning person and learn he's up at five most days by choice; he learns you consider five the middle of the night.
He talks about the Brecon Beacons â the actual Beacons, the ones he loves, not the ones that nearly killed him at twenty-two. You tell him you've always wanted to go, and he catches himself already planning the route he'd take you. Then quickly chastises himself.Â
How's the average Friday held up?
certainly improved
Mine too.
He puts the phone on the arm of the chair and sits in his quiet house, and for once it doesnât feel so desolate.
ââ
The following morning he's up at five. He starts drinking his coffee at the counter, looking out the window over the sink, the sorbet summer sky bleeding morning.
He thinks of you before he can stop himself. Asleep, presumably, five being the middle of the night and all. Then he takes the coffee out to his back step for some fresh air.
He wonders if he was any good with the messaging last night. It's the longest he's ever sat with his phone in his hand, period. Let alone chatting with someone. There's no debrief for it, that's the trouble. No one to tell him whether âI got distracted.â read as charming or desperate.
He runs the entire two-hour exchange back over and over and finds no actionable errors, but remains unconvinced.
He goes for his run at six. The route climbs uphill around klick seven, and somewhere on the hill he thinks about your photo, your smile, your mouth. He wonders what you smell like, what you sound like when you're being sarcastic.Â
By noon he's under the Land Rover draining the old oil, and he catches himself pondering what you might do on a Saturday. Whether you slept in properly. Whether the cat allows it; he grew up with one himself and knows how demanding they can be when they're ready for a feeding.
He hasn't messaged yet and neither have you.
He couldn't say exactly why he's held off. Something the lads said about being keen, and rules, and mystery lodged somewhere he can't reach to dig it out. He's not normally a man that takes doctrine from Johnny MacTavish, and yet⊠here he is.Â
It's a stupid fuckin' rule.
The afternoon goes long and gets quiet in the old way.
The house at four o'clock has a particular acoustic he knows down to the plumbing, and today, for the first time, he notices himself noticing it. It never used to be so obvious. Years of Saturdays like this one and it took his phone going quiet for half a day to show him the loneliness so plainly.
By the evening he's got Chinese takeaway at the kitchen table, eating it straight from the carton, chopsticks shoveling fried noodles down his gullet while he does the crossword from the morning paper in his head.
That's when his phone lights up for the first time all day, buzzing three times in succession â he absolutely hates how quickly it's in his hand.
spent six hours wedding dress shopping with my best friend. i need a glass of wine and a lie down.
thought of you on the tube home
He reads the second message again.
Thought of you.Â
Heâd been drafting the same admission since noon and something in his chest going catastrophically hot.
are you still up? i know sundown is bedtime for your generation.
And there's the sarcasm.Â
Outside the window, the sun is â he checks â still up. Barely. He's got that going for him, at least.
Just in time. Was about to take my dentures out.
Thought about you as well.
He types the second line fast before he can be a coward about it. If you can say it, he can say it. Fair's fair.
I do have a question now though. It's not your wedding we're shopping for, is it? That'd be proper inconvenient for me.
lol no! maid of honor. today was purely supervisory.
don't really see myself getting married anyway.
the dresses were stunning though!
Heâs picking up on a pattern. Three messages arriving like one exhale â the vulnerable thing said flanked with distraction.Â
Nothing wrong with that.
Successful trip then? Or is there another six hours coming?
successful! she found it. there were tears and champagne.
what about you, how was your saturday?
Heâs had a day spent purposefully not doing the one thing he wanted to do.
Quiet. Nothing worth typing.
hm. sounds like you should ring me thenâŠ
He looks at that one for a moment and blinks, the inside of his cheek finds itself between his teeth.
For all their blabbering, the lads did not warn him about this bit. Not that he can't speak on the phone, he prefers it. You're essentially quoting his profile back at him. But he's been thinking about something since roughly the fourth time you crossed his mind today, and a phone call isn't the ask he's been building up to.
Could do.
Truthfully, though. I was just working up the courage to ask you for a drink.
Courage. He's used that word in citations, for men who ran toward gunfire, heroes. Now heâs using it to describe the act of asking a woman on a date, and the genuinely undignified part is that it's regrettably accurate.
Your reply takes a minute. He watches the dots start and stop, and start again. God, he's been shot at with less suspense.
Then your message comes through and it's just a number. Ten digits. It buzzes in his hand once more.
for logistics.
He stares at it for a beat and then he's up out of his seat. Takeaway abandoned, at the fridge with his phone still in one hand, snapping the cap off a beer on the lip of the counter, and then he's out the back door into the garden where the evening's gone navy and the airâs still warm from the day.
He saves your number first. Then he stands there a moment, beer sweating in one hand, thumb over the call button in the other.
ââ
Youâve just tipped the bottle over your glass when the phone starts buzzing against the counter.
Unknown Number. Local.
âJohn?â
âEveninâ.â
Fuck.Â
His voice lands an octave lower than you were braced for. A honeyed gravel that seeps into your ear and slides thick over your spine, pooling somewhere behind your ribs.
You set the bottle down before you drop it.
âSo you actually do ring,â you manage.
âSaid so on the profile, I think.â
âI half thought it was a bit.â
âI donât really do bits.â
âNo,â you say through a grin, picking up your glass and drifting toward the couch. You drop your voice into a gravelly impression of him: âYouâre a very serious man.â
The laugh that comes down the line is quiet â more breath than sound, warm at the bottom of it, like youâve caught him somewhere he doesnât usually go.
âThat meant to be me?â
âItâs uncanny, I know.â
The line goes quiet a moment â the good kind, neither of you rushing to fill it â and in it you catch the sounds of his side: a whirl of breeze, the faint ring of a glass set down on iron. Heâs outside. You picture a tidy yard with tall dark hedges, a big man pacing slowly with a beer.
âAm I interruptinâ the wine?â
âThe wine and I are happy to share the time.â
âGood.â There's a pause that you can hear his smile in. âI have a beer out here. Seemed only fair weâre both suffering the same.â
âAre we having our drink right now? Is this it?â
âNo,â he says immediately, unamused even â which is very amusing for you. âThis one doesnât count.â
The speed of his reply sends something fizzing under your sternum. You tuck your feet up under yourself and take a slow sip.
âNo?â you tease.
âI had imagined Iâd see your face.â
âBeen imagining, have you?â
You are very glad he cannot see your face right now. Cheeks warm and strained, you press the cool of the wine glass briefly against them in turns
âNothinâ mucky if thatâs what youâre gettinâ at.â
âMm, no, 'course not. Youâve been a proper gentleman. Havenât even thrown me a cheeky pick-up line.â
âI could workshop somethinâ for you if youâd like.â
âNo thanks,â you giggle into your glass. âIt was a relief when I opened your first message and it wasnât a riddles-three about your dick.â
You can hear his scoff and recoil on the other end.
âIs that what itâs come to?â
âUnfortunately.â
Thereâs a short silence youâd swear is him coming to terms with the modern world, and you bite down on a smile.
âRight,â he says, and there's a controlled shift in his voice. âMy question...â
Your stomach does a free-fall, nauseating and fluttery, fifteen again on the Detonator at Thorpe Park.
âMm?â you hum around a sip, deeply casual, a woman entirely unbothered, curled so tight around the phone that Twix doesnât have a leg to lie on.
âThereâs a pub about halfway between us, Lamb & Flag. Iâd like to take you for that drink tomorrow. Will you come?â
Then you remember what tomorrow is and sigh, immediately irritated with your whole family.
âUgh, I want to say yes,â you sulk. âBut Iâve got Sunday dinner with my family tomorrow. My mum would hunt me for sport if I flaked.â
âFair. Wouldnât want that on my conscience.â
âI could do a weeknight? After work?â
Thereâs a pause on his end.
âIâd rather not promise you a weeknight,â he admits. âI rarely get away on time, and Iâm not startinâ this by standin' you up.â
You go quiet for a beat, you were ready for the usual âahh, well, weâll figure something outâ. But instead got a man mindful of your time; a unicorn, really.
âAlso fair. Andâ and thoughtful.â
âFriday, then?â he tries hopefully, you catch the small lean in his voice.
âFridayâs perfect,â you agree. âItâs a date!â
âIt is,â he agrees, smiling.
The conversation should end there but it doesn't.
You learn things no profile has a field for; that he talks slower than he types, that he hm's real low in his throat when heâs considering something, that when you make him laugh it rumbles, so rough at the bottom that you feel at the back of your knees.
Somewhere past the hour mark you stop scrutinizing the call for red flags and just talk, and you only notice youâve stopped when Twix jumps onto the couch and you realize youâve been lying down for a while, phone balanced on your ear like youâre seventeen.
Eventually, you yawn.
âRight,â he says, and you can hear him moving, standing up by the way he tries to muffle a stiff groan. âThatâs my cue.â
âAw, no! Iâm fine, really.â
âItâs late, love. And youâve got your family tomorrow.â
âTrue. And youâve got⊠whatever it is old men do on Sundays.â
âLie-in, according to my profile.â
âHa!â you bark, vindicated alone in your living room, having forgot about his little 'two truths and a lie'. âThatâs the lie, I bet. I donât think youâve ever had a lie-in in your life.â
A low sound of amusement rolls down the line. âGoodnight,â he says, declining to confirm.
âNight, John.â
You sit a minute in the amber shine of your lamp after the line goes dead, phone loose in your hand.
ââ
Sunday morning, you text him at 8:12 AM.
good morning. how was the lie-in?
Wouldnât know. Been up since five.
the lie confirmed!
He doesnât dignify it. You donât expect him to. You grin at your phone while you wait for the kettle to boil.
Your mum will later describe you, over dinner, as âsuspiciously cheerfulâ.
The day swallows you â the drive, the roast, your mumâs questions, your brotherâs kids. Itâs near ten when youâre finally home, shoes off, replying to the last thing heâd sent that morning.
survived. my mum sends her regards to whoever put me in a good mood. her words.
Regards received. Sleep well.
ââ
Monday morning, Johnâs at his desk with his coffee going cold because somewhere between the canteen and the walk to his office, his phone buzzed, and it was you and he hasnât stopped looking at it.Â
good morning :) big meeting today. does this say âpromote meâ or âshe triedâ?
[ PHOTO ATTACHMENT ]
You, in your hallway mirror â chin tipped, black short-sleeve blouse with a wide collar exposing the smooth skin of your upper chest and collar, grey pencil skirt stretched over the curve of your hips and thighs, one knee bent like youâd just been lowering your foot from fitting on your heel.
His eyes are stuck on the soft-looking flesh just above and between your knees when a rap lands on his door and forces a cough from his throat.
Johnny eases it open with Kyle behind him holding a folder, Simon's behind them both, holding nothing, not even a pretense.
His phone goes face-down on the desk at a compromising speed, shifting to sit up straigher.
Simonâs eyes go to Johnâs hand over the phone, then to his face before he leans in the doorway with his arms folded.
âMorninâ, Cap. Good weekend?â Johnny asks, falling into the side chair in front of the desk with a theatrical groan.
âFine.â
âAye? Do anythin'?â He smiles, waggling his eyebrows. âAnyone?â
âYouâve got thirty seconds to develop a work reason for being in my office, Sergeant.â
It's an empty threat and everyone in the room knows it.
Kyle sets the (empty) folder down and steps back behind Johnny. âHowâs it going, sir? Did you have any luck with Hinge?â
John could make them work for it. Heâd planned to. But all three of them are standing in front of him trying so hard to look casual itâs a wonder none of them have pulled something.
"Have a date Friday. Drinks."
Johnny is ready to blast out of his seat, but Kyle shoves him back down by the shoulders, digging his fingers into the pressure points on either side of his neck until he relents with a hiss.
"That's great. Same woman or�"
"The same."
âGood, good, good,â Johnny says, and means it â John can hear that he means it, he can also hear the restraint he's keeping from unloading shite advice.
âWe'll stop buy Saturday for the debrief,â Simon says, already turning around, and Kyle picks the folder back up like it had a purpose all along, and they file out the way they came.
"I'm not debriefing you on my date. Don't come!" John calls to them half-heartedly, but the door's already shutting on top of his words.Â
He turns the phone back over.
Promote you, he types.
You look lovely.
Your reply comes before heâs picked his pen back up.
well now the meeting feels easy. thank you x
He gets on with his morning, but by noon he suspects he's looked at that damn photo a dozen times.
ââ
The rest of the week goes standard. Your Tuesday runs long and his Wednesday runs longer, and the messages carry throughout it all. His texts arrive before your morning alarm even sounds, your replies go mid-commute â nothing heavy, just remaining in each other's orbit of interest as Friday chugs slowly into view.
Thursday night, near nine, he rings you, having first texted to ask if he could, which youâre beginning to understand is just how heâs built. Itâs a short call by your new standards with him. He only wanted to confirm youâre still on for the pub, but he had you grinning into your pillow until you fell asleep.
âââ
You leave work at five on the dot, and youâre in front of your open wardrobe by six.
The little black dress comes off the rail first. Goes back. Comes off again. Back. The floral one gets as far as your shoulders before you pull it off over your head and drop it on the bed, where Twix immediately sits on it.
The silky baby blue halterâs been hanging on the door since you bought it. You put it on like you hadnât already decided and do the tie at the back of your neck twice before the bow sits flat and neat. You pull on some jeans and rummage the closet for your chunky heels.Â
You press some strawberry perfume to your throat in the mirror and try to comfort the nerve-ridden woman in the reflection.
âItâs just a pub,â you tell her.Â
She doesnât seem convinced.Â
âââ
The pub is exactly the kind of place you imagine he'd frequent â quiet, all old mahogany and low brass lamps, no telly anywhere. You claim a stool, hook your heel over the rung, and decide not to order anything yet simply because it just feels polite to wait.
