admittedly, it seemed like a terrible idea to text your plug-turned-crush-turned-friend choso, but it was 2:34am and you had been smoking for a while now, recently finding out that not even weed could get him out of your mind.
funnily, this made you blind to the fact that he was just as whipped for you.
you two had met at a party a couple of months ago, your first time at the frats you seemed to never go to. not because you hadn't wanted to, but because you had yet to find a good reason to go to them. you wanted the college experience alright, but given your less-exciting high school days you were afraid of all sorts of disney-like bullying situations you mind end up in. that all changed when the frat guy who sat next to you in your health class decided to make up for all the times you had given him answers to the homework.
"you doin anything friday?" toji asked, that lazy smile creeping up his features.
"hmm no, why?"
"well, my frat is throwing and i have yet to see you out. figured ya'd like to come hang," he said casually.
"guess i could come, what time should i pull up?" you ask, trying to hide your excitement, it's not everyday that the guy with the best physique on campus who most (if not all) girls always cheer for in his rugby games, not to mention he was social chair of fiji, known to always have best intramural greek events where there is always more alcohol than water in you when you're done.
"be there at 9 if you want to make it to the pregame ma," he said, using that nickname you had learned to recognize as him wanting something out of you, which was scary but you were not about to turn down a pre at one of the top houses.
"see you then," you say as you gather your things as you walk out the class.
unbeknownst to you, choso had been admiring you for a while. he was one of toji's brothers, and he had talked about you time to time, as besides being the campus plug he was also part of the university's radio, which was known for being where the stoners were at, good for business but also to find people like him.
you had done a couple of shifts there, liking the calm atmosphere of the studio, and a chance to put others on to your music, maybe even talk about your problems or just sit and talk to the others in the club. choso had always thought you were beautiful, which naturally made him shy in your presence. even if he was welcome to, he never tried to join your shows, he was too scared to look stupid or to show you just how down bad he truly was. so instead, he always tuned in to your sessions, stroking it every time you decided to be talkative. his favorites were the ones where you were irritated, the way your voice would be exasperated and you'd groan in annoyance made it easy to imagine what it'd be like if he pulled any pretty sounds out of your mouth.
he liked to question whether you'd prefer his fingers or his tongue the most. playing bass for a couple of years and gaming made his fingers quick and precise, and while he didn't have lots of experience he figured it couldn't be much harder. on the flip side, he had gotten a tongue piercing when he was pledging, and he had been eager to put it to use on a pretty thing like you.
he usually came about 3 times per session, as he had memorized your little routine: greeting, topic for the day, couple of songs, a break to explain why you chose the topic, couple of more songs, some bad jokes and a goodbye. 9/10 times he got hard whenever he saw your name on the schedule, and he was already some strokes in by the time you actually started your section, making him very needy and close to the edge by the time your voice came on his speakers and gave him the final push, his movements growing erratic as you spoke about anything, precum running through his fingers as he squeezed his tip each time a little harder and moved his hands faster along his shaft.
after the mess he became once your show was over, he just went straight to the shower shamelessly, thinking about when he'd have the guts to actually go up to you. one day, as his brothers were planning the next party, toji happened to mention your name in passing, wondering whether you'd want to come pre with them. toji truly was a rough person on every one of his edges, but something that couldn't be denied was how nothing escaped him, and the way choso lit up at the mension of your name did not go ignored by him.
"oh, you know her too?" he immediately turns to ask.
"ehh, something like that, she also does some radio shows," he says, turning away to hide his flustered face.
"pretty thing isn't she?" toji said, wanting to pull a reaction out of him.
"yeah she's cool," choso says trying to keep his cool, but his eyes practically burning through the floor said everything toji wanted to know.
"then it's set, i'm inviting her friday," toji says walking out the room, wanting to help his brother get some.
and get some he did.
that night choso couldn't keep his eyes off you, being 2 blunts in to be able to remain calm, but his altered vision only made you look even more beautiful, and his ears chose to hang on to your voice and laugh, something he had long memorized but rarely got to listen to in person, and the moment you finally turned to look at him in the corner of the basement. he also happened to be a couple of shots in, so once you made your way over to him he was able to look at you in the eye.
"hi," you said, curious about him.
"hey"
"have i seen you around before? you seem familiar," you ask, hazy mind trying to think of where you'd seen him before.
"might've seen me around in the studio, or at least seen my name in the schedule," he replies, wondering if you'd also noticed him the way he's been noticing you.
"oh fuck me!" he'd love to, "you do radio as well! fuck let me guess, inumaki? no, choso?" you say sweetly, almost apologetically, as you felt like you should've known this, since he clearly knew you.
him on the other hand, was more than ecstatic to have heard your name from your pretty mouth for the first time, nothing compared to the audio he had curated from several snippets of your shows where he put together syllables similar to the ones of his name. only god knows how long he's spent trying to make sound natural, and now, here you are, standing before him doing it so simply.
"that's me," he replies somehow, voice low, "sorry if i ain't been around, i'm just busy during the week." which technically isn't a lie, you just don't need to know what he makes time for during your show.
"oh no worries! i'm just glad to finally meet you," you say, wishing now that his dark purple eyes would roam your body once more, suddenly being very attracted to him.
choso’s lips twitched, not quite a smile, but something warmer, something he didn’t usually let people see. “yeah,” he said, eyes flicking over your face like he was memorizing it. “i’m glad too.”
the music thumped through the basement, lights strobing in soft purples and reds, but somehow he made the room feel quieter. Like the two of you were standing in a pocket of stillness no one else could step into.
you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, suddenly aware of how close you were standing. “so… you’re the mysterious voice i keep missing in the studio.”
he huffed a soft laugh. “mysterious is generous. i’m usually just editing or running cables.”
“still counts,” you said, nudging him lightly with your elbow. “you could’ve said hi.”
he looked down at where your arm had brushed his, then back up at you. his voice dropped a little. “didn’t wanna bother you.” or rather, didn't have the courage to, but who's keeping tabs?
“you wouldn’t have,” you said, and you meant it. “i like when people talk to me.”
his eyes softened. “yeah?” he asked quietly.
“yeah.”
for a moment, neither of you said anything. the air between you felt warm, stretched thin, like a string pulled tight. you could feel him watching you, not in a creepy way, but in a way that made your stomach flip, like he was trying to understand you and getting a little lost in the process.
then toji yelled something across the room, breaking the moment. choso blinked, shoulders tensing like he’d been snapped out of a trance.
“you wanna go somewhere quieter?” he asked suddenly, surprising even himself. “just outside, fresh air.”
you smiled, feeling heat rise to your cheeks. “yeah. lead the way.”
he hesitated for half a second, then gently placed his hand on the small of your back to guide you through the crowd, barely touching you, but enough to send a warm shiver up your spine.
and that was the beginning of it. the first moment he let himself get close.
outside, the air was cooler than you expected. the kind of cold that wakes you up just enough to feel everything a little sharper. choso held the door for you, eyes flicking down for a second like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to look at you directly yet.
you stepped onto the porch, the muffled bass from inside vibrating through the wooden boards. he stood beside you, hands in his pockets, shoulders slightly hunched like he was trying to make himself smaller which was funny, considering he was anything but.
“you okay?” you asked, leaning against the railing.
he nodded, exhaling a slow breath that fogged in the air. “yeah. just… loud in there.”
“you don’t seem like the frat party type,” you teased.
“i’m not,” he admitted, glancing at you. “but i show up for people.”
you raised a brow. “for toji?”
he laughed. then, he spoke up, “partly, i love all of my brothers, would do anything for 'em”
you felt that line settle somewhere warm in your chest. he wasn’t looking at you when he said it, but the sentiment, it made you feel like you wanted to have him in your corner. so you decided to ask, the alcohol fueling your courage.
you nudged him lightly with your shoulder. “so… am i worth showing up for?”
he swallowed, eyes dropping to your shoes, then your hands, then finally your face. “yeah,” he said, voice low. “you are.”
the porch light buzzed softly above you, casting a warm halo over his hair. for a moment, neither of you moved. it wasn’t romantic, not exactly, but it wasn’t just friendly either. it was something in-between, something that made your pulse skip.
and that was the first night you realized he wasn’t just quiet, he was careful. intentional. the kind of person who didn’t waste words or attention.
"you smoke?" he asks, breaking the silence.
"smoke what?" you ask, knowing you don't do cigarettes or nicotine altogether, but weed was a whole other story.
"weed, duh," he says, surprised that his reputation didn't precede him for once.
you giggle, and then just nod your head.
he pulls out some pre-rolls from his pocket like he’s revealing a magic trick he’s been waiting to show off.
“you want?” he asks, holding one out between two fingers.
you take it, your fingers brushing his, barely a second, but enough for him to blink a little too slow.
“thanks,” you say, trying not to grin.
he lights his first, shielding the flame with his hand. the lighter clicks a couple times before it actually works. you're embarrassed to admit how handsome he looks when the warm lighting of the flame hits his face, violet hues in full force.
“wow,” you tease, “campus plug with a faulty lighter? tragic.”
he snorts. “it’s loyal. just… dramatic.”
“so it matches you,” you shoot back.
he gives you a look — half offended, half amused. “i’m not dramatic.”
“you literally sighed when we walked out here.”
“that was the cold,” he insists, even though you both know it wasn’t.
you laugh, taking a slow inhale from your joint. the smoke curls up into the porch light, which flickers like it’s trying to join the conversation.
“so,” you say, leaning against the railing, “you’re like… the quiet brother.”
“quiet?” he repeats, pretending to be offended again. “i talk.”
“to who?” you ask. “the wall?”
he shakes his head, but he’s smiling now, small and crooked. “i talk to people.”
“oh yeah? name one.”
he hesitates, then gestures vaguely at you. “you.”
you raise a brow. “we’ve known each other for like… twenty minutes.”
“and i’ve said more words to you than i have to half the frat this week,” he says, shrugging like it’s nothing.
you feel a little flutter in your chest.
“well,” you say, bumping his shoulder lightly, “i’m honored to be in your top five people you speak to.”
“top three,” he corrects.
“oh? who’s above me?”
“yuji,” he says immediately. “and… my dealer.”
you blink. “aren’t you the dealer?”
he pauses. “yeah.”
you burst out laughing, and he looks proud of himself for making you do it.
the moment settles into something easy. like the two of you have been orbiting each other for a while and finally bumped into the same space.
“we should probably go back in,” you say eventually.
“probably,” he agrees, but neither of you move.
you both stand there a little longer, pretending you’re not waiting for the other to say something else. something stupid or funny or maybe a little bold.
"before that, would you give me your number? would kinda like to keep my top 3 intact," he says, looking right at your eyes hopefully, almost like a kid about to beat his highest score. "please don't break my heart and put something on my phone?" he pleads as he hands you his phone, "even if you're gonna send me your dad's number or some bs to fuck with me, let me keep this moment a little longer."
"who told you i'd give you the privilege of talking to my dad? i was gonna put you on to the chinese restaurant right down the street," you giggle as you type your number in.
"fuck man, i could go for some lo mein right now, should i give them a call?" he asks playfully.
"you can go ahead and ring them if you want," you smile, watching him press the call button.
and next thing he knows, you pull out your phone from your pocket to show him his call. needless to say, he smiled hardest than he ever had, and as you walked back into the house, he couldn't help but think there was a chance to be yours.
months later, you and choso had slipped into a friendship that felt… easy. stupid jokes, late-night music links, him showing up with snacks “by accident,” you stealing his hoodies “on purpose.” nothing official, nothing dramatic, yet alluring enough to keep you waiting for more.
which is why, at 2:34am, high and restless and thinking about him more than you should, you texted him that bullshit, and immediately buried your face in your pillow, groaning at yourself, because of course you’d text that.
but also… of course you’d text him.
choso wasn’t even supposed to be awake.
he’d told himself he’d go to bed early because he had some early deliveries, but then he got caught up fixing a playlist for the radio, then reorganizing his desk, then staring at the ceiling thinking about absolutely nothing and somehow also thinking about you.
so when his phone buzzed, he assumed it was yuji sending some unhinged meme.
but it wasn’t. it was you.
you: tryna be my blunt for 4/20?
choso froze. he reread it. then reread it again. then locked his phone, unlocked it, and reread it a third time just to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating.
“bro,” he whispered to himself, dragging a hand down his face. “what does that even mean.”
he knew what it meant. or… he thought he did. or maybe he didn’t. you were always like this, playful, bold, saying things that made his brain short‑circuit while you acted like it was nothing. he hated himself for thinking of it literally, and he had to stop himself right there and then because he would get harder than he could type something back if he truly dwelled on the implication of him literally being your blunt. your hazy eyes looking at him as your lips wrapped around him? what a fucking dream.
he sat up in bed, hoodie half on, hair a mess, heart doing something embarrassing in his chest. should he play it cool? should he joke back? should he pretend he didn’t immediately get flustered?
he typed:
you high or just bold tonight
deleted it. typed it again. sent it before he could chicken out.
the three dots popped up almost instantly.
he swore under his breath. you were awake-awake.
you: both maybe. depends on your answer.
he stared at that message for a long moment, thumb hovering over the keyboard, mind racing in circles. you always did this to him, but he also liked it. more than he’d ever admit.
you know i don’t smoke with just anybody, he typed, hoping it sounded casual and not like his pulse was in his throat.
your reply came quick.
you: good thing i’m not just anybody then.
he let out a quiet, helpless laugh — the kind he only ever made because of you. he pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, trying to calm down, but it didn’t work. it never worked.
he thought about the porch that night. the way you teased him. the way you laughed at his stupid jokes. the way you bumped his shoulder like you’d known him longer than twenty minutes.
he thought about how easy it was with you. how stupidly easy.
and before he could overthink it, he typed:
come over. i’ll roll for you
he stared at the message after sending it, half horrified, half thrilled.
then your reply came.
you: on my way
choso dropped his phone onto his bed and just sat there for a second, hands on his knees, trying to process the fact that you were actually coming over.
“okay,” he muttered to himself, standing up way too fast. “okay. chill. be normal.”
the walk to his frat house feels shorter than usual, probably because your thoughts are racing so much and the adrenaline of your stupidity is getting you high. the night air is cool, your hoodie pulled tight around you, and every step feels like you’re walking toward something you shouldn’t want as much as you do.
his porch light is on.
you knock once, barely, and the door opens almost immediately, like he’d been standing right behind it.
choso looks… flustered. in a way he’s trying very hard to hide. hair tied back messily, hoodie half-zipped, eyes a little too wide like he wasn’t expecting you to actually show up even though he invited you.
“hey,” he says, voice low, soft.
“hey,” you echo, suddenly aware of how quiet the hallway is.
he steps aside to let you in, and you brush past him "accidentally," but not really. he smells like laundry detergent and something warm, something familiar. he clears his throat like he felt it too.
“you, uh… made good time,” he says, closing the door behind you.
“i walk fast when i’m motivated,” you tease.
he huffs a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “guess i should be flattered.”
"oh don't flatter yourself, i just came for the weed," you joke, trying to ease the tension, but the way he's looking at you only makes the pull stronger.
you drop onto his couch, pulling your knees up. he sits beside you, not too close, but close enough that your legs almost touch. close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him.
he pulls out his rolling tray, setting it on the coffee table. “i said i’d roll for you,” he murmurs, hands already moving.
you watch him work. the way his fingers move, the way he focuses, the way he keeps glancing at you like he’s checking if you’re still there. you can't help but wonder if he'd be just as thorough in bed. would he tease you? would he just bend to your every wish? much to your fantasy's dismay, he was staring right back you, but it was so intently that you started to believe your little infatuation was mutual.
you take the joint from his hand, your fingers brushing his again — and this time, neither of you pretend not to notice. the room feels warmer than it should, like the air is paying attention.
you lean back into the couch, bringing the joint to your lips. choso watches you, in that soft, focused way he always does, like he’s trying to memorize the moment without making it obvious.
“you staring at me?” you tease, exhaling slowly.
he blinks, caught. “no.”
“liar.”
he huffs a quiet laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “you make it kinda hard not to.”
your heart does something embarrassing in your chest. you pass the joint back to him, and when he takes it, his fingers linger on yours — just a second too long to be accidental.
he inhales, then hands it back. you shift closer without thinking, knees brushing. he goes still, like the smallest touch short-circuited him.
“you’re really close,” he murmurs.
“you invited me over,” you remind him, smiling.
“yeah, but—” he stops, eyes flicking down to your mouth for half a second before he catches himself. “you’re still… close.”
you tilt your head. “does it bother you?”
he swallows. “no.”
you both laugh softly at the same time — nervous, warm, a little breathless. the kind of laugh that only happens when two people are trying very hard not to admit how much they want to kiss each other. it sounds like a stupid movie script, but it's so palpable when it's actually happening to you.
you shift again, just a little, and your thigh presses against his. he doesn’t move away. he doesn’t even breathe for a second.
“choso,” you say quietly. then you take another puff and blow the smoke right into his face, watching as he opens his mouth to inhale what he could.
then he looks at you, and the room feels like it narrows to just the two of you. the soft lamp light. the faint smell of weed. the warmth of his knee against yours. the way his eyes flicker between your eyes and your mouth like he’s fighting himself.
“yeah?” he whispers.
you don’t answer right away. you just hold his gaze, letting the silence stretch, letting the tension thicken until it feels like a held breath.
he leans in, but barely an inch, maybe less. like he’s testing the air between you.
you feel your pulse in your fingertips.
he stops halfway, eyes searching yours, waiting for something: permission, a sign, anything.
“you sure?” he asks again, voice low, almost shy.
you nod, just once. “yeah.”
he exhales, shaky and soft, like he’s been holding that breath since the porch months ago.
and then he leans in a little more.
close enough that you can feel the warmth of his breath. close enough that your noses almost brush. close enough that the world feels very, very quiet. after having your mind race for so long it finally goes still, so still that you don't notice the warmth creeping up your face, your heart going haywire.
and in a millisecond, your lips are touching his, and it's fucking over from there. he wastes no time in picking up the pace, kissing you with so much fervor you were starting to think that he wanted this more than you, which is a lot to say judging from the way you've clung to his every word, imagined, no, dreamed of ending right where you are, and in fact, taking it much further than that.
he puts the blunt on the table just so he could use both of his hands to run through your body. he wastes no time on flipping you under him and working his way from your lips to your neck with his lips, drawing soft moans and hitched breaths from you, making sure not to miss a single spot, and sucking on the spots that had you moaning the hardest.
“cho! f-fuck”
“hah, that’s it pretty, just keep ‘em coming for me,” he says breathlessly.
he keeps moving up and down just in that area, almost like he needed his lips touching you in order to commit you to his memory, and you don’t miss the way his growing bulge deliciously rubs on your legs, sending heat straight down to your core.
“can i?” he asks, hands on the hem of your hoodie, ready to take it off at your command. before responding you take a minute to truly take him in, his disheveled hair, his rosy cheeks, his glossy eyes and even glossier lips, slightly parted, so desperate and so fucking hungry. you feel yourself getting wet just at the sight of him.
“don’t keep me waiting for it,” you say, knowing you’ve waited long enough for this.
“oh baby i’ll make you regret saying that.”
and he certainly tried, but you were so far gone you only found yourself wanting more and more.
if his pace was passionate yet charged before now it was just raw need and intention, like he had rehearsed for this exact moment to happen. now you were down to your underwear, and the way his hands were caressing your back while he placed wet kisses on top of your breasts let you know he was getting rid of that soon.
and suddenly, he unclasps your bra in one swift motion, and as you anticipated his hot tongue against your skin you were met with a breeze, and he moves away from you.
“choso?? where are you going,” you sit up concerned, feeling neglected all of a sudden.
“desperate, aren’t we?” he joked, “i’m just feeling a bit hot, wanted some water.”
he luckily had brought some water for you two, as he thought you would be smoking, and wanted a cool drink to ease the burn down your throat, except now he was more so doing this for his own amusement, which he hadn’t thought would come this quick seeing as you were so needy already.
he came back to you just as quickly as he had left, but once his mouth found your nipples you were so cold, the newfound ice and the now cold metal from his tongue piercing were making you go insane quickly, the stimulation combined with the drastic change in temperature having you moan loudly.
“much as i love your sounds, i almost forgot we were still in the living room, come with me upstairs?” he asks sheepishly, hoping his brothers hadn’t heard that much.
“don’t gotta tell me twice,” you say, clinging to him as he picked you up and quickly ran upstairs with you. normally, you’d be embarrassed but you were so far gone you could’ve fucked choso in front of everyone in the house and not given a single fuck.
once you’re in his room he throws you on the bed and is on top of you again all within seconds, desperately making out with you like you were his oxygen and he had been on the brink of death. he takes his tongue all the way down to your stomach, the cool metal giving you goosebumps all over, and he continued to kiss down your body.
once he got to your lower abdomen, he kissed all along the lines of your underwear, every now and then sucking and biting lightly to get rises out of you, and just when you thought he’d finally get rid of them, he moved down to kiss your inner thighs instead, placing your legs on his shoulders and moving to kneel in front of the bed.
he started kissing you on top of your panties, and you felt the heat in your core grow stronger with every peck, beginning to ache in his touch.
“cho, please” you say between moans.
“please what? c’mon, use your words babe.”
“just eat it, i need you,” you replied, rubbing yourself on his chin.
“your wish is my command,” he smiled, and he took your underwear off.
and yet, he wasn’t quite ready to give you the satisfaction yet. before coming in contact with your wet cunt he admired it, knowing the image would not leave his mind even beyond death, and decided to blow on it to make you writhe under him, knowing that he might just cum from eating you, completely untouched.
his piercing comes in contact with your folds first, he then licks all over just to savor you, not even trying anything, then he puts his tongue up your cunt and starts thrusting into you, making you see stars from the different stimulation. you try to close your legs around him but his hands are keeping you in place, absentmindedly thrusting into his bed, precum leaking his boxers just from tasting you.
then he takes in two fingers and puts them between his mouth and your cunt, wetting them between your juices and his saliva, then he puts them in while moving over to suck on your clit. you were shaking, struggling so hard to keep it down but he was making you feel so good.
“don’t hold back pretty, i’m on a learning curve here remember? i need to hear your evaluations,” he comes up to say quickly, making sure to let you know he needed to hear.
“b-but what about your b-brothers?” you ask, given there was a change in scenery because of them.
“i could give a fuck right now about anything that isn’t you and your taste and how delicious you look and how badly i need you, if anything, they should be happy they get to hear.”
and with that, you let yourself go completely, not bothering to cover up any reaction to his relentless tongue on your clit or his 2 digits hitting that sweet spot you couldn’t reach by yourself, and soon enough you felt your body tense up, core aching for sweet release.
“ch-cho, holy f-fuck! i’m gonna cum soon,” you warn him, knowing you wouldn’t last much longer.
“give it to me babe, let me taste you,” he says somehow speeding up his face, and helping you reach your orgasm. he worked you through it, and by the time you came down from the stars, you noticed the wet patch on his pants once he stood up.
“did you—?”
“…yeah, i’m sorry i wanted to do it with you but i just couldn’t help it,” he says flustered.
even if you just came, you felt the heat in your core once more realizing he had finished from eating you out alone, and since you were feeling, well, the munchies, what better than to use him as a snack?
“hehe, don’t worry i’m so flattered,” you say. “so, is it my turn now?”
“oh, you really don’t have to worry about me, all i care about is doing you good,” he replies quickly, suddenly scared that you felt pressured to offer.
“no cho, i really want to. besides, i thought you were a host, aren’t you supposed to feed me?” you ask suggestively, loving the wait his lips parted and his pupils dilated the way he registered what you had just implied.
“in that case then who have i ever been to say no to you?”
you don’t wait to go to him and undress him desperately, becoming too aware of how naked you were and how dressed he was. you mimicked the way he had taken his time mapping you out with his lips, taking in his toned body and the tattoos that don’t see the light often. however, you weren’t patient like him, and so it didn’t take you long to get to his waist, where his hard bulge was already waiting for you.
you knew he had to be big from the way it felt earlier, but actually seeing it made you wonder if it’d even fit on you. committed to your mission, you take him into your mouth and start sucking, letting your tongue circle around his fat tip as your lips went down his veiny length.
“f-fuck! y-you’re so good, so so good” he moans, encouraging you to go harder.
you decide to cup his balls with your hand and caress his abs with the other one, feeling how much he was moving around from the pleasure, forgetting that he was even more sensitive since he had already came.
“agh! this is so m-much better than i h-had imagined,” he confessed, his need for you somehow becoming a truth serum. “you d-don’t even k-know how long i-i’ve dreamed of this, how many sleepless n-nights i’ve had just l-listening to y-your shows and jerking off.”
the sudden sincerity of this turned you on even more, somehow turning this already lewd scene into something more obscene, and the way you were clenching your thighs together feeling your growing wetness once again let you know you’d never forget this.
you felt him pulse in your mouth, but before you could speed up he gently pushed your head off him and pulled out.
“what are you doing?” you ask exasperated, knowing you almost had him.
“already embarrassed myself once love, i need to be inside of you,” he says.
he kisses you before going over to his nightstand and pulling out a condom, but you stopped him right before he opened it, which earned a confused look from him.
“…i’m on the pill,” you say, not daring to ask for what you were clearly implying.
“oh.”
“yes oh,” you mock.
and with that, you’re pushed on the bed once again, and he was somehow patient enough to put your legs over his shoulders before aligning himself right at your entrance.
“you sure you want this?” he asks.