You're fifteen minutes early which means you're left alone with your anxieties.Â
The last of the sun lies across the bar top in warm stripes, and you trace one with a finger while you wait.Â
Youâve done this before, and it almost never goes how the phone promises. There was the guy whose photos were six years out of date. The one who spent both drinks talking about his ex and then sent a payment request for half the tab. The one who, two hours in, hadnât asked you a single question about yourself. And John has been too good to be true for a week, and you know how that saying ends. Tonight is where you find out how, find out he really is just a man between deployments looking for entertainment and a shag.
It felt good, though. All week. Being excited about something. Youâd forgotten the feeling.Â
You pick at the hangnail on your thumb until it stings.
You donât have to wait much longer for him.Â
He casts a shadow when he comes through the door. Broad. Tall. Smart olive polo fighting for its stitching across his chest and where it grips into his biceps. Heâs tidied his beard in comparison to his photos, hair less kempt in a purposeful way.
He scans the whole room before he finds you and stops looking anywhere else. He smiles tight and restrained, pleasant, but like heâs pacing himself, and by the time he crosses to you, your tongue has gone dry and whatever youâd planned to open with has shriveled away.
âHey,â he says.
âHi,â you smile.
He smells clean, a bit like pine and amber, and faintly like thereâs tobacco somewhere on his collar.
âYouâre early,â he adds, almost pleased.
âSo are you.â
âIâm always early.â His eyes drop to the empty bar top in front of you, then come back. âYou havenât ordered?â
You shake your head once, legs shifting to cross. âI wantedâ I was waiting for you.â
The lines beside his eyes deepen and he holds out his hand, says your name for the first time, and his hand swallows yours â big and dry and calloused across the palm where yours is soft â and you hold on a beat too long. He doesnât mention it. You add that to the list of things you like about him, which is getting embarrassing for something four minutes old.
âWhatâll you have?â
âUhm, whatever youâre having,â you decide.
He signals the bartender with two fingers and opens his mouth â and thereâs a brief second where he looks at you first, and you notice for the first time that his eyes are blue, and you get stuck, and it seems so does he. By the time he looks back, heâs lost the name of the beer heâs drunk here a dozen times.
âTwo of the, uhâ the local,â he manages.
You pretend not to notice. He knows you did.
He pulls out the stool beside you, and more of his cologne wafts around you as he sits, turned to face you, legs spread, one knee pointing between yours.
The pints arrive wet from the tap, and for a second neither of you says anything at all. You trace a bead of condensation down your glass.
âFunny, isnât it,â you offer, sheepish. âWeâve talked every day for a week, and the second weâre actually in front of each otherâŠâ You trail off, cheeks warming, eyes fixed on the fizz jumping over the rim of your beer.
âYouâre nervous?â he asks, a cheeky lilt on it.
âA bit, yeah. Arenât you?â
âNot at all.â
You squint at him. âI donât know if I buy that.â
âHm.â He takes a sip that lasts a little too long, and the tips of his ears have gone pink.
Your cheeks are doing about the same. You drink your beer â cold, hop-bitter, helping â and let him have his lie. Itâs a generous lie anyway. Itâs a lie shaped like a man trying, and youâve been handed far worse shapes.
âSo,â you start. âI havenât asked why youâre even on Hinge. You donât seem the type.â
âIâm not,â he chuckles, and offers nothing beyond it.
You wait. He just sips his beer. You hike a brow.
âThatâs it? Thatâs your answer?â
âWell, it wasnât my idea. The lads put me on it.â
âThe lads â your guys from work?â
âYeah.â
âThey what, talked you into it?â
âNo.â He turns his glass a degree. âThey nicked my phone and made the profile behind my back.â
âAnd what made them do that?â
He takes a moment with that one. He could give you a cover story â you can almost watch him weigh one â but then he doesnât.
âTheir assessment,â he laughs to himself, âwas that Iâd been⊠cranky. Needed gettinâ out of the house.â
âCranky?â you repeat, delighted.
âTheir exact words were a bit different.â
âHm.â You look at him â at ease, half a smile living in his beard, one arm resting along the bar. âYou donât seem cranky to me.â
âYeah, well. Guess they were right, then.â
Your neck goes hot and you have to look away from him. âWell,â you manage. âThey do good work, your committee.â
He huffs into his pint, and lets you recover.
âOkay, next one, then. Military.â You tip your glass toward him. âWhat do you actually do?â
He sets his beer down and you can see him carefully choosing which door to open. âWhat dâyou want to know?â
âI donât know. Whatâs your day look like?â
âDepends on the day. Paperwork, mostly. Meetings.â A beat. âSometimes we go away.â
âAway?â
âAway.â
âFor how long?â
âAs long as it takes.â
âDoingâŠ?â
âWhatever they need me to,â he says easily. âSânot me being mysterious. Iâd tell you if I could.â
âThat must be so strange, though. Having this wholeâ like, most of your life you canât talk about.â
âYou get used to it.â Then, because youâre still looking at him expectantly, not filling the space the way people usually do: âThereâs loads I can say. Ask me what six weeks of rain in a jungle smells like. Or what a month in the desert does to your skin.â
âWhatâs a month in the desert do to your skin?â
âNothing good, love,â he answers, shifting to face you better. âThe beardâs load-bearing.â
You laugh into your beer, and it makes the next one easier to ask.
âDo you like it? Like, the whole life of it?â
He goes quiet on that one. Longer than heâs gone quiet on anything else youâve asked. You can see him thinking on it.Â
âItâs what Iâm best at,â he says finally. And then, mostly to his glass: âItâs all Iâve known, really. Been doinâ it since sixteen.â
You turn that over. Thereâs a whole life folded up in that sentence and you notice you want to ask about all of it, which is not a thing youâve wanted to do with a man in a very long time.
The second beers arrive, and the conversation stops keeping to lanes â his lads and your best friend, the wedding in October, the neighbor whose bins are apparently a whole saga. Youâre midway through the story of your work feud when a birthday party arrives loud and glittering behind you, and John, without so much as glancing down, reaches down and hooks his hand under the edge of your stool, and pulls.
The whole thing drags six inches across the floor with you on it, your knee sliding neatly between his, close enough now that his voice drops to match the new distance. Youâre looking up at him, pulse tapping somewhere that has your thighs pressing together.Â
âGo on,â he encourages. âShe said what?â
It takes you a moment to find your place, but you go on.
The bar only gets louder from there, the birthday table multiplying, and when a booth opens up in the back corner, John tips his chin at it.
âGo grab that,â he says, turning back to the bar. âIâll get another round. Want the same?â
âActuallyââ and you hesitate out of nothing but habit, out of years of a manâs face going tight when you complicate an order, ââcould I do a vodka cranberry this time? I could get the roundââ
His brows furrow with something akin to bafflement, brief and genuine. âYou can have whatever youâd like,â he says, and suddenly you feel silly, your hand crossing to grip your elbow.
âNoâI know. I justââ
âWhatever youâd like,â he repeats, gentler. âAndââ he grimaces, like what heâs about to say pains him deeply. âDonât ever offer to pay on a date with me again. Properly wind me up, that will.â
âS-sorry,â you shake your head, like you can rattle the habit loose.
âNone of that either,â his eyes have gone crinkled at the corners, warm all the way through, and he raps two knuckles soft on the bar top like the matterâs settled. âVodka cranberry. Go, sit.â
âActuallyâ Iâm gonna go freshen up quickly. Two minutes.â
And you go, biting down on a smile, ears hot â embarrassed and looked after all at once, which is apparently a combination that works on you.
The bathroom is cooler than the bar and a quiet that leaves your ears ringing. You reapply some lipgloss and wash your hands and look at yourself in the dirty mirror, buzzing warm at the collarbones, eyes shiny, mouth half-curved.
Itâs going well.
Itâs going suspiciously well.
And every time itâs gone well before, this is exactly when you started hunting for the catch. So you dry your hands on the rough paper towel and leave before you can start.
Heâs in the booth when you come back, settled against the wall side, the last of the evening gone from the windows and the lamp above him glowing gold over the table. Your drink is waiting â pink, iced, a lime wedged on the rim â set neatly across the table at the seat opposite.
You look at the seat opposite.
Then you slide in beside him instead. Your thigh a heated inch from his, reaching across to relocate your drink.
You donât look at him, but you can tell Johnâs a bit curious of the arrangement. His arm comes up and settles along the back of the booth behind you, and it oddly feels like it was always going to end up here, his thumb grazing the bare skin of your shoulder. He picks up his beer with the other hand.
âComfortable?â he asks, low, and with entirely too much satisfaction.
âI am,â you say, and the first sip of the vodka cranberry is cold and tart and sweet all the way down, blooming behind your sternum right where his voice has been landing all night.
The booth is easier than the bar, somehow â closer, quieter, the birthday party more muted â and the talk drifts wherever it wants, his low laugh arriving against your shoulder through the arm behind you. At some point the lull comes; ice softening in your glass, his thumb resting an inch from your shoulder. And maybe itâs the vodka, or the arm, or the running list of things you like about him that youâd need both hands to count nowâ
âHow long ago was your last relationship? Like a real one.â
He takes a deep breath before answering. âHonest answer?â
âPreferably,â you giggle softly, and he smiles â most of it lost in the beard, enough that you wonder if there are dimples under there.
âLonger than what sounds good out loud,â he admits through the pull of it.Â
âSay it out loud anyway.â
âI was thirty-two. So, almost ten years ago.â
âTen.â
âMm.â
âA whole decade.â
âYou can stop countinâ the years to me at any time, love.â
âSorry, sorry.â Youâre grinning. He is too. âItâs just, quite the gap in romance.â
âIt went quick,â he says, and itâs a joke, and itâs also not. âWhat about you?â
âEnded about a year ago, we were together four.â
âMm.â
âIt was fine. Amicableâ mostly,â you shrug.Â
âMostly,â he repeats â not pushing, just setting the word down where you can see he heard it.
âMostly,â you confirm, and leave it there.
The ice ticks in your glass. And the next questionâs been sitting in your chest, so you take it out while youâre brave.
âCan I ask something and you not be offended?â
âStartinâ well,â he says, nodding on for you to continue.Â
You settle further into the booth and your shoulders press against his warm arm behind you, his fingers brushing over your shoulder. You lean your head back, turned to his face.Â
âWhatâs changed? Between thirty-two and now that youâre trying dating?â You mean just to ask the question, but you find yourself rambling on. âBecause if the honest answer is nothing, and this is justâ a-a hookup with, like, really good manners, thatâs fine. Genuinely. Iâd just rather know now.â
âFair,â he says. âAsked myself the same thing this week.â
âYeah? And what was the answer?â
âIâm tired of the quiet,â he starts, pausing as his eyes drift away in thought. They come back to you just as quick. âUsed to come home to it like a reward. Now it just feels⊠empty.â
Something in your chest slides sideways.
âSo, no. Not a hookup,â he continues with a breath. âBut I canât promise youâd be happy with the alternative either. I can be gone longer than Iâm home.â His thumb brushes along your shoulder, once, like an apology.
âGuess I wouldnât know unless I gave it a go.â
You say it lightly, and the exhale he lets out has a smile riding on it â and something in his shoulders comes down, some held thing you didnât notice until it let go.
âNo,â he agrees, low. âYou wouldnât.â
Youâre suddenly aware of the distance between you â or the lack of it. Somewhere between sitting down and the vodka youâve ended up awfully close: near enough to count the grey threaded through his beard, to catch the beer on his breath, near enough that the light between you has stopped reaching the space. Near enough that you can feel the heat coming off him, and your heartrate has picked up on it before the rest of you has.
His eyes flick down to your mouth. Quick â half a second, there and back â but you catch it, and it lands low in your stomach and stays.
Neither of you leans back.
And the pub carries on behind you â glasses clinking, the birthday table shouting, a till drawer slamming â all of it arriving from somewhere far off and dreamlike.
You move closer. Barely. Imperceptible. Your pulse is in your ears now, drumming out the last of your senseâ
âYou know,â you say, quiet, pitched for the six inches between you and nobody else, âyou can kiss me. If youâd like.â
âOh, yeah?â
âMhm,â you grin.
âWell,â he says, matching your volume, low enough that it lands somewhere below hearing, âI was going to be a gentleman about it. Wait til I walked you out.â His gaze drops to your mouth again, slower this time, no secret. âBut if youâd rather have it here in the booth, I wonât argue.â
âI suppose I could be patient.â
âMm,â he says, and doesnât move.
Somewhere in the world, presumably, time is passing.
His jaw shifts.Â
âIâll go pay the tab,â he decides.
And youâre both up and out of the booth quick, and you watch him stand at the bar with his back to you, shoulders set, and you press one cool knuckle to your own cheek and find it burning.
You two make it out the door.
The nightâs gone hazy and July-thick, and you get maybe four steps down the side of the pub with his hand a light at the small of your back before you glance up at him and he glances down.
Whatever was left of patient dies right there on the pavement.
He moves you.
One hand finding your hip, the other your jaw, and then your back meets brick, warm through the thin of your blouse and against your bare shoulders, and his mouth is on yours.
Whatever mindful version heâd planned for the end of his gentlemanly walk out must have been spent in the booth â this is the interest. The kiss opens on a low rumble out of his chest, one you feel travel through his ribs into yours, and his tongue slides against yours, all beer and him, and you grip the front of his shirt with both fists just incase the wall behind you vanishes.
He kisses you thoroughly, his beard catching along your chin, a chafe you know youâll feel tomorrow. A thigh slots half between yours, not pushing, not touching, but itâs not any less inviting. You could bare down on it, get the friction your body is craving, heâd let you, but you restrain yourself. His thumb strokes a slow line along your jaw in obscene contrast to what his mouth is doing â and it blooms down through you, fervid, liquescent.
He pulls back just far enough to breathe â forehead near yours, both of you loud with catching your breath â and when you open your eyes his are dark.
âVery gentlemanly,â you croon.
âI walked you out first, yeah?â he says, unrepentant.