“never wanted anything more cho,” you reply sweetly.
he smiles, so innocently that you almost forget the setting, but you’re pulled right back to reality the second he slams into you, bottoming out instantly, making you yelp loudly.
he continues to ram into you, trying slightly different angles with every thrust searching for your sweet spot, which he didn’t take too long to find. you were seeing stars, and he was getting drunk off your walls squeezing him, your broken sounds, and the way you looked, glowing from the sweat, mouth agape moaning his nickname so eagerly, and your beautiful eyes struggling to stare back at his.
it doesn’t take long before your climax builds up and crashes on you, but this time you came together, your tightening walls meeting his pulsing cock, his hips moving more erratic at the sensation, filling you up with his warm cum as you squirted all over him.
after coming down from your high, he just holds you and kisses you so gently, like he’s scared you’re going to leave soon. he caresses your face, and when he pulls away he gives you a loving look.
“do you need anything? here, let me take you to the bathroom.” he says as he picks you up to carry you over, placing you in the toilet first so you can pee, then going over to get fill up the tub for a bath.
after it’s all filled up he carefully places you in there, following right after.
“soooo, what are we?” you ask sheepishly.
“i did say i was your blunt didn’t i?” he jokes, and you smack him laughing.
“no, dumbass, you know what i mean.”
“you see i didn’t wanna jump the gun because i wanna do things right, but i’ve always been yours, just give me the chance to make you mine,” he replies sincerely, any hint of humor completely gone and replaced with something else, something that makes your heart flutter. “no, don’t say anything. we’re not dating, but that’s because i want to ask you properly, i just couldn’t help myself, but please let me give you the proposal you deserve.”
“aww, just so you know, i’d love anything,” you say, turning to lean into him.
“i’m glad, but you’re not someone that deserves just anything. you’re everything to me, and i want to make it clear to you.”
and he does. every time you’ve spent together, and every time you’ve been apart, choso has always made clear how much he cares about you. you might’ve struggled to recognize it, but all the gifts, the calls, the times spent together, the advice, the reassurance, and simply all the love and care he has given you were undeniable, and he swore that now he’d do everything in his power to make sure you never doubted it. needless to say, you were together after that.
banner creds go to @bronzewasp !!! happy belated 4/20 <3
Synopsis. Dearest gentle reader, The Ton are aflutter - and so are our hearts - for, this season, Lord Geto Suguru seeks a wife. Yet be warned, dear reader, whispers abound that Lord Geto has an eye for a particular lady that bites - you. And his lordship knows how to bite back.
Pairing. Geto Suguru x Reader
Content. MDNI, fem!viscountess!reader, viscount!Geto, BRIDGERTON AU, enemies-to-Iovers, regency AU, he’s a rake, scandal sheets, The Ton, PlNING Geto, oraI (fem rec.), fíngering, spítting, p talking, síxty-nine, chokíng, he’s BIG, making it fit, full neIsons, arguing during it, tummy buIges, pressing down, manhandIing, dúmbifícation, teasing, PÚSSYDRÚNK GETO, creampíes, overstim, proposals, happy ending, pet names, swéaring.
Word count. 9.4k
A/N. Hehehe I told you babygirls I’d do it-
“Are the young ladies of this season truly so easily won by a pleasing smile and absolutely nothing more?”
A chuckle. “So you find my smile pleasing, My Lady?”
A few gasps. “I find your opinion of yourself entirely too high.” The scandal sheets were practically writing themselves. You could envision it already: ‘The Rake and the Spinster—the most unpromising match of the season!’
Of course, it was entirely Viscount Geto Suguru’s fault.
All because he simply had to saunter up to your little group at this evening soirée; he simply had to leave them swooning with a mere bat of his lashes. Feline eyes meandering down your body, you could catch the exact moment that his lips curled for a fight.
“And-” You sniff, hand urging to pull back as he presses a lingering kiss on the back of your palm. “-only in your most fantastical dreams would I be ‘your’ lady, Lord.”
You can feel Geto’s grin curl on your skin, “For now.”
You balk—what was that supposed to mean?
Geto huffs out in priggish laughter like he could read that exact sentiment on your face. Instead, turning back to the group surrounding you two, clutching feathered fans and flutes of champagne like it would hide the way they were listening in.
And oh, were they listening in.
The twirling couples on the dance floor were ebbing themselves closer and closer towards your corner of the gathering just to overhear. Dukes upon ladies upon elderly merchants were stuffing themselves behind the draperies and seasonal lilies - all to bear witness to your brush with him.
It was common knowledge among The Ton that the viscount of the Geto Estate and the viscountess of yours - well, you - would rather trek through mud than even bear to stand in the same room. Something about old family disputes and a few business dealings gone wrong - as long as you two didn’t have to speak to one another, then all was…tolerable.
Which was impossible when it just-so-happened that you both were debuting yourselves in the market for marriage this season.
Coincidentally.
And it’s a wonder that you can stare up into his handsome face and not want to slap it. Scowling, “If you believe that for even one second I would consider being bedded by you-”
“Of course not.” The dark-haired man waves off, baritone lilting into that teasing purr it does whenever he knows he’s about to leave you seething. “The Ton might know me to be a rake, but not even I should fall so low.”
A few whispers pluck up, even louder than the orchestra. But you only raise a challenging brow, meeting Geto’s half-lidded gaze head-on. “Is that why you stare at me so?”
“Hm?” Geto tilts his head, and his long, long braid of inky hair sways behind him. Leaning in with an almost-believable look of confusion, “How so?”
“You’re aware how so, Lord Geto. You’re doing it at this very moment.”
“I fear I am befogged, My-”
Another step.
Out of pure pride, you physically stop yourself from taking a step back- “Not-”
Another.
“My Lady.”
And another.
Geto Suguru was fully in your line of vision now, obscuring your sight of the wide-eyed aristocrats around you both. And you could hear your etiquette tutor screaming bad manners at you inside your head as you freeze, almost chest-to-chest with the most alluring bachelor of this soirée. Perhaps even this season, though the sane part of you would not admit that.
And you could take in each and every detail of him.
From the broad, towering stature of his body, fitting out his intricate black n’ gold suit so sensually, at least a head above most of the audience- to the strands of raven hair framing his cheekbones. He had plush lips that were so rude, and delicate features that might have been carved by the devil himself. You almost understood why it was claimed that several ladies fainted each time he stepped into a room.
Geto Suguru was beautiful.
And he was staring down at you like he knew of his effect, so close that you could count each inkling of grey in those amethyst irises.
“Enlighten me.” Geto hums, scorched breath heating your face. His tone dips low—“How do I look at you, pretty lady?”
You have to force your larynx to strangle out, “Like- like you wouldn’t mind if I boxed your ears for calling me that.”
He looks like he expected no less of you. “What a dangerous mouth.” And could not be any happier than he was now. Before you can even think, Geto sweeps your right hand into his and plants a second, soft kiss. “Yet, indeed I would not mind, My Lady.”
Somewhere behind you, you’re hearing a few elderly ladies laugh fondly, as if the pair of you were the sweetest courting couple.
And Geto straightens his tall figure back, tipping his head in a bow. “I bid you the most excellent season.”
You narrow your stare, “And to you, Lord.” Under your breath- “Uncouth fellow.”
Under his- “Bluestocking.”
“Rake.”
“Prude.”
“Cease it.”
He bats his lashes innocently, volume raising just a pitch. “May you find a husband just as…charming as you, pretty lady.”
You smile back, “And may you find any wife at all, Lord Geto.”
His dark brows raise, cheeks tinting red just slightly—before Geto waltzes back into some other corner of the heavily-decorated hallway - surely to sweet-talk more débutantes than he can possibly remember.
You’re left, slightly breathless, as you turn back to your little group. Now tittering amongst themselves as the crowd begins to disperse, whispering.
This season was undoubtedly in full swing.
“Well…” You’re starting, more to cut through their nonsensical rigmarole than anything. You tip back your glass of champagne in one gulp, “With that blessing, I believe it is certain that I shan’t find a husband this season.”
Oh, how mistaken you were.
.
.
.
Dearest gentle reader,
While you may have been reading Shakespeare’s ‘Romeo & Juliet’, the most fortunate Ton attending last night’s soirée were living in it. And where scandal waltzes, Viscount Geto Suguru is most sure to ask for a dance.
Handsome, alluring, and sly as a cat; this author’s reliable informants have whispered that only one feigns allergy to his lordship’s charms. Yes, gentle reader, our one and only headstrong viscountess found herself pulled into the midst of Lord Geto’s courtship, despite their famous family feud.
Those who happened upon the interaction shared sordid details of the blossoming couple’s plans to—forgive my forwardness—bed, and the viscount’s notorious flirtations. Gentlemen, this author kindly suggests that you surrender your bouquets, because witnesses claim that Viscount Geto was all the viscountess could speak of all night.
Of course, his lordship was no better with her. It leaves no question why both heads of estate have debuted in unison.
I, for one, cannot contain myself at the thought of perhaps the most promising match of the season.
Yours Truly,
Lady Whistledown.
.
.
.
“Quite the news this fine day, don’t you think?”
“Of course you would be the type to read a washrag such as those papers.” You don’t greet Viscount Geto Suguru at the horse races, and he doesn’t seem inclined to greet you, either. “Does it help memorize your prospects?”
Whether it be out of pure petty regards, or the fact that the crowd surrounding you two was gawking at the conversation, you were unsure. And you find your fist clenching into the fabrics of your silken riding robes, realizing that so many onlookers had scrambled and piled to seat themselves next to you. And that left only one open seat - next to him.
With as much of a dignified huff as you can muster, you sit next to Geto and swear you hear a few gasps from behind. Training your eyes firmly on the ready line of horses ahead, perhaps if you pretended that he was a tree stump you were seated beside and nothing more-
“How should you know they’re washrags unless you’ve read them, too?”
Your head snaps towards Geto- only to find that he was already looking at you. Rosy lips curled till there was a dimple at the edge of his smirk, eyes twinkling.
You sputter hotly- “Wh-what?”
He’s repeating, despite it behind a rhetorical question. “How should you know they’re washrags unless you’ve read them, too?” The viscount tips his high hat back so he can twist his features with mock curiosity, leaning in. “Does it help memorize my prospects, My Lady?”
“Your prospects are of no concern to me, Lord Geto.”
“Is that so?”
“My Estate was simply in uproar at my association with such an ignoramus fellow such as yourself, of course.” You’re looking down at him somehow, even though he managed to tower his frame above yours. Shoulders against shoulders. Scoffs against scoffs. “My poor ears had no choice but to be punished with those fibs this morning.”
And it was quite true…almost.
With the mantle of head falling on you, your family weren’t ones to question your choices in dalliances. No matter how…questionable.
So when you’d been delivered your copy of Lady Whistledown’s society papers, you’d expected to see yourself in it. Perhaps a line or two about the altercation with Geto - at most, a paragraph.
But finding the story spun to last the entirety of the scandal sheets left your poor Estate rumbling at the impact of your scream. Hell, one of your attendants had sent urgent summons for the palace healer - and your friend - Shoko.
Only for her to smack a cold washcloth over your forehead and threaten you to stop reading.
Too late; you’d already flipped through all there was to - and so had half the kingdom, certainly. You had not found yourself in the middle of Geto’s courtship, you had not talked about plans of bedding.
And you had most definitely not spoken of him all night - it was miffed complaining! Only complaints! You two were far from the most promising match of the season. And at this rate, you would find yourself unwed and squabbling with a certain viscount till you were aged.
In fact, the reason you found yourself early at the horse races was for the sole purpose of forgetting that those papers ever existed - and Geto.
Unfortunately for you, he seemingly had the very same idea. And here was the pretty, buttoned-up problem, startling you out of your whirlwind of thoughts with two fingertips tracing the shell of your ear.
Pointer and middle, tracing the shape like a frigid breeze.
“Poor ears. Poor ears indeed.” Geto tuts, and you could catch the snicker threatening to break across his maw. “So it was merely a soirée tale that you were speaking of me all night, My Lady?”
Something at the pit of your stomach lurches, and your words come out higher than they usually were. “But of course. Surely you can’t be that involved with yourself to believe that you were all I could think of all night?” You’re sure that you’re being watched now, instead of the awaiting race.
And at his shrug you find yourself almost incredulous - almost wondering. “Why, then am I to believe that you spoke of me all night, like the papers claimed?”
Another infuriating shrug - and you don’t know whether it’s the mere action or the absence of an answer that leaves you biting back an audible groan. A strange part of you almost wanted to know.
“Fear not, you will find out, I assure you.” Almost like he was reading your face, Viscount Geto glances at you - then back at the race.
You hated to admit it, but he had chosen the perfect seat. It was in the very first row, with your line of vision optimally falling upon the kicking horses, readying for sprint. It was one that you would have chosen yourself - and, often, you did. Except for the days that Geto Suguru had arrived first to the races, and you had to situate yourself yards away, of course.
The dark-haired man stands up and continues, “In a bet.”
“A bet? And I am to trust you?”
“Believe it to be but business.” Strong arm stretching out to point, you reluctantly follow his finger to the stark white stallion in the far corner of the starting line. Keen eyes yellowish, long mane coiled. “I wager that the Geto Estate’s Rainbow Dragon shall beat yours in this race. In the rare instance I lose, I shall share the answer you seek.”
You, of course, would never be left behind. And you stand up yourself, toe-to-toe.
You’re staring at your own estate’s horse - your short-haired, cream Manta Ray. It would be a close one. You’re feeling anticipation bubble up inside you as the announcer raises his pistol to the sky, finger tracing the trigger in a signal to start. “And if, heavens forbid, you win?”
Geto’s lips curl up in a smile. “The two of us shall cross that bridge when we come to it, pretty lady.”
.
.
.
Dearest gentle reader,
Yesterday’s races ended in a sweep-all for the Geto Estate’s Rainbow Dragon, as my avid horse-racing readers may already be aware. But like all good gossip of the season, it doesn’t simply end there!
Lord Geto Suguru was witnessed not only basking in the victory of his stallion - but also his latest blossoming courtship. The Ton was positively abuzz at the presence of the viscountess, and it is rumored that the very special pair were discussing the announcement of their engagement. Why, this author has her pen at the ready if the lord and lady wish for a certain set of papers to report on their romantic activities.
However, some of my informants swear that the couple was seen in a muddy squabble towards the end of the race, and it is certain that agreeing upon wedding decorations is difficult for even the most fated of matches. Isn’t it a passion that just makes one swoon?
But patience is a virtue, dear reader. And, for now, we will have to wait to see this wedding come to fruition.
Until then, I suggest you don your finest silks, tinker your most exquisite embroidery, and practise those curtsies - for this author has reason to believe that Her Majesty’s watchful eye will soon gaze at The Ton in search for her new Diamond of the season!
Yours Truly,
Lady Whistledown.
.
.
.
It was not a bridge that should have been crossed.
It was a bridge that should have been deconstructed, made a mull, and absolutely burned.
At least, Viscount Geto Suguru imagines that’s what you must have been pondering that day after the races. After all, there’s not much else that would provoke the notoriously level-headed viscountess into storming away so fast that you’d nearly planted right into a spectacular pool of mud.
(You had, in reality - and so had he, in his valiant attempts to save you. But there was a silent understanding between the both of you to pretend that didn’t quite happen, and that neither had been drenched in clumps of mud that day.)
But it was all to be blamed on his immediate request upon winning the wager, as if he had kept this in mind all along. His request: for you to join him at the upcoming Royal Diamond Ball.
Join him.
Not simply as a reluctant acquaintance, not even as an unlikely cordial friend. But on Geto Suguru’s arm.
But that was a week ago. And here you were.
Your fingers quivering on his firm, bulging bicep through his velvet jacket. Being escorted inside the ball by the very man you’ve despised for so long.
It was gorgeous, and even more. Spirals of florals cascaded from each nook and cranny of the enormous chamber, lit with flickering candles that illuminated the ballroom like miniature suns. It was Spring, diamonds, and the thrill of heady romance. The dazzling silks of each débutante fought for attention - and yet, it was stolen instantly by you.
It was like the orchestra had suddenly drowned their music underwater the moment you two made your grand entrance; every dancing couple misstepped, every mouth gaped mid-sentence or mid-bite, every pair of eyes snapped to you.
You swear, by the far end of the royal ballroom, you could see Her Majesty the Queen straighten upon her throne to steal a closer look.
Fuck.
“Why, as expected, we’re all The Ton shall gossip about for weeks, My Lady.” Geto’s confident croon graces your ears, and he suavely leads you to one gilded corner.
Standing beside you, he bears no hesitation before leaning in- shoulders brushing shoulders, the viscount’s deep voice curling around your eardrums. Slow. Almost sensual. “You shine everyone else down, pretty lady.”
“Shamming it with flattery won’t win me over.” You’re massaging your temples, weary.
“I could never lie to you.”
It had been a week of this.
A week of having the notorious Geto Suguru make each of your attendants swoon with his mere presence inside your Estate. A week of him driving you positively crazed, teasing you with that coy mouth until you snapped. A week of him observing you, hard enough that once Geto had presented you with a dark blue satin gown for tonight, studded with tiny diamonds - it had your perfect measurements.
It was tailored to you, and it tailored him to you.
And he was proudly running his thumb down the sleek fabric of his waistcoat, the same shade as your dress. Long hair tied back, medals dazzling. “I believe I always have been honest with you, My Lady. In every instance but one.” Silently, he stares at the dancefloor behind him as the orchestra muses out a slow, romantic waltz. Then back at you, with an open palm and a deep bow- “May I have this dance?”
“You wish to dance with me?” Almost balking.
He pretends to give a sweeping look around the hall, “I see no other prettier lady, nor one I would like to dance with.”
“And I see no gentleman I wish to dance with. At all.”
“Oh, my apologies.” Geto edges closer, and you already know the next words to befall from his mouth won’t bode well for you. “I have failed to realize that you are frightened.”
Scoffing, “Frightened of dancing with you? Oh, please-” You’re carefully watching the playful raise of his dark eyebrows. The way his palm curls open in your direction ever-so-slightly - yet, still not completely, as if he was the one almost frightened.
And you can only nod. “Fiend seize it- but only because it wouldn’t do well for you to go without dancing the entire night, your prospects shall be rather put off.”
“I am honored by your benevolence, My Lady.”
“Charmed.”
“Smitten.”
“Cease.”
Tentatively, you’re led to the middle of the ballroom.
Where Geto was slowly - almost agonizingly - stepping into your heated proximity. His near-trembling hand falls upon your waist, the other clasping your hands.
And, sweetly, you’re being twirled. Your feet instinctually find their rhythm with the lilting melody, forming little boxes as you’d been taught during dance classes upon classes - never touching, constantly orbiting each other.
“Curious.” You’re the first to speak, staring into Geto’s lowered, questioning eyes, “I believed you would be more…” Trailing off at the gentle, gentle drag of his hand down the back of your bodice. “-uncouth.”
He tugs you even closer, “Would you like me to be?”
“It would be better if we leave the scandals to the wed.” Squirming in his arms, you somehow manage to burrow yourself even deeper. And you can feel the whispers, the eyes-
“Should you wish us to be?”
Breath catching, “What?”
“F-forgive me-” And there’s something you can’t quite understand in his pupils as he looks away, though that only displays the burning rouge of Geto’s high cheekbones. “I jest-”
“You find amusement in enraging me, don’t think I haven’t noticed, Lord Geto.” His predatory eyes widen. You dare to tuck a palm onto his cheek and make him look at you, an action that sets the gallery alight with whispers. “But right now, I do not believe you jest. Or should the reputed rake of the season fear speaking his mind with a prospect?”
It was in the way his face was scarlet, in the thud-thud-thud of his heart beating through his chest. And in the way that you had made Geto Suguru of all people stutter.
The crowd bustles ever-closer, craning their bedazzled necks to spy a better look when Geto tucks his sizzling face into the crook of your neck. Whispering, “Of course I fear you.” Scandalous, and yet, neither of you could bring yourselves to care at this very moment. “Of course. Oh, you’re no prospect, you’re the bane of my existence.”
And then the viscount hums gutturally - drinking in your scent, your slight gasp. He lets it all out into the skin of your throat—“But no. No, I do not jest at all, My Lady.”
.
.
.
Geto Suguru has been in love with you since the very moment he laid eyes on you.
All those years ago. Since the moment he’d attended the horse races as the all-new viscount of the Geto Estate- only to wind up seated next to you, the equally fresh viscountess who won the race that day and didn’t hesitate to goad in his face. To challenge him. To scoff at his flirtations.
But, right now, he believes himself to be almost as deeply in-love with the pretty, pretty wet noises he was pulling out of you.
“N-ngh, mmm, Lord Geto-” Skirts pooling around you. Thrown over the armrest of a couch in some hidden-away gazebo of the royal gardens. “Fuck!”
All Geto has to do is drag the rough, honed edge of his thumb between the swollen lips of your pussy before you’re gushing. The slimy stream of slick that makes the viscount lick his lips greedily, “You utter my last name even whence I’m between your legs, My Lady?”
Barely - just barely - you manage to raise your head mere inches off of the dampened cushion.
Whirling it over your shoulder to where Geto was kneeled on the floor from behind, “W-would you rather I call you a hngh- ‘buzzard’ or a ‘chit’, then?”
“Now, isn’t that simply hurtful—” He’s crooning out, and something in his voice was dangerously husky. And the next few syllables escaping his smoky throat were barely even audible past the embarrassing squeeeelch of your thin undergarments being tugged to the side. Snapping the side of your thighs- “What do we say, hm?”
“S- oh! S-” Strangling out moans at the feeling of the chilly night air tickling your slope.
He’s edging even closer, tendrils of his breath heating up your wet pussy. He was so ravenous that specks of Geto’s dewy drool dripped down onto your legs. “Yeeees–?”
“Cease it!”
The very moment that response is being mumbled from your lips, Geto’s departing something from his - a large, sticky wad of spit that splashes between your sultry pussylips. He’s sticking a thumb between your folds and watching as his mess webs up your entrance.
“Forgive me, I must clean that mouth o’ yours up, pretty lady.” Before striking your cunt with yet another wet hit of saliva. “Again.” And another. “Again-”
You’re whimpering, spine arching into the perfect curvature on top of the loungechair. And Geto only swabs his thumb on the fleshy insides of your pussylips, teasingly. Grunting, “Such a wanton mouth on ya.”
“Please-” You could feel his flicking lips reaching closer, mere millimeters away just to make you sob in need. “Please- I only have so much patience-”
“I’m well aware-” And before you know it, your pussy’s being stained with another knotted glob of saliva. And as you moan, he’s snickering- “Consider that revenge for the harm you’ve done to my- oh, heart. And this…”
The way that he’s then easily sinking in nose-deep was just pure greed.
Raw, primal; the minute that Geto’s scratchy taste buds hit the front of your cunt, he’s slickly slipping and easing his tongue in everywhere. Anywhere.
Poking n’ prodding.
Lapping up every ounce of slick clinging to your pussy like he was a man dying of thirst- and he was addicted to your hot core. Oh, he was addicted. Your knees drag on the couch cushion once Geto takes ahold of your waist and hauls you deeper down onto his handsome face.
“Mmmm–” His glossy, puckered lips slurp at the wet folds of your pussy. You’re feeling the underside of his tongue slither down to flick at your clit and makes you drool - from both sets of lips. “She’s more hah- honest than you. Aren’t you, pretty lady?”
The straight line of his nose bridge tucks in even deeper, in such a lecherous way you feel so stuffed. “I-I’m not-”
“Not you.” And you could almost hear the roll of his hazed peripherals.
The smug, sleazy grin across his face as Geto tickles your glistening hole with his tongue. You were clenching ‘round nothing, feeling such a delicious streeeetch once he’s pumping inside. Muffling out- “Her.”
And the Lord Geto Suguru that you knew was suave. He was smooth.
But the man between your honeyed legs was simply messy– just thrust after aching thrust of his maw. Geto’s attractive jawline was stretched so wiiide open, damn near swallowing you whole. He flattens his tongue just to pry apart your walls - again.
And again. “Aren’t you?” And again. Letting off some of the most sinful noises that make your heart race, “Aren’t you, pretty lady?”
Calling your treacly pussy by that nickname that drove you wild.
“Who’d have thought that you’d be oh- hiding suuuuuch a gorgeous, gorgeous lady under all that snark and mouth.” Almost grumbling at the fact that he wasn’t granted this chance earlier.
“Heavens- you’re f-fast-” And Geto’s rovering his gaped mouth all over, not leaving even an inch of your outer pussy.
Mercilessly, he’s thrashing his textured tongue on the roof of your cunt and you have to throw your hand behind you and shove back at his forehead.
Unsure whether you wanted to hold him or push him away.
But you didn’t have to choose - Geto’s making the choice for you.
In a swift instant, he’s fighting against your strength and gnawing down on the thin fabric of your underwear. Murmuring, “And- these-” Soon enough you’re hearing the sharp rip-rip-riiiip of him tearing your undergarments with his mouth. “-skirts.”
“Suguru–!” You’re trilling out, watching as Geto spits out the tattered remnants of your panties.
Quickly, both his hands smear open your bloated pussylips. And he doesn’t waste a second - not even a nanosecond - before diving deeper.
All bared open for him, he’s flopping out his lengthy tongue to soften up your tight hole. Making you feel his flicking, wet crown with thrust after thrust- “You’re so- soooo fucking wet.”
“You’re- hah!” Choking on both sobs n’ whines as his perky tastebuds sizzle against the sweet spots of your walls, Geto was fucking you with his tongue the way he was aching to with his cock. “-talking f-far more than you should, Lord Suguru.”
“And what shall you do about it, My Lady?”
He was about to find out.
Oh, he didn’t have a clue.