You giggle against his mouth, and he claims it for himself with one more gentle kiss, and then he steps back a seemly distance, hand smoothing once down over his beard, shoulders resetting, breath evening out, everything going back in its place except his eyes.
âWalk me home?â you ask.
âI drove. Iâll give you a lift.â
You look up at him, all vodka-warm and enjoying yourself. âWell, just so you know, I share my location with my best friend and she knows exactly what pub Iâm at, and has your name and photo, soââ
âGood,â he replies, no hesitation. âSmart girl. Keep it that way.â He finds his keys, fishing them out of his pocket. âIâm taking you straight home. You have my word.â
He draws an X over his heart, your lipgloss shining at the corner of his crooked mouth.Â
ââ
The car smells like-new â clean upholstery and faintly of engine oil, everything squared away, nothing rolling around in the footwells.
The drive is short. The radio murmurs. His hand rests easy on the gearstick a few inches from your knee â close enough that you spend two full streets aware of nothing else â and the streetlights slide over him in slow bars, catching the grey at his temple and the small satisfied set of his mouth.Â
The kiss is still thrumming under your skin like a struck glass, low in your belly, at the back of your knees â and you catch yourself doing the thing you swore off doing: imagining forward. Him in your doorway. Him in your kitchen on the weekend. Him coming home from wherever away is and it being your door heâÂ
You look out the window. Four miles has never taken so long.
He pulls up outside your building and sets the handbrake, and the engine idles, and neither of you move.
The dashboard glow makes everything blue.Â
You want to ask him up. That's not the question; that got settled somewhere around the second kiss in the alley, possibly earlier, possibly around the moment he walked into the pub, or whatever. But there's the other thing you can't evict from your head: do you really want to sleep with him on the first date?
"So," you say.
"SoâŠâ
You look at him â streetlight in the grey of his beard, arm along the wheel, heâs in absolutely no hurry to resolve you.
"Did you have a good time tonight?"
His head turns. There's a beat where he just looks at you, and you watch him physically decide not to make a joke of it.
"Yes. Best night I've had in a while," he says.Â
"Would youâ" and god, you're thirty years old and your heart is doing this anyway, "âwant to see me again? Like this?"
"Was already plannin' to ask you to dinner." A small crease starts at the corner of his eye. "Was workin' out whether to do it now or ring you tomorrow, so I didn't seem overlyâ"
"Keen?"
"Keen," he confirms, gravely, like the word's been a burden to him all week.
And that lands warm and the relief does something reckless to your mouth, which is that it stops guarding it.
"Okay. Then I'm going to say something, but you can't look at me while I say it."
âRight.â He scrubs a hand over his twitching lips and looks out the windshield, obedient.
"I want to ask you up."
"Mm."
"And I'm having a whole debate about it."
"I can hear it," he says. "Been losin' to the engine for about a minute now."
"Justâ,â you sigh, ââshut up." But you're smiling at the dashboard. "It's justâ I spent all week wondering if this was a hookup thing for you. And you answered that, and I believe you, I do. But there's this small, paranoid part of me that's like, well, that's exactly what a man would say at the pub, isn't it? And then there's this other, stupider part that thinks if you come up, you'llâ" you take a deep breath, your fingers hooking into each other on your lap, and make yourself finish it, "âthink less of me. First date and all."
He's quiet for a second, lips pursing.Â
âCan I look at you now?â he tries.
âYeah.â
"You want to know where I'm actually at?"
"Truly just desperate for a man to be honest so I know what headspace to put myself in."
âAlright.â He shifts to face you, wrist still hanging over the wheel. âI want to come up. Badly, if you want some extra honesty.â
The badly goes straight between your thighs.
âOkay,â you manage. âNoted.â
âI havenât lied to you once tonight. And Iâm takinâ you to dinner whether I come up or not.â
âAnd, likeâ you wouldnât thinkââ
âThink less of you?â He frowns, like the mathâs not mathing. âFor doinâ the same thing Iâd be doing? Together?â
âWhen you put it like thatâŠâ
âFor what itâs worth, Iâm sat here havinâ a version of the same debate. Been out of this a long time. Didnât want you thinkinâ thatâs all I came for. So if youâd rather I kiss you at the door and drive home, Iâll do that and consider it a perfect evening.â
And maybe itâs the ease of him, the total absence of pressure youâre always braced for on nights like this, that settles it for you.Â
âWould you like to come up?â
ââ
The stairwell smells of somebody's late dinner and warm dust, the day's heat still trapped in it, and you take the stairs ahead of him to the second floor.
John is a gentleman.
John has been a gentleman all night.
John gives himself the length of one flight of stairs off the clock â the sway of you in those jeans, the shift and give of you with every step, the smooth line of your bare shoulders under the halter's little bow â and by the landing he's a gentleman again, and if you felt his eyes like a brand on you, and by the half-smirk you throw over your shoulder you did, neither of you says a word about it.
Your flat smells like you â the perfume he got to know at the pub, but underneath it, clean laundry, a candle burned down sometime this week â and a blur of black-and-caramel bolts across the living room and vanishes down the hall before he can so much as get a look at her.
"That was Twix," you say, her paws still pattering away. "She'll start her background check and circle back."
"Sensible."
And then the two of you are standing in your living room with the whole carâs worth of honesty sitting in the middle of the floor, and you look at him, and look at the kitchen, and say:
"Do you want a drink? I have wine. Or, um. Tea? I might have a beer fromâ"
"I'm alright," his mouth pulls at one side.Â
"Water? I'm gonna have water."
"Then I'll have water," he says like heâs surrendering.Â
He watches you go â and he could laugh, not at you, but because he knows exactly what heâs looking at. The two of you agreed in plain English on why heâs standing here, and now youâre in your kitchen filling glasses neither of you want, and wiping down a counter that, from where heâs stood, was already clean.Â
So he gives you room. Settles against the arm of the couch, takes a slow lap of your shelf with his eyes â you and a woman he guesses is the October bride, you on a hike somewhere sunny, you and Twix bravely on the balcony â and he wants you the whole time, low and patient, in his back teeth, but doesnât move on it.
 Your pace. Your move.
You come back with the waters, and hand him his, and hold your own in both hands like you might drop it. He takes a sip, looks at you over the rim of it.
âYouâre nervous,â he says.
âNot at all.â
âMm.â He nods slowly, deeply unconvinced and taking a page from your own book. âDonât know if I buy that.â
He watches it land, watches the laugh come up out of you before you can stop it, head tipping back, throat bare, and half your nerves seem to leave with it.
He likes that.Â
He sets his glass down. Then, gently, he takes yours out of your mid-fidget hands and sets it down too â he tips your chin up with one knuckle, and kisses you.
Easy-like, cold from the water, cranberry still faint on your tongue, your breath catches once against his mouth and then lets go. Your hands slide flat up his chest and stop over his heart â which is going quicker than heâd care to admit, and he feels the exact moment you find it out, the little hum of discovery you make.
When you pull back to look at him, whatever nerves were left in you are gone from your eyes, and theyâre twinkly a lot like the first photo he ever saw of you.Â
You take his hand off your waist, lace it through yours, and guide him backward toward the short hall.
In your bedroom he finds the tie of your halter at the back of your neck and pauses with the ends between his fingers, silk warm from your body. One pull and it gives, the fabric sighing loose, and he follows it slide down with his eyes first, then his mouth â the slope of your throat, over your shoulder, then the soft skin below your ear that tastes of strawberry perfume and salt. His beard drags over your neck and a shiver flows through you so he does it again, slower. You shiver harder, fingers curling into the front of his polo.
Good.
You tug the hem of his shirt up and he reaches back, pulls it off over his head one-handed, and drops it somewhere heâll look for later. He unhooks your bra just as easily, and when your palms spread into the coarse hair over his bare chest and down his toned stomach, the muscle jumps under your fingertips, he hears his own breath go rough.
âOkay,â you say, a little wonder in it. âWow, yeah, thatâsâŠ.â
âMm?â
âNothing. Justâ I knew military, just didnât realize⊠this much military.â
âLodging a complaint?â he askes, amused.
âDefinitely not.â
The rest goes gradually â his belt, your jeans peeled down warm thighs with his calloused palms flat against your skin the whole way, a hop and a giggle when the denim catches your ankle and he steadies you by the elbow â and then youâre bare in front of him, lamplight pooling gold along your shoulder, your hip, the soft curve of your stomach. He stops with his hands at your waist and looks.
âSay something,â you murmur, half a laugh, shy at last under the attention. âYouâre oggling.â
âI am.â His thumbs press slow arcs into your hips. âGive me a minute. Been picturinâ this since Tuesday and I did you no justice.â
You pull him down onto the bed by way of an answer, and the mattress sinks with a soft complaint, and then itâs just skin â so much warm skin, soft everywhere heâs hard, giving under his hands, smelling of perfume and the clean sweat July dampens into everyone.
He stretches out alongside you, one heavy thigh over yours, and takes his time. The curve of your waist. The full weight of your breast, thumb dragging over your nipple until it peaks and your breath stutters. The inside of your thigh, where the skin is finest and the heat pools. You move under his touch the whole time, restless and rising, fingers in his hair, at his shoulders, and the small sounds you make land somewhere at the base of his neck and prickle there.
Then he shifts down the bed, kisses the soft of your stomach, the plush crease of your hip, and looks up the length of you.
âCan I?â
âYouâ yes,â you breathe, trembling feebly. âYes, obviously, you donât have to aââ
His mouth is on you before the sentence ends.
Youâre sweet and slick against his tongue, already so wet the first slow lick slides easy, and the sound you make is high and caught somewhere low, thigh twitching against his ear, one hand flying to his hair. He hums â feels you feel it â and settles in. No rush. Long soft strokes of his tongue until your hips learn the rhythm and rise to meet it, then his lips close warm around your clit, sucking gently, and your whole body pulls tight.
âOh my godâ okayâ okayââ
âMm.â
âDonât be smugââ and your voice climbs off the end of the sentence as he slides two thick fingers into you, curling them, tongue still working, and whatever the rest of that scolding was, he never learns it.
âCould do this all night, sweetheart,â he murmurs against you, and feels the words land in a shudder. Your breathing changes. Your thighs start trembling, your hand fists in the sheets â and he keeps the pace exactly the same until youâre pulling at him. Hair, arm, anything you can reach.
âJohnâ Johnâ comeâ I want you. Now,â you whine, âPlease.â
He comes up the length of you slow, mouth mapping stomach and sternum and throat on the way, and settles over you on one forearmâ
"I should've said this in the car," he starts, eyes on yours. "I don't have a condom. Wasn't assuming tonight would end up here."
"I don't have any either. I actually checked the drawer before I left tonight." You push his dampening hair back off his forehead. "I'm on the pill, and I trust you. But I'd still feel better if you pull out. Is that okay?"
He nods assuredly. "Then I'll pull out," he says flat and plain. "You have my word."
"You and your wordâ" but you're smiling, and then you're not smiling, because he's already moved and taken himself in hand and dragged the head of his cock through your folds, coating himself in you, and notched against your entrance, and the smile falls open into something much, much better.
He pushes in slow, watches your face the entire way â he couldn't look elsewhere if a grenade went off â your brows drawing up, your lips parting around a breath that doesn't finish, your nails biting little crescents into his forearms â and fuck, the feel of you: scalding, soaked, tight enough that he has to stop twice, jaw clenched, sweat sliding at his temple, feeding you his cock an inch at a time and pulling back, then giving you more; the slick easy give of you around him unspooling something in his stomach.
"Talk to me," he murmurs, gravel-low. "Alright?"
"Yes." Your voice has gone breathless and small and blissed. "You'reâ godâ"
"Christ, youâre snug," he exhales shakily, eyes finding yours. âRelax for me, baby. Breathe.â
"I am breathâoh. Ohâshhitâ"
Johnâs seated all the way, hips flush to your backside, and both of you go quiet â a shared beat of stillness, you fluttering around him hot and full, his body coming down, forehead dropping to yours, ten months of silence pulling a sound up out of his chest that he couldn't have stopped if he knew it was coming.
Then you shift your hips, experimental, a slow grind up against him, and that stillness is over.
He moves slowly; long level strokes dragging all the way out so you both feel every hot stretch of the return, your breasts pressing soft against his hairy chest. Your heels slide up the back of his thighs and he budges his hips closer, holding deep and pressing the head of his cock into your furthest wall. Your hands squeeze the meat between his shoulders and his neck as he pushes a small squeal out of you.Â
"I wonât," he murmurs against your jaw. âI wonât move.â
"âokay maybe move a littleâ"
He breathes something restrained through a smile. "Make your mind up, darling," he grunts.Â
âItâs hard toâ mmmâthink like this,â you half-moan against his cheek.Â
âDonât think, then.â
Itâs all your talking that undoes him more than anything, he realizes distantly. Heâd forgotten there was a version of this with laughing in it; a version with a woman eagerly gripping him and grinning against his cheek in the second before a moan carries her voice away â and every time you say his name, breathed and broken, something in his chest cinches another notch tighter.
He draws back and drives home again, and whatever youâd been about to answer with comes out as a punched huff.
You donât think.
He feels the difference in you immediately â your body dropping the manners, hips rising to meet him harder than heâs giving it, heels dragging him in by the thighs on every stroke, a low frustrated sound building in your throat when he keeps the same controlled pace. Youâre not asking for anything. Youâre taking it in inches, greedy and unaware of yourself, nails dragging down the small of his back, pullingâ
âHarder?â he asks against your ear.Â
"Yes, please."
He hooks your knee up over his hip and opens you widerââSo polite.ââand gives it to you deeper, his weight behind it, your headboard cracking against the wall. You go loud and lovely underneath him, clutching, slick heat and plush skin and your nails scoring lines down his back that he hopes, viciously, will last long enough to admire.
He works a hand between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, riding the motion youâve bkth created.
"That'sâ Johnâ Youâre gonna make me come," you sob.Â
"I know. I feel you. Squeezin' me likeâ Christ. Go onâfuck."