The viscount was practically stunned as you immediately lurch your hips away, chasing your pussy with a pathetic whine.
But you’re holding firm- dragging him up by the intricate, posh lapels of his jacket. You’re helping Geto impatiently lay himself down on the couch, face straddled between your two thighs. Backwards.
So his mouth was hovering underneath your pussy, and yours was gulping impatiently as you struggled with the buckles of his dress pants. Such a lewd sixty-nine position that made him crane his head up n’ lick between your tender folds with a whimper, “Mmm, let me partake in my dessert at once, My Lady.”
“Patience is a virtue.” You tut, finally succeeding in undressing his lower half. And oh-
Oh, fuck.
You gape.
Geto Suguru…was huge.
About eight, perhaps even nine solid inches that throbbed even fatter the more intensely you were staring at him. Huge and pretty- the first thing you’re making out is the ruby-red cap of his shaft, glossy with a syrupy layer of precum.
Your needy thumb wipes it off, only to have Geto’s leaky orifice weep out even more of his sticky sap. Drip-dripping down the ridges of his thick cock, travelling between his four prominent veins, disappearing into his slightly unruly tuft of jet black at the base. They looked like they’d positively ruin you from the inside out.
And Geto was bucking up like he wanted to do exactly that.
“‘Nough-” He’s cutting himself off with a gasp, “Enough admirin’, fuck! Just- oh.”
So, so sensitive. You’re blowing your heated air down on the mushroomy tip of Geto’s erection, and watching as he sprays out in pre.
Grinning, “Language. Seems like someone was on the verge of cumming in their pants, Lord Suguru.”
“I’ve fucked my fist raw to the image of your furious face at the- hngh, races that day, My Lady. Have mercy.” He’s babbling out, such pure honesty from just how pussydrunk he was. With your pussy mere millimeters away and dripping like a waterfall into his mouth.
The top of Geto’s tongue spanks down on your teary slope the very moment that he perks his hips up. Pre-glazed tip swabbing your lips like those shimmering lipstains you’ve seen some other nobles wear.
He feels the hot cavern of your mouth plop! down on the thickness of his cockhead and titters, “I should do well to wax that chatty mouth of yours shut, yes?”
The only response you can force your body to even do is to bully your hips down in a lewd attempt to suffocate the rude words spilling from Geto’s mouth.
Pushing down. Dragging your cunt sloppily. You think he might sputter, you think he might even choke out a slight protest- but what you certainly didn’t expect the viscount to do was to anchor your grinding hips with his two hands.
Shoving you deeper down his ajar maw. And you swear you feel him gasp out a little—“S-suffocate me.”
Groaning into the flared ridge of his dick, you’re swirlin’ your textured tongue around a few times. Before having done enough damage - because Geto was simply left rutting his hips primally. Unlatching, “Wh-what-”
“Suffocate me, My Lady.”
He doesn’t stutter, he doesn’t even set himself free for air—he’s only forking his tongue between that first rim of muscle. Licking up your walls, reaching for your heart. Again n’ again until it’s all loosened up enough for two of Geto’s slender, doughy fingertips to bludgeon against.
Pap after slimy pap of his fingerpads, “Open up, pretty lady.” Wheezing against the outer part of your pussy, “Since you like- ngh- talkin’ so much- fuck! Open those pretty lips up for me, I beg.”
Sensually, ever-so-sensually, his knobbly digits are stirrin’ inside.
He’s pricking his crowned fingers against each and every spot inside you, half-thrusting back just to fit even deeper. And it sounds out just deafening squelches.
Spurred on - you couldn’t fall behind to Viscount Geto. In a split-second, your lecherous tongue dangles out, tracing the pulsating veins simply covering his cock.
The patterns of his length scrape spots inside of you that you weren’t even aware existed, and Geto didn’t have to fuck his mazing cock up into your mouth to have you choking. To have you cryin’ at the probe of his merciless cockhead.
“H-hck!” Sobbing out, you’re suckin’ a few inches of his ramrod erection like your favorite ice cone. And he was just so big that the insides of your cheek streeetch out farther than you ever knew possible, “Two can play ngh- games like so.”
“Just like I claimed. How daaaangerous this unlady-like mouth of yours ngh- is.” As his middle and his ring finger pump into your velvety insides, Geto twists his thumb ‘round to press on your throbbing clit.
All at the same time.
Watching with a grin once you’re shrilling out in utter pleasure, white flashing behind your eyes. He’s spitting once more, letting a fragile string of spittle connect your cunt to each lick after lavish lick. You whine, “P-please, My Lord.”
Ah-
Geto’s glassy eyes roll to the back of his skull.
He keeps trying to breathe- but his body won’t even let him. Geto’s suffocating himself on your pussy, cock twitching right near the back of your throat.
You’re relaxing your neck to lodge him even deeper as you constantly moan and moan those very same words - My Lord - and he feels like he’s on the verge of fainting. Fast.
He has to do something. Faster.
Before you can brace yourself, the viscount swiftly slips off the family signet ring on his left hand. Pushing it onto the index finger of his right and bullying it between your folds.
Making sure that your cunt walls feel every frigid groove, “F-fuck! Feels good, huh?” At your dazed moans, “Accept my betrothal and I shall don more than one ring. And if you can- hah, take me on, pretty lady, you can take this-” He’s bucking up meaningfully, buttery tip bruising the roof of your mouth. Watching you flutter ‘round his ring, he can’t help but lap at your sloppy hole once more. “And then….fuck…”
And then he’s pumping his ravenous fingers inside even harder. Rough enough that the mountains of his knuckles sting, being slammed red on the folds of your pussy.
Geto’s cocktip pummels the soft back of your throat and you buck down in need- accidentally rovering his ringed fingers ever-deeper. Pushin’ his golden ring against the splotchy area of your g-spot, “O-oh my god, Suguru—”
“Th-there.” He’s breathing out, raggedly. Eyes widening. And as soon as Geto discovers your most favorite spot, he’s obsessed. “This is for the way you’ve been- been driving my screws loose for, ngh, years.”
He’s jerking his slick-soaked wrist into the perfect angle to swab your cute insides, you’re just crying out prettily after each scratch of his fingerpads. “This is for all the horse races I’ve oh- lost to you.” Pump after pump. He spits once more on your wettened pussy and growls, “And mm- this is for the way you make a fool of me, without even trying.”
“C-can’t help it-” Gurgling, the deepest corners of your throat were all flooded with the caramel salt taste of his precum. And yet, you were indignant despite the dizzying movements of his tongue.
Another slap of his scratchy underside, Geto was rovering his mouth so deep that you’re struck with the point of his chin. Almost punishing. “This is for how insatiable you leave me.”
“Please-” You’re jerking atop him at the flashes of bliss, hands struggling to cup his swollen balls. They’re so heavy in your palms as you massage, struggling out- “I believe I’m…”
“Ohhh— what’s that?” And it takes a few more squelching noises, a few more nods of Geto’s flushed face for you to realize that he wasn’t even talking to you. It was back to your sopping wet pussy, plugging each orifice up with both his fingers n’ his flicking tongue. “Yeah- yeah, and this is for how long you’ve held this pretty lady out from me.”
“Please-”
Three-more repeated slams, you’re pushed so close to the edge by now that even the slightest motion makes your pussy weep. Geto huffs at the pearly slick coating him, tongue gifting a fat thrust just to feel your cute clenches. “And this is for making me fall in, ngh, love.”
“I shan’t last-”
“Why don’t you apologize, viscountess Geto?”
You’re practically ripping yourself off of his strawberry-red tip, your maw stupidly opening ‘round a few wanton syllables- “I’m s-sor-”
And, in reality, Geto doesn’t let you apologize. Of course, he doesn’t let you.
Why should he make you apologize for putting him in a position like this? One that was precisely where he carnally desired to be.
Your voice breaking mid-sentence, within a few seconds he’s forcing in a fourth finger and straightly rummaging your g-spot. Racing straight towards where your hot, puffy core needed him the most. And you’re feeling the four thud-thud-thud-thuds against your bundle of nerves, skirting down your slippery walls to reach for your womb.
It’s enough to push you over the edge, your abdomen bursting with white-hot pleasure. Babbling, “I’m orgas- oh, mm-” Body wrenching stupidly on top of his muscular core, “Cum—ing, My Lord.”
Your toes curl, mouth wafting down to the very tip-top of Geto’s veiny cock without even realizing. It’s as if your entire body was set alight with just how good you felt like this.
And he’s just so focused on fucking you through peak after peak. Mentally counting the seconds between each lurch of your hips, you’re riding his pretty face sloooooppily.
So hypnotic that he barely even registers it once your swollen, puckered lips reach for the rock-hard tip of his shaft. Placing such a sweet, loving peck—“S-Sugu—”
The first thing you see is white- buzzing inside your vision after each bang of Geto’s fingerpads on your g-spot. And then the next creamy white you’re spotting is from the leaky end of his cock- spurt after spurt of ribbony cum.
The viscount completely drenches the lower half of your face, just from you kissin’ on him like that. Over and over- you half wonder whether it hurts for him to stuff out such sheer volumes.
Thick, gooey clumps of seed stick to your lips, and Geto groans as he feels it splatter down onto his toned pelvis. Creating a little puddle that you’re smearing with your thumb, after his spraying cockhead was finished. You plop your glazed fingertip into your mouth and shoot Geto a look over your shoulder, “Wh-what was that about- hah, revenge, My Lord?”
His half-lidded pupils dilate, practically heart eyes by this point.
“I-I…”
Throat husky, voice botched. The suave, swift smooth-talker barely gets out two syllables before tearing off his coats, his layers. Swiftly wrenching you upwards onto his naked body: your back against his flexed abs.
He was just Herculean, from the naturally chiselled ridges of his core, to the blush that was taking over his pecs. The long tendrils of his raven hair tickle your spine as you’re pinned backwards.
Geto’s hands twitch where they clung onto your waist- almost as if they were about to flip you over. To bend you down, down, down in half like he’s always wanted to.
But one look at your beautiful, shaken features and the viscount is sure he won’t last.
And he did want to make a good impression, after all. He could cum just from seeing your face too close up.
So Geto’s pryin’ apart your shaky legs with a swat of his palms, buttering up your soppy slit with the crowned edge of his shaft.
“O-oh.” Your mouth drops at the sheer size difference, you swear he must have swollen even bigger since pliably manhandling you into this position. Because the massive girth of Geto’s reddened, rock-hard cock was intimidating in comparison with the circumference of your slick hole.
As red as a few luscious strawberries, and just as plump.
His glistening cocktip slides down your folds, struggling to stuff himself between them - and you wonder whether you could even take him.
“Nonsense, pretty lady.” Did you dare utter that out loud? He spanks your sap-flooded cunt once with the curve of his length and makes you squirm. “You shall take it. You shall.” Unsure whether he was talking to you or your pussy. And yet, he sounds so reassuring.
So breathy.
So ruined.
You’re swivelling your head behind to look at Geto, and his cock twitches at the eye contact- oh.
It’s only then that you realize it’s not high, needy reassurance seeping into Geto’s rough tone - it was primal need. And you can’t help but press back into his glissading pecs, cushioning his heated length with your thighs. “And what if I shan’t?”
Geto wheezes, “But-”
“Where are those lordly manners?”
Geto near-sobs, “Please!”
So complacent. There’s no other fight, you’re only gasping once two greedy palms wrench apart your thighs and immediately sinks his ravaging cock inside.
And you ponder whether you might have to be the one begging for mercy at his sheer size.
The globed, fleshy knob of Geto’s shaft unsticks your gummy walls, clinging onto him like bubblegum. You’re being molded to his very size without even trying - with only a few rapid, urgent half-thrusts just to fit inside.
He wasn’t even pounding up into you properly, and yet the viscount already had you stupidly drooling with a few strokes. Pump after pump- he grips onto your thighs and glues you to his muscular body.
“Please- p-please.” The haughty noble simply couldn’t stop, crushing you to him. Holding you still just to bump your entire body up with pressurized pumps.
About two more inches of Geto’s veiny cock gets sucked up by your cunt and he finds his temples sweating. Dark brows scrunched, face flushed. “I desire to be- inside- all of it, haaah.” The overworked edge of his tongue darts out and tastes the tears trailing down your face, ones you didn’t even realize were there yet. “So- so incredibly. You don’t understand, I’ve a-always desired to be inside you like this, My Lady.”
And the line of Geto’s slit was so pretty when you gazed closely at it earlier, but right now it just felt so mean engraving up n’ down the roof of your cunt.
As if that wasn’t sinful enough, one of his palms unlatches from where he was spreading your unstable legs apart. Flattening on top of your tummy, and feeling for the proooobing push of his fat cock easing inside.
Geto presses down on that cylindrical outline with a groan, “I believe you’ve finally- hah, beaten me, viscountess.”
Although it certainly didn’t feel that way.
Geto Suguru had you cornered. All wrapped up in his big, beefy arms- you were seeing stars with every slight buck of his ravaging cock.