He watches it arrive before you do, a shiver running ahead of the wave; your spine arches up off the bed, your cunt clenches around him in long pulsing, aching, waves â it takes you under, and you pull him with you. Â
He holds you, murmuring filth and praise in equal measure against your earâ
How goodâ
How gorgeousâ
Youâre mine now, you know that? Hm?â
Itâs watching you eagerly nod along with his babbling that finishes him. He lasts maybe ten more strokes on borrowed time, heat gathering alacritous and irrevocable at the base of his groin â and he rears back onto his knees, pulling out of you with a growl that tumbles from his throat, fist working his cock over, soaked with you, spilling hot across your stomach and hip in thick ropes, head hanging, shoulders heaving, your thighs still bracketing his knees.
When he lifts his head, youâre already looking at him.
Glowing down to your chest, lips parted and kiss-swollen, wearing him low on your stomach â and neither of you says anything. Neither of you looks away either. His chest is still heaving. Your knee presses in against his side, and the corner of your mouth starts to curl, and his does too, helpless about it.
He comes down on his side, careful of the mess heâs made of you, one arm heavy across the pillow above your head. The curtain breathes at the window beside the bed and the night comes in and cools the sweat on his back, and he can see your heartbeat going hard at your throat, the rise and fall of your stomach not yet settled. He gently fits his thumb against your pulse, just to feel it going.Â
He kisses you, your mouth lazy under his, and then your temple, and the crown of your head, and you make a low, boneless sound and turn your face into his hot neck, and the two of you just lie there breathing each other in, tangled and settling, your finger drawing slow shapes on his forearm.
"John?" Small, against his throat.
"Mm?"
"Would you mind grabbing me a cloth? Bathroom's just across the hall."
He's up before the sentence finishes, annoyed at his own carcass the whole three steps to the door, ten months out of practice and it shows, he used to know this part, the part where he takes care of you before you have to ask.
You bathroom is small and smells of your shampoo, fruity, herbal. He runs a flannel under the warm tap, wrings it out, catches his own eyes in the mirror over the sink â wrecked hair, beard ruined and shiny with your lipgloss. He turns, craning his neck spotting a blooming red scratch coming up nicely at his shoulder.
He comes back and cleans you up properly, kneeling on the edge of the bed, one hand steady at your hip while the warm cloth moves over your stomach â thorough about it, frowning slightly the way he does when heâs concentrating â and you watch him do it propped up on your elbows with an expression he can't quite read and doesn't need to. It's warm, whatever it is. And itâs aimed at him, so.
"You're staring," he says, not looking up.Â
"You're tidying me."
"Should've done it before you asked." He folds the cloth, sets it on the nightstand, and stretches out beside you again, this time gathering you into his chest. "Out of practice."
"I'll allow it," you say, magnanimous, settling your cheek against his pec. "The rest was very in-practice."
He huffs into your hair.
Your fingers trail idle through the hair on his chest, down over old pinked scars, and you ask him about them â whether the jagged line at his shoulder hurt, what caused the puckered one under his ribs â and he answers more honestly than he means to, your weight settling heavier against him as the adrenaline drains.
There's a soft thump from the hallway, then, and a moment later a small shape appears in the doorway â sits, tail wrapping her feet, and surveys the wreckage: the trail of clothes, the stranger man in the bed, you draped over his ribs.
She stares at John.
John stares back.
"We have an audience," he says.
You look over him to see your cat, "Twix, John. John, Twix."
Twix holds his gaze a moment longer, supremely unimpressed, then steps delicately over his discarded shirt and exits the way she came and he feels you giggling before he hears it, the shake of it against his chest.
"That went well," you say, overly pleased.Â
âYeah?â
âMhm.â
"Well, consider me chuffed."
Some comfortable minutes later he feels you surface a little out of the drowse, feels your breathing change, going careful; feels your face arrange itself against his skin before you speak.Â
"You don't have to stay, by the way." Light. Smooth as eroded stone, polished by use, he imagines. "If you'd sleep better in your own bed. No pressure either way."
And there it is â the same maneuver from your texts, the honest thing dressed up so you can't be caught caring â except this time he can feel your heartbeat while you run it, quick against his ribs, betraying the whole performance from inside.Â
He keeps his hand moving on your arm, slow, so you know nothing's landed wrong.
"I'll head home," he says. "Not because I want to," he clarifies.
âNo?â you ask.Â
"Believe me. This is about the last place I want to leave." His hand doesn't stop, slow up, slow down, steadying you through it. "I'd like at least one proper dinner between us before I go makin' a habit of your bed."
You lift your head off his chest and look at him â hair wrecked, eyes searching his face for the trick â and he lets you look as long as you need to because there's no trick to be found. He meant it.Â
âAlright," you agree.Â
âYeah?â
âYes. Dinner sounds nice.â
"Mm," he hums, contented. He presses a kiss into your hair and untangles himself, face scrunched with visible reluctance, and dresses while you watch from the bed with the sheet gathered loose around you.
At the door he stops.Â
"C'mere."
You come to him in the sheet, and he kisses you properly, one hand cupping your face, thumb at your cheek. You go languid against him. He takes his time. Long past politeness. Long enough that leaving starts to look renegotiable, and he breaks away before he starts.Â
"Gânight," he says, low, still holding your face.
"Goodnight."
"I'll ring you about dinner tomorrow."
ââ
The flat is quiet. But it's a different quiet than the one you left this morning and you stand in the middle of it grinning.
Twix reappears at the edge of the counter and stares.Â
âI donât need the lecture, Iâm grown,â you tell her and start walking back to the bedroom, you hear her little jump to the floor and her feather steps catching up with you, âI can have sex. I deserve it, even.â You drop into your bed with a sigh. âYouâd understand if you still had ovaries.â
i'm so gone for the idea that the first time that you tell john, "i love you," is during sex. maybe missionary, but i'm thinking during proneboneâwhen john's pressing all his weight onto you, gripping you by the back of your neck, rutting and humping like he's trying to impregnate you then and there (not yet, but soon; that's a promise). you are so drunk in your pleasure, all drooly and whiny, that the words just spill from kiss-swollen lips.
i love you, you hiccup. john stops just for a second before a litany of his own confession drop from his maw, unstopping and unwavering like now that the dam's been unlatched, everything just begins to pour out ceaselessly.
i love you too, baby, i love you so much. the light of my life, huh? look at you, such a pretty thing for me. want daddy to kiss here, this deep? yeah? oh sweetheart, such a lovely puppy for me.
Synopsis: Toji, the TA, won't bump up your latest essay a couple marks, not with just some begging at least, so you try a different method:
good ol' pussy persuasion
Warnings: toji art by @/youKa.i on insta, smut, porn with a lil plot, nerd!toji, a couple years older than reader but both students, reader harasses him but don't save him he's right where he wants to be, some comedy aspect, college au, non curse au, f!reader, blowjob under the desk, unethical behaviour, fingering, cunnilingus, p in v, briefest choking, sex against the window, pĂșssy inspection, belly bulging, overstimulation, spitting, a little fisting I guess or almost, Toji's poor so this is canon compliant jkjk, creampie and unprotected sex, brief pussyjob, size kink/difference, hidden sex, not proofread
Word Count: 10.7k
âFor the last time,â he drawls, âIâm not bumping you up a grade.â
You groan, pushing your legs to catch up to him faster.
âCome on, I need this. Iâm not asking you to break the rules. All I want is for you to reread my essay and find extra marks, which you will!â
Toji Fushiguro is a tough nut to crack, though he doesnât look it â one glance at him and one would think heâs a laidback TA. Heâs the exact opposite; he takes his job a little too seriously.Â
For days now, youâd been hounding him, pleading with him and degrading yourself all for him to âremarkâ your last paper and âcoincidentallyâ find a few extra marks that would push you to the top performing spot youâd been eyeing since forever. Each time you rushed into his office, waited for him after his classes, and followed him to his apartment, heâd shrugged you off with the same âI donât get paid enough for thisâ look in his eyes.Â
Rounding the corner, his long legs making no accommodations for your shorter ones, he says, âNo. If you wanted better results, you should have put in a better performance. Surely youâre smart enough to work out that thatâs how life works.â
Hands grab his arm, yanking back with all your strength only to be dragged along with him and his burly body. Your heels scrape along the floor. People stare. You donât care. âDonât be an asshole. You know my essay was good. It was really good. Just give it a read. A proper one, and not the rushed job you do because youâre overworked and underpaid.â
He stops.
Your face bumps into this back, forehead nearly bruised by the hardness.Â
His brows rise above his glasses as he fixes you a look. âKid, your essay was good â decent introduction, clear structure, sufficient evidence â but itâs not good enough for the extra marks to push you into the top band. Your closing argument fell flat âcause of your wishy-washy writing style, you didnât adequately humour the counter arguments and undermine them to strengthen your thesis, and, worst of all, you misspelt âcomplement.ââ
A frown graces your features.Â
âNo, I didnât. C. O. M. P. L. I. Mââ
âNo. With an I, itâs to flatter someone. With an E, itâs to enhance, pair well, or complete another thing.â Toji explains rather robotically, eyes still dead and voice monotone. âFor example, if I said youâre a pretty girl, thatâs a compliment. And if I said, your essay goes well with the trashcan over there, thatâs a statement that suggests the two complement each other. See the difference?â
Heâs already stalking off again, hands in his pockets, huge stature unwilling to accommodate the people walking down the hallway.Â
You break into a jog, panting embarrassingly by the time you reach him. âDude, weâve known each other for three years. Weâve gone through a lot together. Weâre basically friends. Canât you do your best pal a solid?â
Toji glances down at you. He pushes a door open, holding it a second longer than he needed to. You follow behind him. Somewhat amused, he replies, âWe know each other because weâre on the same course, not by choice. And I donât know what you mean by the whole âweâve gone through a lot togetherâ thing â the most dramatic thing weâve faced is when the projector didnât work and we had to go into a different hall. And weâre definitely not friends.â
Well, fuck, youâre running out of rope.Â
âThen, letâs officially be friends,â you offer, elbowing him gently. âIf you ever need help, buddy, Iâll always have your back.â Then, in an act of complete desperation, you begin shakily singing, âYouâve got a friend in me. Youâve got a friend in me. When the road looks tough aheadââ
A heavy hand shoves you away by your head. You stumble into a bulletin board.
âEnough,â he gruffs. âMy dayâs already fucked because the prof lost his papers and wants to blame me. I donât need to lose my hearing on top of that.â
Your head flits around. âDid you guys see that?â People give you weird looks. âHe just shoved me. The TA just shoved me. We need to protest his violent behaviour by demanding he remarks our papers. Whoâs with me?â
Everyone walks past without another look at you.
Toji, on the other hand, lifts his glasses and runs a hand down his face. Muttering something under his breath, he pushes a door open and holds out a hand before you can mindlessly follow. âItâs the menâs bathroom. Tell me youâre not shameless and stupid enough to come in here.â
âIâll wait outside.â
His eye twitches.Â
As though an idea comes to him, he straightens ever so slightly. âIâm gonna take a dump; youâll be waiting a while.â
âThatâs okay â I have no more classes so take your time but make sure you donât stay sitting down longer than you need to,â you tell him, smiling innocently and standing aside to let a guy walk out, ignoring the freaked out face he makes at you. âYou can get hemorrhoids."
He groans. âJesus fucking Christ, woman.âÂ
That seems to be as much of you he can tolerate because he walks in without another word to you. Opposite the door, you lean against the wall, whistling and coming up with alternative lines you can pull on him.Â
God, heâs so stubborn.Â
Itâs not like giving you the marks docks his pay or lowers the professorâs opinion of him. Heâs clearly just being an ass.Â
If he wasnât such a good TA, a genuinely intelligent man, you would have gone above his head and asked for the profâs personal assessment. But no, he has to be knowledgeable, a helpful source of information when youâre lost, someone who seems to know everything about any topic, who knows the exact pages of a textbook you should read to further your understanding, and whoâs never declined a meeting for clarification on something you wrote.Â
For years now, you two have had a friendship-like relationship, often sharing snacks and exchanging brief words before or after lectures and classes, despite what he says.
Everyone gets along with him, though youâve never actually seen him hang out with friends or go to parties. Maybe he doesnât have any. Word on the street is he works part time in a couple different places. Some say so he can afford drugs, some for tuition.Â
The rumours never interested you, apart from any that mused about his love life, which seems to be nonexistent except for the many girls who hit on him. Not that youâre especially interested.
Itâs just fun to be in the know.
Who knows how long has passed since he went in there. Your phone says fifteen minutes. Is that a normal amount of time for someone to be taking a dump?
Hesitantly, you push the door open and yell out, âFushiguro? You doing okay? Is it stuck? For a couple extra marks, Iâll give you a hand.â
No one replies.Â
Brows furrowing, you bend down, looking through the stalls. No feet. What the hell?
Ahead, a window is ajar. Big enough for a man to squeeze through. Well isnât that convenient? The kind of convenient that exists only in fiction.
Aggrieved and feeling bamboozled, you stomp back to your dorm room, slamming the door, jumping face down on the bed and screaming into the pillows. Youâd feel better if you knew he had a grudge on you, if you bumped into him the first day and spilled his coffee all over himself and heâd never forgotten it. Instead, heâs just like that: does things by the book, does his job well, and achieves the best grades with ease.Â
Naturally, heâd become the professorâs assistant, a coveted position that seemed like it was made for him from the very beginning, and made your life a living hell because he wonât ever make concessions for you.
Sure, you shouldnât ask him to, but itâs not like youâre asking for much. Youâre generally a high performing student â punctual, hard working, ambitious â but you had one bad day which resulted in one bad essay and it lowered your average and now the internship youâd been eyeing could be snatched from your hands in a blink of an eye.Â
âItâs just not fair,â you cry out to your teddy bear. âItâs three marks. Three! Would it kill him to reread my essay and find those three marks?â
Mr. Teddy stares back at you and says, âHeâs a grumpy man. Donât take it personally.â
You sit up, blinking and processing his reply.
âTeddyâŠyouâre right. He is a grumpy man, a TA with broad shoulders, yummy arms, and thick thighs with a bubble butt, but a man nonetheless. If he wonât pull favours for me, student to student, maybe heâll pull favours for me man to woman.â
The plushie falls to the bed as you stand, staring at yourself in the mirror and formulating a plan.Â
With that you decide to seek him out the next day, sporting a new outfit and a different attitude.
.
.
.
âHi.â
âFuck off.â
The cafeteriaâs busy. It always is. Itâs loud enough that most people wouldnât even hear the exchange â chairs banging on tile, trays clattering, someone laughing too loudly at a table nearby.Â
Tojiâs hunched slightly over a bowl of udon noodles, chopsticks moving lazily as he slurps them down. Some sports clip plays on his phone, propped against his dented metal water bottle. Commentators yell about something you donât understand. His sleeves are pushed up over his forearms, revealing ropey muscle and the faint silvery line of an old scar running across his wrist.
An old hoodie hangs off his shoulders over a plain white T-shirt. Distressed jeans, worn sneakers. Heâs too big for the plastic chair, long legs spread under the table. When he saw you approach, his feet had hooked onto the chair legs, forcing you to fight to remove it from his clutches so you could take a seat.
So damn rude.
His glasses have fogged slightly from the steam of the noodles.
He doesnât look up. But he knows itâs you. You can tell by the way his mouth tightens for half a second before he goes back to eating.
You snatch his phone away. His green eyes flick up, annoyed. You smile, arms pushing your breasts together so they spill over your tight top. Tojiâs gaze doesnât waver. He continues to stare at you like youâre a pest.Â
âYou canât take no for an answer?â he asks though itâs not a question at all. âMight want to retake the consent course.â
Manicured fingers walk up his bare forearm before scratching down from his elbow. His skin is warm. Light dusting of hair tickling your fingertips. âOh, Toj, have I ever told you how handsome you are? Because you really are. Youâre so damn hot I can hardly focus on the lectures.â
He snorts, still eating his noodles and still refusing to look at your cleavage. âThatâll explain why youâre missing marks.â
Jaw dropping, you force yourself to recover quickly. A heeled foot brushes against his calf, sliding his jeans up. You bat your lashes, sultrily saying, âThe only thing Iâm missing is your cock in me, big boy.â
Toji meets your eyes again. His scarred lips twitch. âI donât need to tell you that was bad, do I?â
You cringe, foot dropping and whole body slumping back into the chair. âYeah, I heard it as soon as I said it.â Then you sit up, handing him his phone, and asks, âAre the noodles good? Iâve never had them.â
Phone pocketed, he shrugs. âTheyâre just the cheapest deal on the menu. Growing girl like you should get something more filling.â
The menuâs extensive, and the only thing sticking out to you is the chicken burger and chicken tenders meal deal. It seems to be especially popular today but youâre not sure you can finish the whole thing.Â
âHey, if I get the Meal Super Cluck Blaster, will you share it with me? Iâve got dinner plans later so I donât want to fill up.â
That finally gets a reaction. Toji leans back a little and gives you a slow once-over. Tight top. Lacy bra peeking up. Glossy lips. More jewellery than usual. His eyebrow lifts. âThat why youâre dressed like a hooker?â he asks lazily. âHot date?â
âNah,â you reply, waving him off. âWore this for yoâ Wait.â You lean forward, staring at him wide eyed. âAre you jealous? Are you in love with me already? Because for extra marks, Iâll cancel my dinner plans and promise myself to you for all eternity.â
Toji rolls his eyes. âGo get something to eat; you sound insane.â
You hop up. âOkay, but stay there, alright? Take my burger because I only want the tenders. Oh, and will you share a pot of cheesecake with me? Iâm lactose-intolerant but I really want cheesecake right now.â
âYeah, yeah.â
Heâs still here when you come back.Â
As soon as you hand him the wrapped up burger, he scarfs it down the way big men do, like they havenât eaten in days. You push him the tenders too. Youâd actually gotten a double serving of everything so you have your own portion of tenders and he gets to eat another burger. Thereâs no way a man his size could survive on udon noodles.
âAlso, letâs not act like you didnât leave me hanging outside the menâs bathroom yesterday,â you bring up after sipping your juice. âCanât believe you left through the bathroom window just so you could get away from me.â
âI didnât,â he says, mouth full and adjusting his glasses.Â
You frown, dipping a piece of chicken in hot honey. âNo, you definitely did. I peeked and there were no feet in any of the stalls. Unless youâre telling me you can grow invisible.â
âJust lifted my legs when I heard you come in, which I knew your crazy ass would do, so I could finally leave in peace. Didnât think itâd take you fifteen minutes though.â
A laugh escapes you. âYou were waiting me out? Does that sound like the mature thing to do? Jeez, you need to act your age.â
Tojiâs eyes meet yours. Your smile falters for the briefest second. âIâm not that much older than you,â he reminds you. âOnly by two years.â
âAnd yet you call me kid or kiddo,â you retort, clearing your throat. Have his eyes always been that green and deep? And is his voice usually that husky and masculine? Because you could have sworn guys your age donât sound like that.
He shrugs again, second burger finished in a blink of an eye. âNever hurts to remind yourself.â
âRemind yourself what?â
The legs of his chair screech as he pushes it back. He stands, picking up his tray, and answers, âForget about it. Enjoy your dinner plans. And Iâm taking the cheesecake â no one wants a gassy date.â
âWait,â you call out before he can turn away. âMy marks?â
A pat on the head ruffles your hair.Â
âStill a no, kid.â
.
.
.
âWhat if I suck your dick?â
Toji lifts his glasses to rub at his eyes. âIâve got a ton of papers to grade for another class; I donât have time for you.â
The door shuts behind you. His office is bare, not a single decoration littering the place, not a plant nor a picture.Â
His office is exactly how you remember it â disappointingly, aggressively empty. The walls are a dull institutional beige that makes the overhead fluorescent light feel even harsher. No posters. No photos. Not even a sad little plant struggling for life in the corner.
Just a desk. A filing cabinet. Two chairs that look like they were stolen from a waiting room. Itâs the kind of office someone occupies temporarily, like he expects to leave at any moment and doesnât see the point in settling in.
Leaning against the desk anyway, your fingers drum lazily along the edge.
Youâve been here before: once to argue about a paper heâd shredded with red ink, once because youâd missed an exam and needed him to sign a form, and once because youâd sworn you heard him swearing loud enough to be heard halfway down the hallway.
You grip his shoulder, squeezing as you scan the fat stack of papers on his desk â the profâs particular about handwritten essays. Thereâs so much to read through; you do not want to be him.Â
âGod,â you mutter, flipping through a few pages of the stack. âThereâs like fifty here.â
âSeventy-two,â Toji corrects without looking up. His handwriting is sharp and aggressive, red ink slashing through entire paragraphs like heâs committing academic murder. You wince in sympathy for whoever wrote the paper currently being dismantled.
âGood thing you can multitask, canât you? Iâll suck your dick under the desk, you grade papers, and you bump me up a grade. Easy.â
He shrugs you off, hulking body hunched over and pen scratching on the papers, leaving harsh circles and comments like, âwhat the hell does this mean?â and âyou canât just say perchance.âÂ
Toji gruffs, âIâm serious. Take your jokes elsewhere.â
Nah, you think to yourself.Â
With a massive struggle against his weight, you yank his chair back, wheeling him a distance from the desk and clambering under before he can fill the space again. He makes some noise above you but you pay him no mind. Your hands rest on his meaty thighs through his sweatpants, marvelling at the density, at the strength you find in them.Â
âYouâre fucking ridiculous.â His foot nudges your knee. âGet the fuck out. Iâll cropdust you if I have to.â
You call his bluff by clutching his clothed cock. He jolts, grunting. Laughing softly, you muse, âYou say all that but you have a semi already â did my proposition get you hard, Toji?â
Youâre rubbing his hard on, trying not to get flustered by how big he feels, and how fat the girth is. Of course heâs big. In hindsight, you really shouldnât have been so surprised; heâs a big man so naturally the proportions will match up.Â
âSuck my dick, donât suck my dick, it doesnât matter,â he says, sighing and probably pinching the bridge of his nose. âYouâre not getting those marks.â
He thinks thatâll stave you off because he knows youâre whoring yourself out for a grade. What he doesnât know is that your stupid little brainâs already forgotten about all of that the moment you felt his cock. Now all you can think about is how youâll have to stretch your lips nice and wide to take him in, and even then, even when your throat is lax and loose, you wonât be able to take him to the base.Â
Toji grunts again, peering down at you. âYou mouthing at my dick? Didâya not hear what I said?â
Like youâve been possessed, you press kisses to where his tip is, humming around it. âI heard, but your dickâs saying other things to me, and I know which I prefer to listen to.â
âMy dickâs not marking your paper, so get the fuck up,â he growls.
âDonât wanna.â
âYouâre fucking killing me here.â
A heavy hand bundles your hair up, pulling but you fight against it, hooking your fingers under the waistband and releasing him from the constraints. His boxers have a hole, and yet you only find it endearing. Freeing his cock so it bounces up and smacks your cheek, it leaves a wet mark on your skin.Â
Tutting, he wipes away the wetness from your skin.Â
Oh fuck, he really is big.Â
With nothing between you and his dick, you can see him in all his glory in the partial shadow of under his desk â long, thick, flushed red, already shiny at the slit, veiny as hell, hairs at the base wild and unruly, with weighty balls to match. Youâve never seen anything better.Â
Tongue out, you lick him from base to tip, prodding at his frenulum.
âQuit it,â he commands through gritted teeth.Â
You moan wantonly, already addicted to the salt on his kin, to the texture of his veins, to the softness of his cockhead. âToji, youâre so big. I donât think thisâll fit inside me.â
The thing throbs, bobbing. A droplet oozes out and you quickly lick it up. The hand that was pulling your hair has grown slack, simply resting on the back of your head, keeping you from bumping the wood.Â
Voice hoarse, he mutters, âIf anyone can make it fit, itâll be your stubborn ass.â
Your eyes meet his from under the desk, mischief sparkling in them youâre sure. His cock throbs again. âI thought you had papers to mark, Fushiguro. Maybe you should get on that, no?â
A calloused thumb presses down on your lips, shushing you. It slides down, bringing your bottom lip down with it, before releasing it so itâll bounce back in place. That same thumb holds your jaw open, hand guiding your mouth to his tip. You know what he wants. You also know that he knows that you both know that you won this time.Â
Wide as you can, you take as much of his length as possible. You donât get much further than a third of the way, full beyond belief and overwhelmed by just how much of him there still is. Your nails dig into his thighs.
âIf this is supposed to convince me to give you extra marks, then youâre failing real hard, doll,â he notes, gripping the base. âCan barely fit the head, can you?â
Heâs acting like itâs your fault heâs so big.Â
Challenged, you loosen your throat to take him an inch deeper. You gag around the length. Toji curses under his breath. âCareful,â he mutters. âYouâll hurt yourself.â
You ignore him in favour of shallowly bobbing, sucking and licking what you can, as though heâs a lollipop. Itâs actually kinda fun.
The familiar sound of pen scratching on paper and paper rubbing on paper echoes in the relatively quiet office. Only the wet sounds of your mouth sucking his cockhead pierces the silence.Â
Growing more and more used to his size, you flick your tongue around the head, letting your hands wrap around the rest of him, squeezing and tugging in time with your mouth. Occasionally, he makes a couple breathy noises â low grunts when your tongue laps up his tip, gravelly groans when you hollow your cheek to suck, and rough exhales through his nose when you grip his balls, massaging them, thumb rubbing the seam.Â
It becomes easier to forget why you were here in the first place; youâre just blowing him for your own entertainment now, wanting something to occupy your throat.Â
Then, he asks, as though heâs making casual conversation, âHow was the date?â
âHmm?â
Toji rolls his eyes. âThe date,â he repeats. âHow was it? He pay for the meal? Open doors, see you to your door, kiss you goodnight and shit?â
Your lips stretch into a smile. You release him with a pop! âI didnât go on a date,â you tell him. âMy friends hosted a housewarming party because they moved in together. I had a great time, thanks for asking.â
Is he pleased? Unaffected? Genuinely just making conversation? Hard to tell, except for the pushing of his hand, urging you back to his dick, and taking him further inside your throat, till his tip bumps the back of the gummy walls.Â
âGood,â he exhales out, thighs flexing around your body. âThatâs real good.â
âMy blowjob skills or that I had a great time?â you ask, words muffled and barely understandable.
âBoth,â he answers. âBoth, doll.â
A knock on the door has you both stiffening. Toji glares down at you and whispers, âItâs the prof. Do not make a sound.â
He didnât need to tell you that â youâre well aware that if you get caught, youâll both face disciplinary action, and will likely be kicked out of the university. Thatâs worse than not getting the internship.Â
The office falls quiet so suddenly you can hear the ticking of the wall clock. Tojiâs hand tightens briefly against the desk as the knock comes again. âCome in,â he calls, voice steady.
The door opens before he even finishes the word.
âAh, Fushiguro, there you are,â the professor says, stepping inside with a stack of papers tucked under one arm. âI wasnât sure if youâd left already.â
From your position under the desk, you can only see shoes. Polished leather. Slow steps across the floor. You donât slide his cock out of your throat, lest it makes a sloppy noise thatâll give you both away. So you breathe through your nose, being very, very quiet.
âNo, I was just finishing up some grading,â Toji replies, cool as a cucumber.
His tone is annoyingly normal. Completely unbothered. Heâs really convincing. Has he done this before? Is this a normal occurrence? Do a lot of girls offer to blow him for better marks, and does he take them up on it? Are you the one exception to his generosity?Â
âGood, good.â Papers shuffle. A chair creaks as the professor sits across from the desk. âI actually wanted to ask about the research methods essays.â
Of course he did.