Filling you up from the inside - and as if his staggering size wasn’t enough, cobwebs of precum n’ cum were sploshing around your innards by now. Filling up your tiniest crevices, his cockhead spears into you like a flashlight in search of your g-spot. In search of the bottom of your pussy.
Twitching, leaking, blushing.
You’re reaching your hand out and half-blindly intertwining them with his. Squeezing- and that makes Geto flush.
It makes him instantly drill his toned hips upwards in a singular, rigid jackhammer. Geto immediately skids his plump cock against your sweetest spot, hard enough to make you bawl. Hard enough that the rickety lounge creaks in protest.
“I-I’ve sunken in…” He’s breathing, something airy in his tone. Something akin to disbelief.
As if to make sure, your viscount rovers his length even deeper- feeling for that slimy trailway by pressing down on your stomach. Your toes curl, the dual pressure of both his palm and his girth making your mind spin. “I’ve really- really-”
“Yes- hck!”
He can’t even have you speak like this. Can’t even let you breathe.
The muscles of Geto’s hips strike your bottom with a stinging smack! of skin-on-skin - bottoming out. Ruggedly, he weeps out a generous few dollops of precum near your spongy cervix.
Probing in deep-
“H-heavens!” You think you’re seeing the pearly gates with his sloppy, driving cadence, “Why in the heavens are you this- oh, big?”
“I hear no word of her complaining.” Geto has the audacity to hover his plush lips near the shell of your ear and bite. He almost chuckles, “See? Honest.”
Purposefully, his ringed fingers drag on the perky nub of your clit. Toyin’ in sultry hearts like he yearned to hear those dewy squelches, like they were now his favorite song.
Again and again. Geto’s trying to synchronize the bruising pumps of his cock with each swivel of his thumb.
“Your walls cling onto me like they- hah, never wish to let go.” He’s whispering in your ear, snickering at the way your poor cunt was swallowing him up. Sucking him impatiently back in, he’s forced to fight back against your pretty pussy just to fuck you crazy. “Is this how you really- ngh, feel inside? Do you think she’s falling for me, My Lady?”
And the only thing you can do is clamp down your velvety walls until he whimpers—“Honest.”
Just then, Geto cranes his neck over- targeting the slippery slope of your cunt with a glittering stream of spit. Aim so precise from all those noble hunting trips, and yet, he’s making just enough of your mess that your inner thighs are left with a sheen of slobber.
It startles you into a yelp, body restless. “I-in your most- ngh, fantastical- oh, dreams.”
“Is that so—?” Something dark was crackling at the back of his throat, and it’s enough to make your hips falter in their bucking pursuit.
For a split-second- before Geto throws a forearm over your front and pins you to him. He was pounding you cleanly into midair by this point, stopping you from escaping. Stopping you from even thinking of running from the frenzied motions of his fingers.
Ruthlessly, he’s pinching your clit and slightly draaaagging. “Was it in my most hah, fantastical dreams that you would gaze upon me like that during every soirée?”
You’re looking away, veins boiling with heat. “I-I have no notion of what you prattle on about-”
He cuts you off by letting go of that cute lil’ tummy bulge he was fucking into you, immediately gripping your throat and manhandling you into a kiss.
The glossy edges of Geto’s lips suck on your whiny tongue, moaning. “Mmm, make no fuss, pretty lady. You and I are one- oh, fuck. I can barely even recollect how many shallow, strait-laced suitors I wished to brawl for simply looking your way-”
And oh- oh, there was something in his tone that was jagged. Dark. Low.
“-for I was looking at you like that, too.”
You didn’t even think it was possible - but you feel him engorge even bigger from right inside of you. So swole, the curvy tip of Geto’s cock pokes into the entrance of your womb and makes you keen.
Hiccuping through tears, “Please- fuck.” You were drooling like a spring, every whipping lash of his erection against your g-spot made your taste buds sizzle. Humping back into him as if you were in heat- “Fuh-fuck! I didn’t know it could feel this- ngh, good.”
But the more, more, more you were grinding back into his racing tempo, the lazier he was dragging his cock down your cunt.
Faster and slower.
Faster and sloooower, making you recount the pattern of his mazing veins. He’s sensually rubbin’ your g-spot raw, and it’s rendering Geto himself absolutely pussydrunk. “Were you aware that it makes me i-impossibly harder to have you blustering around me? To have you yell at me?”
And now he was fixated on a sloppy staccato.
Your toes curled after each pathway of his globular, glazed tip - from the very forefront of your hole to target your battered g-spot. And then allllll the way back to rest against the spongy platform of your cervix.
It was a voyage he was repeatedly thrusting over and over and over.
“To- to have you…” Still continuing on with his inebriated conversation, after every slimy clench you were blessing him with. “To have to pretend your eyes weren’t- oh, falling upon my lips each time we argued- it killed me, My Lady.”
One of his rolling thumbs slips inside your damp hole like he was trying to pry you even wider open. Bottomed out and still rutting against the very back of your cunt- if Geto could bury himself even deeper then he already would have.
“Killed me to- to pretend I didn’t want to silence that gorgeous mouth right in front of The Ton, hah.” He almost giggles near the corner of your ear, writing his name on the very tip-top of your clit and feeling your body go limp at the sensation. “Killed me to not- mmm, really give them gossip for the entire season.”
Your head falls against his firm clavicle, the area of Geto’s pecs were so firm n’ cushy. Again and again, your poor lower half was a complete mess, flooding with heat. “S-Suguru- mmpf.”
Before he’s spitting straight between your unfastened mouth.
“Forgive me, my mind is not at the place to- oh, handle that smart mouth.” Drag after drag. Your pretty, breaking tone was what was sure to have him shattering before you did - and he didn’t want that. Not at all.
So concentrated on the gift of unravelling your honeyed pussy that Geto doesn’t even realize he’s said that out loud-
“Before me, hm?” Grinning behind you, his trembling hands are nothing against the gyrating bounces you start up. Fucking back into his spearheading cock, all you have to do to disarm his strong arms is to clench– and Geto was all yours.
All ruined.
You’re smugly declaring, “How about a- hah, a wager?”
Murky amethyst eyes widen, “A w-wager?”
“I wager I will make you orgasm first.” The filthy words are pouring out of your mouth before you can stop them, “In the instance I win, I- oh, claim the first row at the races for two months.”
“And in the instance I win…”
You’re peeking up in curiosity, “Yes–?”
But Geto only leans in, gravelly tone grating sexily against your ear. “You will remember it, I assure you.”
His long, silken hair was messy now- numerous Stygian strands plastering across his forehead, others, thrown over both your shoulders. And you can’t stop yourself from clawing behind and tugging- enough to make him groan.
Prolonged cockhead stirrin’ inside of you, he’s jostling you up, up, up–
Thwack!
“Cum.”
Perhaps it’s the utterly lecherous feeling of Geto’s plump, heavy ballsack spanking your cunt. Perhaps it’s the way he pinches out your clit after drawing such a cute heart on top. Perhaps it’s just him- but you’re crashing into a high you weren’t even aware was simmering.
But as soon as it bursts - it’s fiery. It’s frying the ends of your nerves with pure bliss, it’s leaving your vision a kaleidoscope of tears. “Fuck- fuck fuck fuck, cumming—”
You can only hold onto Geto’s muscular frame for dear life and let him ride your own orgasm out.
Spitting through solid, rovering paps of his cock, “Hah! What did I- oh, it’s my victory lap, is it not?” Still milking himself in vicious jackhammers, Geto streams out yet another wad of saliva down onto your pussy to hear the wet noises as you cum.
To hear the way he was thoroughly dragging you through the bursts of your high. You claw onto the couch and shriek- “Inside, I beg of you- I wish to feel you- hngh, inside, My Lord.”
“P-pardon?” His voice breaks. Breathily disbelieving, the primal pumps of his prolonged inches only accelerates - as if Geto was aiming to fuck the answer out of you. Inside. Inside.
In and out in and out in and- “I wish for it all here- inside.” You’re guiding his free hand to claw back down your front, feeling for that bump of his globular cock. Babbling against Geto’s mouth, it takes you no longer than a split-second to spit- “Always have, Suguru.”
And that’s enough for his weeping, rawly-red orifice to burst into the hardest orgasm of his entire life.
Geto doesn’t stop until he’s dragging himself dry on your walls. Filling your creamy cunt up with so many knotted ounces of seed that you can feel it slickly sliiiiiding down your walls. Trickling out from between your legs.
You squeeze your thighs together and squeal at the hot glue of cum sticking them together, “Fuck- fuck! Just like that-”
“I’m s-so fond of you. I’m so in love…” You hear his confession whisper against your eardrums like the viscount had nothing more left to lose.
You’re still tender, and each unsteady spurt of his cum sprayed inside makes your spine zap with something carnal. Your own high still a few tingles, you fist your fingers into his night-dark hair, pulling him in.
And something in his hoarse breath catches- and Geto finds himself biting his honed canines into the skin of your throat.
Making you moan, head unfogging ever-so-slightly. “A-are you aware that we are still obliged to attend Her Highness’s ball, Lord Ge-”
“Suguru.”
“Lord Suguru?”
“No, nothing but Suguru.” He finishes off for you, finally finished marking after a few more bite-shaped indents of his teeth. He’s still sluggishly jerking his cock inside, completely splashing n’ trickling sap over your tender spots. “And are you aware that I have ha-hah! reaped the victory of our little oh, wager?”
Your mouth parts, “And is this what you wish for? To bite me?”
“Not at all.” Biting you a few more times after then, Geto finally angles his head to face you fully. To take you in. To memorize. To slip his drenched family signet ring onto your left ring finger. You’ve never heard him sound so sincere- “All I wish for is for you to marry me, My Lady.”
“Suguru…” You shiver, his overstimulated cock pulses at the sound of that. Rutting harder. “You don’t require a wager for me to marry you.” And it’s just astonishing how pretty he looks when he flushes.
As he whines, you smile. “I shall do so anyway. And you can’t stop me now.”
Somewhere in the back of Geto’s mind, he knows there is much to plan - a proper engagement ring, first of all, with the biggest diamond of all the land, and then the family proceedings, The Ton announcement, the honeymoon.
But, for now, Lord Geto Suguru is content curling up in your arms. “I should expect no less from you, viscountess Geto.”
And his ravenous hips are still squeezing against yours, still needy.
Still feral.
You didn’t think you’d be escaping from him that easy, did you?
“Now, about my reward for that wager…”
.
.
.
Dearest gentle reader,
One might just ponder whether the speculations from last week’s royal gathering hid a divine ability to read the future. For the absence of both Lord Geto Suguru and his viscountess beau did little to quell the suspicions of a blossoming romance, particularly when neither party was in attendance once Her Majesty the queen announced our viscountess as the Diamond of the season.
And yet, my trusted sources fervently claim that the most scandalous noises were heard deep in the groves of the royal gardens where both disappeared.
But perhaps daring whispers are of no import - however, this author must note that both were observed meandering back late into the ball, guiltily satisfied, thoroughly marked in bites. Yes, of no import at all, certainly…
And I am delighted to share that this is not the mere extent of the romantic antics between our beloved viscount and viscountess.
Why, it is this author’s greatest honor to impart to you: the Diamond couple of Her Majesty’s Diamond Ball has officially announced their union with the most enormous diamond seen this season!
You have most certainly read that right, as Viscount and Viscountess Geto safely arrive from their voyages across the sea, The Ton may look forward to the wedding of the year.
Cease those shattering hearts at once! Who would have imagined that the most charming, handsome bachelor would transform from ‘rake’ to ‘Romeo’—with a capital ‘R.’ Shakespeare should weep!
It is said that Lord Geto is positively enamored with his fiancée, and I personally hear from sources close to the happy couple that this romance had been blooming for a long time, for none other than each other. How delightful that it should blossom right for us to gossip about.
Now, I don’t know about you, dear readers, but this author will be hastening to the tailors at once - and I suggest you do, too. We have a wedding to attend!
Yours Truly,
Lady Whistledown.
A/N. Also watched Superman and suddenly I believe in love again so here’s this.
SYN. — explore the endless possibilities of campus life!! pick any college based troupe and pair it with any jjk character in a campus setting
EX. — tutor!Nanami, RA!Gojo, stoner!choso, the possibilities are endless be creative!!!