You squeeze your eyes shut.
Toji shifts slightly above you â just enough that the movement brushes your shoulder â and then he leans back in his chair. âYeah?â he says.
âI noticed something odd in the submissions this year,â the professor continues. âHalf the class seems to misunderstand the section on sampling bias.â
He hums thoughtfully. âYou mean where theyâre supposed to explain the limitations of convenience sampling?â
âExactly.â
A sheet of paper slides across the desk.
âYou see this one hereââ
From below, you hear Toji pick it up.
ââthey describe the method correctly, but their conclusion contradicts their own analysis.â
Thereâs a pause whilst the TA reads. You stare at the underside of the desk and try not to shift your knees. God, this is like torture. Having a cock lodged in your throat and not being able to do anything with it is hell. Above the desk, theyâre chatting away, talking about your fellow students, with the professor none the wiser that one such studentâs under the desk.Â
âYeah,â he says after a moment. âTheyâre treating correlation like it proves causation.â
âPrecisely!â the professor says, sounding delighted. âItâs surprisingly common.â Another pause. You hear a pen tap the desk twice. âI was thinking next year we might restructure the lecture slightly,â the professor continues. âMaybe introduce a short case study before the assignment.â
âCould work,â Toji replies. âGive them something concrete, tangible, to analyse.â
Your legs are starting to cramp. Your lips tighten around his hot cock. Toji brushes your hair back from your face, a quiet act to show he hasnât forgotten about you. The professor keeps talking, completely unaware.
âAlso,â he says, shuffling more papers, âthe literature review sections were stronger this year.â
âMm.â
âI suspect the workshop helped.â
Toji lets out a quiet huff that might be agreement.
âYou handled that well, by the way,â the professor adds. âThe students seem to respond to your feedback.â
This is way too boring, you decide. In an act you might end up regretting for the rest of your life, your offended tongue prods his tip where heâs still leaking salty precum.Â
He grunts, knee crashing up on the wood.Â
The professor asks him if heâs alright, and Toji replies, âFine. Sorry. Just had a cramp.â
A triumphant smile pulls at your lips, which is quickly wiped away by the sudden pinch at your cheek. You wince, unable to smack him in retaliation.Â
A sigh fills the room. âI fear you work too hard, Fushiguro. You ought to take a break here and there. Do something fun and wild, or whatever it is people your age do nowadays.â
âI am having fun,â Toji says, hand coming back to rest on your head, growing heavier and heavier until youâre forced to take him inside your mouth, deeper and deeper. âIn my own way.â
Heâs filling you up more than he was before, now more insistent, no longer so passive. Youâre struggling to take him but heâs not letting up. Fuck, youâre soaked between the legs. Who knew you had an oral fixation?
âWell, good,â the professor says. He pushes his chair back. Your heart jumps in joy. âI wonât keep you any longer, I know those papers wonât mark themselves. Boy do I not envy you.â He laughs. âEnjoy the rest of your day.â
âYou too, Professor.â
Footsteps move toward the door. The handle turns. The door opens. Closes. Silence. Two seconds pass.
Then Toji peers down, licking his scarred lips, and mutters under his breath, âYou needy fucking girl. Couldnât wait, could you? Couldnât resist not being a pain my fucking ass. If you want cock so badly, then here you go.â
His hips thrust up, hand keeping you in place. Your eyes fly open, throat stretching to take all of him in. Oh, he was as pent up, as frustrated, as you were. The force in which heâs rutting inside your throat displays that nice and clear.Â
âYouâll do anything for a good grade, wonât you? Even debase yourself like this. God, you drive me crazy.â
You gag around his cock but he doesnât pay any mind to that. No, Tojiâs just rutting inside your mouth over and over again, grunting louder and louder now.Â
Meanwhile, your hand seeks out the heat between your legs. You grind against the heel of your palm, moaning around his length. The vibration has his balls tightening up.
âFuck!â
Hot cum bursts inside, coating the walls of your throat and your tongue.Â
Toji leans back in his chair, which creaks. You pull him out, coughing at the salty burn. Damn, even his loads are big. Itâs like a cream puff exploded inside your mouth.Â
Hands carry you up, sitting you on his thigh. One rubs your back in circles, the other wipes away the tears at your eyes, licking at the wetness heâs collected on his thumb. âYou good, kid?â he asks, brows furrowed.Â
âYeah,â you respond, voice hoarse and not fooling anyone. âIâm good.â
You take a sip of his water from his water bottle, not caring about the fact that youâre drinking from where he had been, and if he cared that your mouth which had been sucking on his dick and cum is on his cup, he didnât say.
He sighs, tucking himself back in and says, âCome by my place tonight. Hand me your essay again and Iâll reread it. But Iâm not making any promises about finding extra marks, alright? Itâs just a second chance, and the only one youâll get.â
Dopily, you smile at him. âThroat game that good, huh?â
His lips twitch. He shoves you away, smacking your ass as you walk away.
âIâll text you the time and place. Donât be late.â
Nodding, you head for the door, not leaving however till you ask, âShould I wear matching underwear, or is this a strictly keep your clothes on meeting?â
âFuck off before I regret it.â
âLacy thong it is!â
.
.
.
âShould I spread my legs now or do you want me to fluff you first?â
Tojiâs deadpan face meets you when he opens the door. He sighs as though heâs regretting this already. Regardless, he lets you in.Â
You can tell he showered recently â thereâs the scent of cheap soap lingering on his skin and his hair is still a little damp.Â
His apartment is nice and clean, which surprises you somewhat. Most guys your age tend to be messy. But you should have known the TA would be neat and organised.Â
âIâm serious,â you begin, snuggling up to his side and batting your lashes up at him, âwhat position do you want me? Iâm not the most flexible but Iâm not too bad.â
Shaking you off, he pushes you in the direction of the living room where the coffee table is covered with carefully laid out papers he no doubt carried from campus to continue working on. âGo sit down, you horny gremlin. Make some room for your essay and letâs get this over with.â
You do as he says, folding your legs so you can sit by the coffee table on the rug. You take the essay out of your bag, shoving all the others to the side. With a frown, you ask, âSo weâre really not fucking?â
He folds himself down too, sitting beside you, knee brushing yours. âI donât solicit sex in exchange for academic favours. Dunno why youâre so surprised by that â canât recall having done anything to make you think otherwise.â
âWell, you did give in after I blew you, soâŠâ
âI was gonna offer before you did all that,â he informs you, snorting. âJust never promised to give you the marks.â
Toji adjusts his glasses, taking your papers and starting his reassessment of it. His lips purses, brows furrows, and he stares at the thing like it could tell him the answers to the universe. That or itâs so bad he just canât fathom what you were thinking.Â
âSecond paragraph, third line, why the hell is it so convoluted?â he asks, voice returning to that grumpy tone youâre more than familiar with now.
Itâs the latter, it would seem. He really meant business. You shaved and everything for nothing. What a shame.Â
Leaning over, you rest your head on his big bicep, and, with a pout, reply, âI thought it sounded smart; I was pretty proud of that line actually.â
âNo, doll,â Toji says, sighing. âThe simpler the better. Donât purposefully complicate your syntax. Only do whatâs necessary to get the point across. If I, an expert in this topic, can barely understand what you mean, how is the ordinary person supposed to?â
âYeah, okay. Simple is better, I get it.â
He continues reading, red pen in hand and making annotations as he goes. Meanwhile, youâre worming your way into his lap: one hand resting on his thigh at first, then a leg thrown over his. He notices what youâre doing â thereâs no way he doesnât know â but he doesnât put up a fight. Eventually, youâre sitting in his lap, his chin resting on your head, and his arms caging you in.Â
Tojiâs warm. Heâs comfy to rest on despite all the muscles. Closer now, his soapy scent envelops you. It goes straight to your head. You find yourself squirming.Â
âKeep still,â he reprimands, underlining a phrase twice for emphasis. âYou canât just use jargon if youâre not going to explain it. Itâs bad practice.â
âGot it.â Fiddling with his spare hand, running your fingers down his and over his palm, you ask, âAre academics supposed to have calluses?â
âThey bother you or something?â
âNo, not at all. Iâm just curious.â
He hums. âI do odd jobs here and there, some more manual than others so yeah I built up some calluses.â Without missing a beat, he pivots the topic. âTell me again what the difference is between compliment and complement.â
You bring that hand up to your breast, imploring him to grope your tits as you reply, âWith an I is to praise someone or something, and with an e is to say something matches well with another.â
A moan escapes your lips when he squeezes in approval. Toji mutters, âGood girl. Guess you do listen to me.â Thumb brushing your hardened nipple through the thin material of your top, you squirm in his lap. His lips move against the top of your head. âNo bra?â
âI figured you were going to take it off me anyway so I didnât bother,â you say, still pressing his hand to your tit, riding the motions of every grope and flick of your nipple.Â
Another hum.Â
Slowly, you guide that hand down lower. He must know what youâre doing, where you want it to end up, but he doesnât stop you, doesnât reprimand or put up any resistance; heâs curious to see how far youâre willing to go. And youâre curious to see how much restraint he has, how long he can hold out before his façade of nonchalance breaks and heâs fucking up inside you.
You tease yourself, and him, first â his fingers, with your guidance, tease your bare thighs, following the hem of your tight skirt. Growing breathless, you ask, âWhat kind of odd jobs do you do?â
Tojiâs calluses tickle the sensitive skin in your inner thighs just right. Heâs still marking your paper, occasionally fact-checking your ideas and his theories in a textbook on the table. Amused, he retorts, âYou curious about me, doll?â
âHmm, I want to know exactly whose cock will be stretching me out in a minute.â
All while he answers, Tojiâs blunt nails scrape your slit through your panties. Heâs not applying much pressure at all, if any, and yet every skim, every travel up and down has goosebumps rising on your skin.
âN-no,â you answer quickly. âI think thatâs really cool. If I had a body like yours, Iâd take pictures all the time too.â
His laughter rumbles in his chest. An odd sense of pride warms your own. He says, âYour bodyâs more than good enough to sell too, you know. Donât act like you donât know guys give you double takes all the time, or that your ass could stop traffic.â
Giggling, you lean back, gazing up at him with a smile. âDo you stare at my ass sometimes, Toji?â
God, youâre soaked. You can tell, though youâre not embarrassed whatsoever. If anything, youâre just itching for him to pull your panties to the side and touch you skin to skin, to plunge inside your pussy and make a mess out of you.
âTell me where you can, and should, insert a semi-colon in paragraph six, and Iâll give you an honest answer.âÂ
He nudges you with his chin. âGo on. Quit thinking with your pussy and give me the right answer.â A little aggrieved, you sit up straight, holding his wrist to keep his hand between your legs. Your eyes scan the section. Tentatively, you point to a full stop on the second line. Toji shakes his head and smacks your clothed pussy again. âTry again, and donât guess.â
âHere,â you snarl, feeling way past pent up. âNow give me my reward.â
Toji huffs. âSemi-colons help for varying sentence structures. Itâs in the little ways you can convey your points compellingly. Donât underutilise the right punctuations.â
âYeah, yeah, smarty pants. Rub my clit and answer my question already.â
Cool air brushes against your swollen, glistening lips. You sigh when his warm hand covers the entire slit barely a second later. His middle fingers are instantly coated in your wetness. He groans. âFuck, doll, youâre dripping.â Toji doesnât give you a moment to respond to that; his fingers rub at your throbbing clit in tight circles, drawing it out of his hood. You moan, back arching.Â
Finally, he answers, âI stare at your ass all the fucking time after I glare at the losers whose eyes wander from their laptop screens . Iâm a big, fucking hypocrite â that what you wanna hear?â
âFuck yes!â
Rustling of paper reaches your ears. Then two hands are on you: one furiously rubbing the bundle of nerves and the other gripping your throat. He squeezes threateningly. Your vision spots, jaw dropping. âLook at you, all desperate to have my cock inside you. And for what? For a couple marks? Youâre not ashamed?â
Your ass is grinding back on his boner, sandwiching the hard thing between your cheeks as your own answer. How could you be ashamed when he wants you so bad too?
âIâm horny! Are you gonna fuck me or not?â
In a split second, you find your world spinning. Your back falls on something hard. Youâre staring up at the ceiling, papers scattered beneath you. Rough hands tug you down by your thighs. When you peer down, Tojiâs staring up at you from between your lips.
âYeah, Iâm fucking you. You already knew I was gonna. You gonna let me taste your pussy first?â A challenging brow quirks up, like heâs waiting for you to push him away.Â
Instead, your legs hook over his shoulders, ankles crossed. You grin at him.
Panties pulled to the side, his fingers spread your pussy for him. Those eyes scan every inch. He releases a shaky breath, cheeks flushed and Adamâs apple bobbing. âEven your pussyâs pretty. Fucking gorgeous.â Running a hand through his hair, he says, âYouâre always such a pain, arenât you?â
âI canât help that every part of meâs pretty,â you reply, twirling your hair.
âShut up and play with your tits â I like a show with my dinner.â Toji spits a fat dollop right on your clit. It slides down your slit but before it can disappear in the crevice of your ass, his tongue is collecting it and shoving it inside your cunt.Â
You gasp. âFuck, Toji!â
In spite of his aggressive tone, you pull down your top, letting your tits bounce out. Those eyes follow every jiggle. âGood girl,â he rasps. âSqueeze them for me nice and hard. Good. Real fucking good.â
His glasses are foggy now with your own humidity, rattling with every movement. Heâs eating your pussy out like heâs starved, like heâs never tasted anything better, like heâs going to make sure not a single trace of you can be found in his apartment after heâs done with you.Â
Growling, he spread your thighs wider. âCourse youâve got a sweet pussy,â he says, brows furrowing in what appears to be anger. âCourse itâs sweeter than that fucking cheesecake. Course Iâll be craving you till I die.â
Fingers tangle in his hair, tugging for purchase. âNgh, Toji, my clitâŠsuck my clit!â
âYeah, yeah.â
Those scarred lips, the very ones youâve stared at more times than you can count, wrap around your clit, sucking hard the way you did when you were blowing him under the desk. Electricity sparks inside, sending tremors up from your lower belly to your tits to the very tips of your fingers. âOh fuck, thatâs so good.â
Filthy squelches are being wrung out of you, and you know heâs doing it on purpose, addicted to how responsive your body is to him.
Two fingers worm their way through your pulsing hole, basking in the rough textures of your entrance, stretching your gummy walls on their way to curling against that spot that has you oozing more cum out.Â
âYouâre fucking tight,â he hisses. âYouâre gonna struggle taking all of me later.â Then he barks a laugh, spare hand pressing down on your belly where the pressure builds up. Your toes curl. âA better man would take pity on you, go slow or wait another day, but Iâve already had my tongue inside your cunt so Iâll spare you the gentleman act.â
More fingers shove in, ignoring the screech that you let out. Youâve never had more than two and yet all four of his thicker, longer fingers are inside pushing your walls to their very limits.Â
Despite that, he remarks, entertained by the shock on your face which he studies through his glasses, âSuck it up, buttercup â my cockâs thicker than this, you know that.â
You do.Â
Itâs all youâve been thinking about all day. Hours after, your jawâs still stretched out, sore and creaking after the workout you put it through. The thought of having something even thicker, longer than his four fingers has you growing dizzy, head handing over the coffee table.
âYeah, my cock canât wait to feel you too,â Toji says, not to you but to your pussy which is squelching lewdly and loudly. âHad to resist jerking my dick raw all day so you better make it good for me.â
Is it seconds later, or minutes, maybe hours, when you cum?
How ever long it is no one can deny itâs the strongest orgasm of your life.Â
Your entire body trembles, spasming beyond control. Are you screaming or silently moaning? Are your eyes shut or have you gone blind? And is he still pistoning his fingers inside you, damn near pushing all of his hand in?Â
âStop,â you cry out. âNo more, please!â
Mercifully, he yanks his hand out. Unfortunately, it leaves you feeling so empty you immediately crave the feeling of his hand gripping you from inside.Â
Lips and chin glistening, he kisses both inner thighs, which tremble.Â
Toji gathers you with one arm, showing off his strength as he carries you off the table and to the glass door which leads out to the balcony. Itâs dark out and all you can see are the lights of peopleâs rooms in the apartment across. There are families lounging, dogs sleeping, TVâs blaring.Â
Behind you, you hear the rustling of his shirt as he throws it off carelessly. Bare skin grazes your own soon after his hands make quick work of the clothes youâre still wearing. In a flash, youâre naked. He bends down to pick up your fallen panties, inhaling the gusset deeply. Your legs cross tightly at the deeply satisfied groan he lets out.Â
âNext office hour,â he starts, lazily spreading your pussy lips and smearing your juices around so he can listen to the squelches and keep your squirming, âyou better leave your panties with me. Consider it payment.â
You laugh. âSure.â
Groggily, you try to keep your head up, wondering what youâre doing by the window, still a little out of it. A hand clutches your jaw, aiding you.Â
âIâm gonna fuck you against this window,â he announces, leaving no room for arguments. âYou want those extra marks? Then youâre gonna be a good girl and take my cock like a champ.â
Ass gyrating back against the hot, heavy thing still confined in sweatpants, you wonder, âDo you have an exhibitionism kink?â
He lets go of you. You have to catch yourself by pressing your palms to the cold glass. Toji drags your hips back, foot kicking your legs apart. His cock plops onto your ass, scalding. âNo, I have a âget my timeâs worth from shameless women who waste my time with demands for better grades by humiliating themâ kink.â
âSounds long. We should get that shortened,â you drawl.
His cockhead slides through your pussy, coating itself in your wetness. The fat thing bumps against your clit. You shudder.Â
Satisfied with your natural lubrication, he prods your entrance. âYeah, we should. Letâs call it, Shut The Fuck Up And Take It.â
Then he enters you in one go.
You scream.
The window fogs up with your breath. Your eyes roll to the back of your head.Â
Youâre taking so much of his length so quickly that it should be painful. Despite that, thereâs not an ounce of pain, not one you didnât like at least â only the overwhelming pleasure of being filled up is resonating.Â
Toji grunts. âAlmost had to fist this cunt and youâre -hah fuck- still too tight.â
Pummelling his cock in, his hips donât pause for a second. You gasp for breath, palms slipping and sliding on the condensation thatâs built up on the glass. Itâs like you can feel him in your lungs, so impossibly deep, so hot, so intimidating.Â
âGod, it should be a crime to have a body like this,â he says, hands groping every part of your flesh he can reach. He slaps your ass to watch it jiggle for him. Heâs an ass man, that much is clear.
The force of his thrusting has you pushed closer to the glass, so close now that almost your entire front is flush with the surface. The coldness grazes your nipples. You moan.Â
âWhere the fuck do you think youâre going?â
He tugs you back to him, body sliding down the glass till your ass is jutted out. Toji carries your hips up so you can reach him, but it means your toes are only brushing the floor. You cling to the glass door as much as you can. Through the glossy haze, you see the marks you left on the glass, from the oils and sweat on your skin. You see the outline of your tits, all round and fat, the handprints you left and the smearing of them all over the place because you couldnât grapple with one position to have them in.Â
Are people watching? Are you flashing a poor old man, are you reigniting a sexual appetite in a pitiful divorcee, making a housewife jealous, creating fantasies for some guy your age? Are people rubbing one out to the flashes of ecstasy on your face, to the swaying of your tits, to the rippling of your ass?
Tojiâs fingers creep under you, furiously teasing your clit. You whine. âI think Iâm gonna cum again.â
âGo on, gorgeous,â he rasps. âLemme feel you cum around my cock. Make my dreams come true.â
Two fingers gather the cream thatâs formed a ring at his base. He draws three letters on the glass for you to stare at. It spells out c u m.
God, heâs dirty.
Another orgasm ripples through you. Your thighs shake. âFuck, fuck, fuck, Toji!â
He growls out, hands tightening their grip on your hips, threatening to bruise, âShit, youâre gonna make me cum early.â
Without waiting for you to come down from your high, he flips you around. Your back thuds against the door. His cock reenters you in a clean, easy slide, cunt beyond soaked and stretched out. Your arms and legs wrap around him.Â
Those glasses of him have fogged up so thickly now that they fail to serve their purpose. Toji takes it off with one hand, sliding it onto your head, like a headband keeping your face clear of your hair. âDonât let them fall,â he orders. âThey break and you wonât be getting that internship.â
And his lips?
They smack against yours.
He kisses you, all tongue and teeth and drool dripping down chins, like heâs been waiting weeks, months, perhaps years to do that. And you kiss him back just the same.Â
Inside you, his cock throbs. Tojiâs hips swing back and forth, pelvis grinding on yours, rubbing your clit and wringing our more obscene squeeeelches.Â
âOh god, Iâm so full, Toji. Youâre so fucking big.â
âYouâre -hngh- t-taking me so well,â he praises, littering sloppy kisses all over your face and neck all while he pinches and rolls your nipples. âMoaning so adorably, all pretty and finally keeping this mouth quiet of smartass comments. You should be like this all the time.â
The rocking of his cock inside you is even better like this. The closeness, the warmth, the taste of him â you wonder why you waited so long to do this.Â
Tits squashed to his chest, your nipples scrape his skin, slipping and sliding with the sweat beading down your bodies. The hard planes of his chest feel magnificent. Nothing about his muscles are for vanity only, and the knowledge of the strength heâs holding back has your eyes rolling to the back of your head.Â
âYouâd miss my smartass comments,â you tell him, head thrown back and hips working their way down on his cock of their own volition.
Toji groans against your neck, licking droplets of sweat. âYeah, maybe. I definitely wouldnât miss your spelling errors though.â
Smiling, you tug his head up by his hair, and bite his bottom lip. You pull and let go so itâll snap back into place like heâd done with your lip when you were under his desk. âMaybe if you taught me like this, I wouldnât -hah- make so m-many mistakesâ deeper, Toji! Fuck me deeper.â
His hips plough deeper inside, like you wanted, hitting that spot inside you till youâre sure itâll be bruised in the morning. Moans after moans are fucked out of you; his neighbours will give him an earful tomorrow, youâre certain.Â
âBook more office hours just to see me and not because you want something from me, then we can see if I can fuck your stupidity out of you,â he retorts.Â
You peck his lips. âAw, does poor, needy Toji want me to give him more attention? Does he miss me when Iâm not there? What a cute little baby.â
âYeah, he does, actually,â he says, smirking. âThat a problem?â
âIt will be if you donât make me cum.â
Toji reminds you, âYouâve been cumming around my cock this entire time; you still want more? Greedy girl.â
He pulls away from the window, stalking over to the sofa instead. Each step burrows him deeper inside you, kissing your cervix and pushing out gasps from your lips, all of which he swallows.Â
Carelessly, he throws you on the sofa. You bounce with an oomph!
Ankles held by one hand, he keeps your legs upright, hips lifted up to meet his. Toji presses a kiss to your ankle bone before he pushes his cock back inside. Your back arches with a mewl. Like this, his huge body becomes even more glaring â heâs casting a shadow over you, completely dwarfing you, reminding you how easily he could break you, how he could take whatever he wants from you.Â
Every time he buries himself to the hilt, a bulge pops through your tummy, right under your belly button.Â
âLook at that,â he mutters, brushing a thumb over it. You whine. âFeel me deep inside you? Youâll be feeling me inside for days, wonât you? Once it starts to fade, you can always come back for another fill, you know.â
âPromise?â you ask, grinning ear to ear.Â
Toji pulls out, leaving just his tip before he slams back in, jostling you down on the sofa. His abs contract, cock throbbing at the sudden clenching of your walls around him. âFuck, yes, doll. Promise. I fucking promise.â
His glasses have slid off, rattling somewhere on the sofa with the impact of every thrust. He doesnât seem to care about them anymore. Youâre nearing another orgasm, head whipping around at the intensity of the pressure building in your core. Heâs bullying his cock relentlessly in your cunt, chasing after his own high and sending you to yours.Â
When your eyes clash with his piercing, green ones, unobstructed by his glasses, you explode with a scream.Â
âF-fuck,â he grunts, following soon after.Â
Searing cum spurts inside you, cock pulsing, cum painting your walls. His thumb rubs your clit, aiding you through your orgasm. Your moans are vibrating against the walls, definitely disturbing his neighbours, but so are his groans.Â
He slumps over, rolling the two of you on the sofa so youâre resting naked on his heated body, his heavy arm preventing you from falling off. Your pussyâs sore, a mix of your cum and his dribbling out and creating a sticky mess on your inner thighs.Â
Absentmindedly, as you both catch your breath, he rubs your back. You draw shapes and letters on his chest. Toji combs his hair off of his forehead, chest rising up and down with his breathing. The dirty marks you two left are still on the glass, though itâs no longer foggy.Â
Reaching up above him, he gracefully finds his glasses, sliding them on his face. You like him with and without them.Â
âSo,â you begin, âabout those extra marks.â
Toji lifts his glasses up to rub a hand down his face. âJesus, yes, youâll get the marks.â
âThanks!â you chirp.Â
âGod, youâre a pain in the ass.â
.
.
.
âFuck, Toji,â you moan. âI already came three times. Itâs too -hic- too much.â
Your TA ruts his cock inside you, face buried in the crook of your neck. His glasses are on your nose bridge, blurring your vision; he gets so frustrated when the thing gets in the way of kissing you or eating you out.
âShut up,â he rasps, hand pressing down on your lower belly so you can feel him even more. âYouâre the one who dragged me here. Take every orgasm I give you and be grateful.â
Thatâs true â you were supposed to have an office hour with him, which is really an excuse to see your boyfriend before you have to attend the internship induction session, but then you took one look at him and his amazing body and started soaking through your panties so here you two are.
Oh yes, you did say boyfriend.
After he blew your mind out, youâd been visiting his apartment after classes so often, you were practically living there, and he didnât mind. It started out casual, but after realising you two would go grocery shopping, watch movies together, and text each other practically every day, you decided to just seal the deal and make it official.Â
In short, he fucks good, and he can tolerate your personality, so you two stuck together.Â
A month in, neither of you are really regretting it. At least, if his desperate thrusting and sloppy kisses to your neckâs anything to go by.Â
âMissed you so much, Toji,â you whine, hips fucking back into him.
Toji groans, hand groping your tit from under your shit. âYeah, baby?â
âMmm.â
âMissed you too,â he confesses, licking a stripe up your neck and scraping his teeth down. Goosebumps rise on your arms. âBeen wanting to see you all morning.â
You giggle, holding onto the stall for purchase and so his thrusting wonât make you smack face first onto the door. âYouâre so cute w-when youâre needy.â
âFuck off,â he says with no real heat to his words.Â
In the near distance, the door to the menâs toilets opens with a dull metallic creak, the sound echoing faintly off the tiled walls. Feet pad inâslow, unhurried. The steady rhythm of someone who expects the place to be empty.
âFushiguro?â a voice calls out. âYou in here?â
The two of you go very, very still. Tojiâs entire body stiffens behind you, muscles locking. His hand clamps firmly over your mouth for extra measure, warm palm pressing tight enough that you can feel the tension in his fingers.
Your heart slams against your ribs, loud enough that youâre half convinced it might echo under the stall. What the hell is the professor doing here?