RULES — use #: college commons, must take place in a campus environment, any genre is welcome (smut, angst, fluff, slowburn +), word count is flexible, tag accordingly ^,^ no solid due date lol, if youre unsure about anything im happy to clarify or answer any questions
ENTRY — send me a message with the title, troupe, and a description and i’ll add you to the list!! theres no cap as of now
NOTES — thank u guys so so so much for 1k in like a month and a half of me having this blog i am so grateful and its so surreal to me <3 this is in honor of me hitting 1k and starting uni super soon so thank u so much for reading what i write and enjoying it if no one joins pretend this never happened heh
LECTURE 001 : cross your mind
tutor!nerdjo x dancer!reader
written by me!!
desc tba
LECTURE 002 : tba
TA!nanami x teachers pet!reader
written by @dearsnow
desc tba
LECTURE 003 : tba
athlete!gojo x tutor!reader
written by @besidesjustmyamour
desc tba
LECTURE 004 : tba
bsfs brother/photography major!geto x reader
written by @spearofheaven
desc tba
LECTURE 005 : dirty rush
FratPledge!sukuna x SororityPledge!reader
written by @seellove
after rushing, you receive a bid to a sorority you love and are looking forward to all the fun that comes with it… especially the multitude of frat related events. your first mixer however ends up entwining you with a fellow first year frat pledge that everyone already predicts will be the next legendary fratstar…aka a degenerate fuckboy. un(fortunately) for him, your presence derails everything until the only rushing he’ll be doing is to get between you and every other guy who looks your way.
LECTURE 006 : tba
tbd
written by @shurikitten
desc tba
LECTURE 007 : tba
tba
written by @callme-naomi
desc tba
LECTURE 008 : tba
nerd!gojo x bimbo!reader
written by @riveredmoon
desc tba
LECTURE 009 : tba
tba
written by @nanamisbbygirl
desc tba
LECTURE 010 : tba
finance major!nanami x reader
written by @bistrocatxx
desc tba
LECTURE 011 : tba
football player!sukuna x mascot!reader
written by @lily-bisque
desc tba
LECTURE 012 :tba
dance rival!utahime x reader
written by @mierins
desc tba
LECTURE 013 :tba
fratboy!choso x cheerleader!reader
written by @nialovessatoru
desc tba
LECTURE 014 :tba
failing student!sukuna x tutor!reader
written by @sukunahs
SYNOPSIS — It’s your big break: a private commission from a high-profile client brings you and your small-town French perfumery to gorgeous Monaco in the middle of July, where you’ve just begun setting up your first standalone boutique. But between construction delays, holiday crowds, and the chaos of Grand Prix weekend, peace is hard to come by. And when a handsome stranger stumbles into your unfinished shop—seeking shelter from the paparazzi and asking for a chance to see you again—your careful plans start to unravel in ways you never expected.
CONTENT — mdni, age gap (nanami is 31, reader is 23), takes place in the 1950s, inaccurate f1 history/general history inaccuracies, i cannot stop talking about f1 im sorry, hotel lobby reference wink wink, loss of virginity, nanami has a HUGE dick, semi public sex, public making out, thigh riding, fingering, oral (f! receiving), cum eating, creampie, unprotected piv sex, floor sex, biting/licking, strangers to lovers, mentions of a character death, fast paced romance, angst, happy ending
PSA — this fic is 22k words, which was too long to post on tumblr, so i had to break off the end, which will be posted soon.
a/n: this fic is for @lily-bisque’s summer bash collab! i meant to have this out so much earlier but ao3 writers curse is real and i could not catch a break. i hope you enjoy my combination of jjk and f1 and i sincerely apologize for the terrible smut i feel so awk writing it.
push to pass | masterlist | divider | part 2
July, 1955
You had a sinking feeling the universe wasn’t on your side the moment you realized your business trip—thinly disguised as a much-needed vacation—coincided with Monaco’s most chaotic weekend of the year: the Grand Prix.
The city had transformed overnight. What should have been a quiet few days by the coast filled with business, dinners, and soaking up the sun was now a blur of revving engines, champagne-soaked balconies, and tourists with more money than sense. Hotels were overbooked, taxis impossible to catch, and every café table already claimed by someone wearing silk and sunglasses worth more than your rent.
Still, you tried to focus on the reason you came. A private commission from a wealthy Italian heiress: she wanted a signature perfume that smelled like danger, like lust.
Something unforgettable, she said, her voice thick with too much wine when she had visited your perfumerie at your hometown in Grasse last spring.
She was ecstatic when she heard you were planning to open your first standalone boutique, and declared that Monaco was the only place worthy of your scent.
That had been two springs ago. Now, in the heat of July, you were standing in the middle of your not-quite-finished shop on Rue de Princess, ankle-deep in linen samples and sawdust, squinting at a half-installed light fixture while your architect bickered with the electrician in rapid-fire French.
The boutique was still more bones than body, but the walls smelled of promise. You’d spent the morning sorting glass vials and raw materials you had shipped from Grasse—vetiver, jasmine, tobacco, bergamot—trying to mix something that felt like heat and adrenaline without sliding into cliché.
You were halfway through dabbing something sharp and citrusy onto your wrist when the front door burst open with a crash loud enough to startle the architect into dropping his tape measure.
A man—tall, blonde, and out of breath—stepped inside. He pushed the door shut behind him with his shoulder and locked it. Then turned around.
“Please,” he said, voice low but urgent. “Just… give me sixty seconds.”
Your first thought wasn’t who he was, or even what he was doing in your boutique. It was that he smelled like engine oil and something sweet beneath it—like burnt sugar clinging to warm skin.
“Pourquoi la porte n’était-elle pas verrouillée ?” you ask your architect in French, barely sparing the intruder a glance as you speak. Why was the door unlocked?
He blinks at you, clearly unprepared for anything other than startled compliance. However, the stranger in the doorway doesn’t move. He just watches you with a calm, measured stillness.
“I was being chased,” he says simply, in broken French with the faintest lilt of something foreign beneath it. “I didn’t know where else to go.”
Your eyes flick toward the front windows. The sheer curtains ripple just enough to reveal movement outside—shadows pacing, the glint of lenses catching sunlight. You recognize the rhythm of paparazzi on a scent.
The architect mutters something under his breath, likely an excuse, and disappears into the back with the electrician, conveniently, or cowardly. You’re left alone in the room with him. The stranger. The man still standing like this is his safe house.
You cross your arms. “Are you famous?”
That gets a response. The ghost of a smile, subtle and restrained. He steps closer to the counter, eyes scanning the half-finished boutique. There’s paint on the floor, swatches tacked to the walls, and your latest trials scattered across a brass tray. He picks up a small, clear bottle with care, tipping it slightly to catch the light, then rolls it between his fingers like it might whisper secrets.
The scent clings to his skin.
“Depends who you ask,” he says, finally switching to English. “You don’t recognize me?”
You shrug, unbothered. “Should I?”
That smile again, wider now. Real. Not warm, but aware. “Not necessarily,” he says. “Though it does make this hiding place a hell of a lot more interesting.”
You watch as he unbuttons the top of his shirt, just enough to breathe, revealing the fine edge of a scar across his collarbone. There’s a twitch in his fingers, like he wants to sit, but doesn’t know where in your half-finished world he’s allowed to land.
“Do I call the police?” you murmur.
He sets the perfume bottle down with reverence, eyes meeting yours. Steady. Intent.
“I don’t plan to stay long,” he says. “Just needed somewhere to breathe for a minute.”
You hum, leaving behind your samples and making your way toward him. You’re still deciding whether he’s worth the disruption.
“I haven’t apologized,” he says, his voice softer now, stripped of the earlier confidence. “For intruding. I’m sorry, and… thank you for letting me stay.”
You stop just short of him, a careful distance between your body and his heat. Up close, he smells like sun-warmed leather, salt, and the faintest trace of engine smoke. There’s tension still clinging to his frame, like he hasn’t fully unclenched since stepping through the door.
“Don’t thank me yet,” you say lightly, though your gaze sharpens. “I still haven’t decided if I’m going to charge you.”
His mouth twitches again.
“I’m afraid my wallet’s in the car,” he murmurs.
You narrow your eyes, studying him now not as a stranger, but as a puzzle. He had the kind of face designed for magazines and tabloid spreads—angular, golden-skinned, impossibly clean-cut in a way no man really was. Except the scruff on his jaw betrayed a long day, and the fine line of a healing cut beneath his ear whispered of something sharper.
“So,” you say, voice softening but not yielding, “who exactly are you?”
He looks at you for a moment—really looks. There’s something unreadable behind his eyes, something not entirely comfortable with being recognized. But then he exhales, like he’s decided to give you something.
“Kento Nanami,” he says. “Japanese driver for Maserati.”
A beat.
Then, without a hint of ego, he adds, “I fear I’m partly the reason the streets outside sound like a wasps’ nest.”
“I see,” you say slowly, and offer the barest smile. “So you're the reason I’ve been nearly flattened crossing the street all day.”
His mouth lifts at the corner again, but he looks almost sheepish this time. “I’m truly sorry about that.”
You watch him for a beat longer. Most men with a name like his would already be sprawled across your showroom chaise, expecting champagne. But he remains standing, polite hands tucked in his jacket pockets, gaze never dropping below your eyes.
“Come on,” you sigh, and nod toward the high stool near your workbench. “Sit before you put a crease in your spine. You look like you haven’t breathed in an hour.”
He hesitates, just for a second, before crossing the room and lowering himself onto the stool with the kind of quiet control you suspect he applies to everything he does. He rests his forearms on his thighs, eyes roaming over the brass instruments, the scattered vials, the curling paper blotters that still hold ghosts of half-finished perfumes.
“So what’s this?” he asks, nodding toward the environment around him—brass tools glinting in the low light, unlabeled vials catching the sun, fabric swatches hanging like ghosts of decisions not yet made.
You follow his gaze, then glance back at him.
“This,” you say, “is the biggest risk I’ve ever taken.”
He hums, low in his throat, like he understands both possibilities intimately.
You lean back against the edge of the workbench, arms folding loosely across your chest. “My boutique. Or it will be. I signed the lease two months ago. It’s not open yet, but somehow the heiresses already know where to find me.”
A small smile tugs at your mouth, but you don’t offer the name of the woman who sent you here. He doesn’t ask.
“I make perfume,” you add. “My great-aunt had a few small shops in Grasse. One in Nice. Mostly small, quiet places. This is the first time I’m doing something on my own.”
Nanami doesn’t say anything at first. He just nods, eyes flicking briefly to the ceiling like he’s trying to picture what the space will look like when it’s finished.
“It suits you.”
You blink. “The boutique?”
He glances at you. “The ambition.”
That earns a quiet breath from you, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh.
“You don’t even know me.”
He doesn’t look away. “No. But I’ve seen the way you hold your work.” His gaze drops briefly to the vials on the counter. “There’s care in it.”
There’s a pause long enough to shift the air between you.
Then he clears his throat, gently lifting a small bottle from the tray. He holds it between his fingers like it might crack if he moves too fast. “What’s this one?”
You reach out, take the bottle from him carefully, and unstopper it.
“It’s still in progress,” you say. “A commission. Something she wanted for race weekend.”
You tilt the wand once. The scent is strong—leather, bergamot, pepper—but the softer notes still haven’t settled right. You haven’t figured out what’s missing yet.
Without thinking, you hold the wand up toward him. “Wrist?”
He hesitates for half a second, then shrugs out of one glove and extends his hand. You dab the perfume lightly on the inside of his wrist, then wait.
The silence stretches a little.
He brings his wrist to his nose slowly, breathing in once, then again.
You watch him. Not the way he moves, but the way he stills.
“…It’s sharp,” he says finally. “First. Like the start of a race.”
You nod. “It’s supposed to be.”
“But there’s heat under it. Something warmer.”
“That’s where I got stuck.”
Nanami lowers his hand. He looks at you, quiet now in a way that feels heavier than the room. “You’re close.”
You huff softly. “I don’t want close. I want the exact moment you lose control and know it.”
He doesn’t say anything to that. Just holds your gaze a little too long.
You look away first.
“Sorry,” you mutter. “That probably sounded—”
“No,” he says, gentle now. “I know what you meant.”
“So why’re you running from the paparazzi?” you ask, tucking the stopper back into the bottle and setting it aside with the others.
He exhales through his nose, not quite a sigh. “I had a crash during free practice 2,” he says simply. “Rounded a corner too fast and lost control.”
You glance over your shoulder at him. “You okay?”
“I walked away,” he says, which is neither yes nor no. “The car didn’t.”
You nod once, quietly filing that away.
“I don’t usually do interviews or anything,” he continues after a pause, tone dry. “So everyone wants a chance to be the first to shove a mic in my face. Or a camera. Doesn’t matter what they ask. Just that they’re asking it first.”
You hum, moving to your cabinet to shelve the last of the day’s test vials.
“Nothing like a little blood in the water.”
“Exactly.”
You hear the scrape of the stool as he shifts, then the low creak of it settling under his weight again.
“I didn’t mean to crash,” he adds after a moment. “Didn’t mean to hide here, either. It just… looked quiet.”
You glance at him then.
He’s looking down at his wrist, where the scent still lingers.
You don’t say anything. Just lean back against the cabinet and fold your arms again, softer this time.
“You picked the right door.”
His mouth twitches—an almost-smile, subtle but real. “I’ll try to remember it.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Planning on crashing again?”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “Not if I can help it.”
You nod toward the street. “You think they’re still out there?”