âSusan told me she saw you walk in this direction. You got a minute?â
Toji releases a tense breath through his nose, annoyed at the interruption but left with no choice but to answer. He lifts you up so your feet hang over the floor and wonât be seen by the outsider. âYeah, prof. But Iâm kinda in the middle of something.â
The professor laughs. âYes, yes, Iâm sure. I do apologise for interrupting you. I was just locked out of my account and canât send emails for the next hour. You know how terrible I am with technology.â He enters the stall next door. He unzips his pants. You cringe. âI only wanted to ask if youâre prepared to host the internship induction later.â
You go still, this time for a different reason.Â
Your boyfriend releases your mouth. Fingers creep over to between your legs, where youâre still connected to him, where heâs still throbbing inside you. He slowly rubs your clit, keeping you from squirming in complaint with his strong arms. Toji responds, âYeah, got all my notes ready.â
The bastardâs trying to distract youâŠ
âAh good, good,â the older man joyfully responds. His stream hits the water, and you fight the urge to face palm. âI had a look over the plans and the schedule. Very well organised, I must say. The competition was fierce, which is a testament to the success of the event, so props to you.â
Do men hold conversation so casually in the toilets?
Toji carefully begins moving in slow and shallow thrusts, prodding your g-spot over and over with his fat cockhead. You bite your lips to keep from moaning. Your nails dig into his thick arm. He ignores you.Â
âDonât mention it, Professor.â
The man zips himself back up and flushes, exiting the stall. Outside, the tap runs, and youâre both still as quiet as rocks, afraid that any sudden movement will out you both as sexual deviants.Â
He adds, âOh, and thank you for handling the applications for me; you know I hate all that paperwork nonsense.âÂ
Your jaw drops.Â
Beyond tense, Toji replies like heâs aware of the weight every word exchange carries, âI do what I can do to help out.âÂ
âI couldnât do what I do without you,â the professor continues, sincere and ignorant to the fact that youâre there. The rustling of paper towels echoes. âWell, Iâll see you later. Apologies again for interrupting.âÂ
The exit door swings open and you relax, but then his voice fills the space again.Â
âDo say hello to your pretty, little girlfriend for me.âÂ
Your heart?Â
Drops to the fucking floor.
Tojiâs grip on you tightens just slightly, barely noticeable unless youâre pressed this close to him.
Your mind races. Did he see you come in? Did someone tell him? Did Susan, whoever the hell she isâ
Toji speaks before you can spiral further, his tone sharper now, suspicion threading through it. âWhat do you mean, Professor?â
âOh, you know, the girl youâve been eyeing for a while now â sheâs on the internship, yes?â Then he laughs the kind of laughter old men do, all paternal and wise. âDonât worry, son, Iâm not accusing you of pulling strings; I know sheâs a very intelligent young woman. Ambitious too. Almost as ambitious as you. I hope you two work something out.â
Your heart slows its beating but youâre not any less tense.Â
Sighing, Toji responds, âIâll let you know if we do.â
âYes, yes,â the professor says before he leaves for good.Â
Finally, itâs just you two in the menâs toilets again. The silence and emptiness is maddeningly relieving. Although, youâre seething, practically vibrating with accusations and anger. Â
Toji lets you down. Your feet touch the ground again. You pull him out, whirling on him with a disbelieving glare. You snatch his glasses off your face with one hand and smack his chest with the other. The man doesnât budge.
âYou sneaky piece of shit!â
He gathers both of your wrists with one hand, rolling his eyes. Toji takes his glasses from you and slides it on his face. Seeing you clearer now, he guides his cock back to your pussy, re-entering with ease. You moan, allowing him to hike your leg over his hip so he can press in deeper.
Kissing your lips, he mutters against your lips, âI did what I had to to get your attention. Sue me.â
âGod, youâre the worst,â you breathe out, chest jutting out to his, nipples aching and clit throbbing.Â
âYeah, yeah,â he says, âIâm the big, bad wolf, and youâre creaming all over my dick right now. Letâs not act like you got the short end of the stick here.â
âMaster manipulator,â you hiss, kissing him back, fingers tangling in his hair as soon he lets go of your wrists to grope your tit and ass.
âWhore,â he fires back.
Then the two of you smile, clutching each other tightly as you both rock into each other, nearing your mutual orgasm and riding the pleasure growing in your bodies. Fuck, he feels so good.
âWeâre gonna be together forever and ever, arenât we?â you ask.
Tojiâs scar brushes your forehead with his kiss.Â
I NEED DICK! I NEED TO GET FUCKED SO HARD MY BRAIN CAN'T FORM ANXIETY NO MORE! PREFERABLY BEING FUCKED BY SOME REALLY TALL GUYS WITH BIG BICEPS AND BIG DICKS! I NEED DICK
People always talked about Sukuna like he was intimidating. Too tall, too serious, tattoos crawling up his arms, piercings, and that permanent annoyed expression. But nobody ever mentioned his hands.
It happened randomly. You were stretched out on his couch while he worked on an assignment, his laptop balanced on his knee. Yuji was asleep in the other room after refusing bedtime three separate times. You werenât even doing anything, just lying there with your cheek against the armrest, watching him.
His sleeves were rolled up, and his hands moved over the keyboard. You stared for too long because they did not match him.Â
Not really.
His knuckles had tiny pale lines across them, old cuts. One thicker scar sat near the base of his thumb. His nails were short and uneven, and the skin around his joints was dry. His fingers looked rough and used. Not ugly. Just worked.
Warehouse shifts, carrying boxes, opening things with his hands because he never bothered getting tools, cooking, washing dishes, holding Yujiâs tiny shoes while yelling at him to stand still, fixing Chosoâs bike, and probably carrying too much for too long.
You looked down at your own hands, soft with little rings and tiny scars from paper cuts and cooking, and suddenly your chest hurt.
Sukuna glanced over. âWhy are you staring.â
You blinked. âNothing.â
âThat face means something.â
You shook your head, and he went back to typing. Two minutes later, you spoke again. âWhy are your hands like that?â
He stopped typing and slowly looked at you. âWhat does that mean.â
You sat up. âNo, likeâŠâ You reached over and took one of his hands before he could pull away. He let you. You turned it over in your lap, his palm warm and rough. You traced one of the scars with your thumb.
âYou work too hard.â
He stared at you, then looked away. âWhat.â
Your throat felt strange. You laughed awkwardly. âI dunno. I just⊠I don't know.â You pressed your thumb into his palm, and suddenly your eyes stung.
He noticed immediately. His expression shifted. âOi.â
You looked away, and he responded by closing the laptop. âWhy are you crying?â
âMânot.â
âYou are.â
You sniffed, and it sounded ridiculous even to you. You whispered, âI just got sad.â
His eyebrows pulled together. âAbout my hand.â
You nodded once.
He looked genuinely confused. You swallowed. âI know this is dumb,â you murmured, tracing another scar. âBut every time I see stuff like this, I think you do too much.â
His face stayed blank, so you kept going quietly.
âYou work all day. You raise Yuji and Cho. You always pay. You fix everything, andâŠâ Your voice softened. âYour hands look tired.â
Silence settled between you. Sukuna looked at you, then at his own hand resting in yours. For a moment, something in his expression shifted. Not dramatically, just a flicker of surprise, like nobody had ever looked at him and thought about him instead of what he could do.
He scoffed under his breath. âYouâre weird.â
You nodded sadly. âI know.â
He stared at you for a few more seconds, then turned his hand and closed his fingers around yours. You froze. He looked away, the tips of his ears faintly pink.
âTheyâre just hands.â
You looked at him and whispered, âNo.âÂ
When his eyes flicked back to you, you smiled softly. âThey look like someone whose been trying really hard.â
His jaw tightened, the way it always did, like affection made him uncomfortable. Then he reached out, grabbed your wrist, and pulled you into him. You made a small, confused sound as he pressed your forehead against his shoulder.
âStop looking at me like Iâm dying.â
You laughed weakly. âMâ not.â
His hand rubbed your back once, slow and awkward. Then, quieter, he said, âIt is not that bad.â
You nodded against him.
But later, when he was asleep, you held one of his hands against your cheek and thought that next time he came over, you were buying hand cream. Not because he needed it, but because somebody should take care of the hands that take care of everyone else.
Also, my sign to buy hand cream bc why tf are my hands so roughđđ Finally wrote something up, exams have literally drained my balls blue, I'm so DONE!!
two meads in and i'm asking my knight if i can feel how sharp his blade is đ€Šââïž i'm giggling and kicking my feet too. should i ask him to press it against my neck or is that too forward
kiss your screen every time you see a typo or grammatical error in my fics because it means it's home grown and not some ai bullshit and im dead serious about this
jack abbot doing that thing where heâs shushing you even heâs the reason youâre making all that noise. like heâs got you pinned to the bed on your side, curling his body over you to keep reaching that spot. asking âwhatâs all the fuss about, hm?â and holding your face with fake concern while railing you to literal pleased tears.
youâre grabbing onto whatever part of him you can, tugging the freckled skin as the thick of him splits you open with rough strokes. unraveling you thrust by thrust.
âjâŠjack,â is all your voice can bunch out of your damp-with-sweat, bouncing figure. the rest of what you say just spills into loud, melty, fucked-out noises.
âthatâs my name, donât wear it out,â he mumbles, lips against your ear. they peck a quick kiss along the shell before he grins at your loud pantsâwhich is exactly how he wants them⊠wants you. loud and crying (good tears, of course) and stuffed full of him. you cry out his name again, and he just bucks into you harder. feeling a little light headed himself. âshh, baby, i know. weâll getcha there.â
SUMMARY â he believes you don't matter to him. just one more annoying fangirl. showing up to his races, being obnoxiously chatty and your flirtingâgod, does it end? sukuna dreads you. however, he starts reciprocating, as a joke, of course! until it doesn't feel like a joke anymore and he wants nothing but you on his side.
PAIRING â streetracer!sukuna x fem!reader
CONTENT WARNINGS / GENRES / TAGS â smau w/ written chapters, smut, angst, sukuna is a lot older than reader, older brother to choso and yuji, he was in jail for getting caught racing LOL, nsfw/vulgar jokes like allll the time, inumaki talks (UNFORTUNATELY), sukuna playing w her feelings, he is toxic!
NOTE â i don't know too much about street racing, so if i make mistakes pls lmk!!
PROFILES:
YOU THE BIRTHDAY CAKE | FUTURE COUGARS & MILFS
01: WHAT SHALL I RENDER?
02: LET'S ALL MOAN
03: 15 UNFORTUNATE SIGNS YOUR HUSBAND DOESN'T LOVE YOU ANYMORE
simon leans over you, hips swinging with each thrust, his dog tags clinking against your chest, the firm edge of the steel digging into you when he stops for a moment, exhausted, lying on top of you.
âsweetest cunt i ever fucked.â he says, trying to be nonchalant, but you canât help but laugh at his words, your hands tangling in his curls, wrapping a strand around your finger.
youâve got him wrapped around your little finger, with his scars and his big hands that have done god knows what in the army.
âfucker canât even dirty talk properly.â your look up at him, and smile, âcâmon si, stop trying so hard and say that you love me.â
he heaves in a breath, his chest pressed to yours, his head in the crook of your neck. heâs so big compared to you and so quiet, youâre the one who talks too much.Â
âmmm? but you said you wantedâŠâ he frowns into your skin, you can feel his eyebrows scrunching.
you stroke the back of his neck, âno baby, si- i love you how you are, no need for dirty talk.â
he lets out a little whine, tugging you closer to him, letting your fingernails rake over his scalp, âsâgood lovie, please-âÂ
his cock is still in you, pressing against your cervix, and you coax another orgasm out of him, just with your hands in his hair, heâs whining and moaning.Â
he looks up at you with his sweaty hair against his forehead, a smile on his pretty lips, and you bend down to kiss it, heâs like your heated blanket this winter.Â
Captain Price doesnât really discuss his private life, but youâve decided that he must secretly be married. You have no evidence, except look at him, how could he not have some beautiful wife tucked away in an idyllic, rustic cottage in the countryside.
Thatâs the image you try to keep in mind when itâs late at night and youâre alone with John in his office. Otherwise, youâll conjure visions of him spreading you out on top of his desk, and you are no homewrecker.
Admittedly, you havenât been doing a great job of battling against the various temptations he throws your way. Once John starts leaning in close and casually touching you and speaking directly into your ear, all logic leaves your brain and you just indulge. Lately, heâs been dropping a few âsweetheartââs into his conversations with you, which has got you spinning. The sanctity of marriage means something to you, though. You resolve to set some professional boundaries and stick to them.
Itâs a good thing too because a week later, you finally get your first real confirmation of his secret wife. Your whole body seizes up when you overhear John confiding to his men that the missus seems to be upset with him. Pivoting in place, you scuttle back the way you came from before he realizes youâre there. Youâre so embarrassed now that itâs truly been established that youâve been flirting with a married man. After that, you avoid ever being alone with him and can barely look him in the eye, but it's for the best.
The captain seems to have a different opinion on the way youâve settled this matter, though.
Heâs got you cornered in his office, literally, with an arm pressed against the wall above you. John starts to speak of how he wants to be clear about his intentions, and youâve got to stop him before you kiss his wonderful face thatâs creeping closer and closer to yours.
âCaptain Price, what about your wife?!â you blurt out, keeping your hands glued to your sides and to yourself.
John pauses, but he looks more amused than guilty. âIs that what all this has been about?â he asks with a chuckle. You get about five words into your practiced speech on how infidelity is unacceptable to you on any level when he drops a bomb on your whole scenario. âIâm not married.â
Youâre floored with this new information, eyes wide and mouth agape. âW-what? But I heard you tell the others about your missus andââ
âI was referring to you, sweetheart,â he declares. Your jaw snaps shut at the interruption, and your face heats up as you start processing what this all means. âGlad we're on the same page when it comes to loyalty, though.â
Youâre mortified, of course, but at least youâve hit rock bottom with your dignity already, so itâs not much more of a stretch to next very timidly and quietly request that he place you on top of his desk. John happily obliges. Anything for his little missus.
discoholicmusic
s-u-f-j-a-n-s-t-e-v-e-n-s
andulkaphoto