He tilts his head, listening. For a second, there’s nothing, just the faint clink of glass in the distance as someone closes up shop down the block.
“Maybe.”
You watch him for another beat. He’s not what you expected when he walked in—less polished, more… human. Tired, maybe. Or just not used to people who don’t immediately want something from him.
“You can stay until they’re gone,” you say. “But only if you promise not to knock anything over.”
He smiles properly now, low, easy, and a little surprising. “I’ll try not to.”
You move back to the workbench without another word, slipping into a rhythm that’s familiar. The room settles with you, still, but not silent. Outside, the street’s gone quieter. Inside, the soft clinks of glass and rustle of paper fill the space.
Nanami doesn’t speak, but you can feel his eyes on you, like he’s watching someone work a puzzle he doesn’t quite understand but wants to.
You pull a small ceramic palette toward you and uncap one of the vials you’d set aside earlier. The scent that rises—sharp, clean, too precise—makes your nose wrinkle.
“This isn’t usually where I mix,” you say after a while, not looking up. “In case I’m not home, I’m building a studio in the back for that. Better ventilation. Fewer distractions.”
You glance his way. His expression stays neutral, but his brows lift just enough to acknowledge the irony.
You give a small shrug. “But the bottle I sent out for the heiress—it didn’t sit right.”
Nanami leans forward slightly on the stool, elbows resting on his thighs again. “So you’re rewriting it?”
“In a way.” You swirl a drop of base oil with a citrus resin, watching it cloud the mixture. “Not from scratch. Just… nudging it toward what it was trying to be.”
He watches you for a moment longer, then nods toward the array of small vials near your right hand.
“What are those?”
“Modifiers. Accents. Most people wouldn’t notice them directly, but they change everything underneath.” You pause. “Wanna help?”
His eyes flick to yours. “Help?”
You gesture to the tray. “Pick one, any one. First instinct. We’ll see what happens.”
He seems skeptical. “You’re letting a stranger play with your formula?”
“Only because you’ve got a good nose,” you say, not entirely teasing. “And I’m curious.”
He leans in slightly, scanning the labels of tiny handwriting in faded ink. He hovers over a few, then finally reaches for one near the back. He holds it up between two fingers.
“Hinoki,” he says.
Your eyes flick to the bottle, then back to him. “…Interesting choice.”
“Good interesting?” he asks, and it sounds sincere.
You smile, just a little. “Let’s find out.”
You draw a small pipette and carefully add a drop to your mixture. The shift is immediate—cooler, woodier. Something cleaner than what was there before, but grounded. You lean in, closing your eyes.
The imbalance that was bothering you? Gone.
You blink, glance at him. “That was… actually good.”
He huffs. “Surprised?”
You tilt your head. “Impressed.”
He looks away, but the edge of his mouth pulls just slightly upward. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t need to.
The scent hovers between you, sharp citrus softened by something quiet and green.
“I think you just solved my problems, Kento Nanami,” you smile, glancing at him over the rim of the mixing palette.
He lifts a brow, but there's a quiet satisfaction in his expression—subtle, like everything about him. “Glad to be of use.”
You reach for a clean blotter strip, dip the end into the blend, and wave it gently in the air between you.
“This is it,” you murmur, mostly to yourself. “It finally… settled.”
Nanami leans forward slightly as you offer the strip, careful not to touch. He inhales once, slow and thoughtful, eyes flicking closed for just a moment.
“It smells… sexy?,” he says softly.
Your chest tightens, just for a second. You blink, caught off guard by the way he said it.
“That’s exactly what it’s supposed to be,” you say after a beat.
He nods, like he understands.
You tuck the blotter away, labeling it neatly in pencil. “You want to name it too, or should I not give you that much power?”
Nanami chuckles under his breath, the sound low and warm. “No,” he says. “That part belongs to you.”
You glance toward the windows. The light’s shifted again—softer now, tinged with late afternoon gold. The street outside looks quiet. Whatever crowd had been chasing him earlier seems to have moved on.
You turn back to the bench, reaching for a clean bottle from the box beneath it. The glass is simple. You hold it in one hand while pouring the mixture with the other, steady and precise.
When the vial’s empty, you stoppered the bottle and ran your thumb over the top.
“Formule 11,” you say quietly. “I’ll write the label later.”
Nanami watches you as you cross the room, ducking into the back to grab your bag and coat. When you return, you’re pulling on your gloves, bottle tucked carefully in your side satchel.
“I have to go deliver this,” you say, voice light but not apologetic. “Client’s expecting it before dinner.”
He nods once, sitting up straighter on the stool, like the moment’s shifting and he can feel it too.
You pause at the workbench, then reach across and grab something from a hook by the door—your architect’s hat, soft cotton, well-worn. You step toward him and place it gently in his hands.
“If you sneak out the back,” you murmur, “go straight to the next block and turn right. That’ll take you back to the main road without anyone noticing.”
He looks down at the hat, then up at you again. “You’ve done this before.”
You smile faintly. “Not with race car drivers.”
He holds the hat a little tighter in his lap. “Will I see you again?”
You meet his gaze, quiet for a beat. “Probably not.”
He watches you carefully. Not disappointed exactly, but thoughtful, like he’s working through something he’s not sure he’ll say aloud.
“I’m free tomorrow,” he says, “after noon. Qualifying starts around one. I could get you in. Quietly.”
You blink. “Really?”
He nods. “I just want to say thank you. I don’t know what else I have to offer.”
That earns a quiet laugh from you, soft and surprised. You glance at the door, then back at him.
“…I’ll think about it.”
Nanami gives a small nod, like he knows better than to press.
You adjust your coat and put on your sunglasses, hand on the doorknob now.
“Don’t let him see you leave,” you call gently. “He’ll kill me if he finds out I gave you his hat.”
Nanami lifts it in a half-salute. “I won’t.”
You disappear into the dusk, the bell over the door chiming softly behind you.
“KENTO NANAMI WALKS AWAY FROM CRASH, WALKS STRAIGHT INTO RUMORS — AGAIN.”
Crowd-favorite refuses interviews for fifth year running as speculation grows ahead of Monaco GP.
Your black coffee has long gone cold, abandoned on the edge of the café table as you scan the paper, fingers leaving faint smudges on the corner of the page. You’ve read the same paragraph three times now—not because it’s well-written, but because your brain keeps circling the same thought like a drain.
How did you not recognize him yesterday?
His face is everywhere. Above the fold, below it. Different expressions, same intensity. Even when caught in motion, mid-step or mid-turn, his gaze is sharp, grounded—impossible to look past. And yet you did. You talked to him like he was just some stranger ducking the press. Let him wear your architect’s hat. Let him touch your work.
The bell above the café door chimes behind you, a burst of cold air brushing against your back as someone steps in. You don’t turn around.
Instead, you flip the page, eyes catching the headline from the day before:
“NANAMI: SILENT BUT DEADLY.”
Japan’s golden ghost chases third straight title while giving press the cold shoulder.
You huff, folding the paper in half, trying not to overthink it. But since last night—since a surprise dinner you hadn’t planned to attend (or really been invited to, not that the heiress cared)—you’ve learned three things about Kento Nanami:
He was serious about the no interviews. He doesn’t speak to the press, doesn’t pose for cameras, doesn’t play the game. Every headline printed about him is mostly stitched together from guesswork, gossip, and grainy photos taken when he’s not looking.
He's a three-time world champion. Five years in Formula 1, four of them with Maserati. Two back-to-back wins in the last two seasons. And if he wins this week, it’ll be his third in a row—four in total. That kind of record makes people obsessive.
He's thirty-one, and started racing at six on a dusty little track outside Tokyo. Took a two-year detour through law school, then came back like he had something to prove. And maybe he did. Maybe he still does.
You set the paper down, letting out a slow breath.
The part that gets you most isn’t the stats or the headlines.
It’s that he looked at you like none of it mattered, like he wasn’t the Nanami Kento.
You rub at the corner of your mouth, unsure if you’re smiling or grimacing.
Somewhere in the street behind you, an engine growls to life, unmistakably expensive. You sip your now-cold coffee, eyes lingering on the newspaper one last time, reminded that Qualifying starts in less than two hours.
You stand, brushing down the front of your long dress before placing your fascinator carefully back atop your head. The satchel slips easily across your shoulder, the glass bottle inside tucked snug between a silk scarf and your wallet.
“Merci, Sylvie,” you call toward the barista as you pass the counter.
“À bientôt,” she replies with a smile, already clearing your cup. See you soon.
The café door swings shut behind you, and the city air rushes in, carrying the faint scent of salt from the nearby water. The streets are still buzzing, though not as loud as they’ll be by race time. You tuck your chin deeper into your scarf and raise a hand for a taxi.
It pulls up within minutes and you slide into the backseat, instructing the driver to drop you off at the marina.
As the car pulls away from the curb, you glance once over your shoulder, back toward the café window where you’d been sitting. The paper’s still on the table, folded and forgotten.
You don’t regret leaving it behind.
The familiar scenery of yachts and sailboats quickly replaces the narrow, sun-worn buildings as you near the marina. Sleek white hulls line the docks like teeth, flags fluttering softly in the breeze. The water glints under the late morning sun, a gentle sway rolling through the harbor.
You thank the driver, stepping out with a quiet merci, your heels clicking lightly against the wooden planks as you make your way down the dock. A few workers are already out—coiling ropes, polishing chrome, moving like it’s just another Saturday, even though the city’s thrumming with the pulse of race week.
The docks look nothing like they did the last time you were in Monte-Carlo.
Now, the roads are blocked off with metal barricades and brightly colored signage. Police in vests line the intersections, directing foot traffic while trying not to be bowled over by the swarm of vendors, staff, and spectators crowding the sidewalks.
Where calm seaside paths once stretched quiet and open, now scaffolding rises above the pavement, draped in banners of team logos, tire brands, and champagne ads printed larger than life. Grandstands have been erected where cafes used to spill out onto the street, their tables cleared to make room for race marshals and media crews. The air buzzes with energy and the distant hum of engines tuning in the background.
You pass a section of fencing wrapped in black netting, just opaque enough to keep the view partially obscured. Behind it, glimpses of activity: mechanics moving like clockwork, crew members wheeling carts stacked with equipment, someone in a fire suit stretching quietly against a wall.
Even the sea seems different today, choppier somehow, like it’s reacting to the weight of the city’s breath holding tight in anticipation.
You clutch the strap of your satchel in one hand.
The last time you walked this route in spring, it was lined with yachts and morning joggers. Now it feels like the entire world has been invited to watch something happen. For some reason, you’ve decided to step straight into the middle of it.
You follow the signs toward the entrance checkpoint, your steps slower now, the weight of what you’re doing catching up to you in the space between footfalls.
A security guard stands at the gate, arms crossed over his chest, eyes scanning everyone who approaches. You offer a small smile as you near.
“Salut, I’m here to see Kento Nanami.”
The man lifts a brow. “Do you have a paddock pass?”
You hesitate. “No. He invited me yesterday, said—he said he’d leave something but…” You trail off, realizing how thin it sounds.
The guard’s expression flattens a little. “I can’t let anyone in without clearance, mademoiselle.”
“It’s not—look, he told me to come. It was last minute. I wasn’t exactly—” You sigh, frustration catching at the back of your throat.
“Name?” he asks, unimpressed.
You’re just about to answer when you catch the flicker of movement beyond the barrier. Kento Nanami, walking out from behind one of the garages, head turned slightly as he listens to something being said beside him.
He’s dressed in a white fire-resistant undershirt, sleeves pushed to his elbows, the top of his racing overalls tied loosely around his waist. There’s a smudge of something near his jaw—grease, maybe—and a glint of sweat at his collarbone that hasn’t quite dried yet.
The moment he sees you, his steps slow.
The guy beside him says something else but Nanami doesn’t answer. He holds up a hand, eyes locked on you now.
Then he’s moving toward the gate.
“Is she with you?” the guard asks, tone shifting instantly.
“She is,” Nanami replies, not looking at him. “Let her through.”
You exhale, relief blooming in your chest as the gate swings open. He waits just on the other side, arms crossed loosely now, a towel slung over one shoulder, gaze steady as you approach.
“You came,” he says simply.
You try not to look too pleased by the surprise in his voice.
“Well,” you say, tucking a loose strand of hair beneath your fascinator, “you did owe me a thank you.”
That gets the faintest pull of a smile from him. Almost too small to catch—but there.
“Come on,” he says, nodding for you to follow. “I’ll show you the paddock.”
And just like that, you're walking beside him.
The air inside the paddock is hotter, tighter, filled with the scent of oil, rubber, and that distinct metallic tang that clings to machines running just a little too close to their limits. The garage is alive with movement—engineers moving with practiced ease, radios crackling, fans humming low in the background.
Nanami walks just ahead of you, offering the occasional nod or clipped instruction to someone passing by. He doesn’t introduce you to anyone until you reach the far side of the garage—where another man is perched half-sideways on a folding chair, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, race suit unzipped to his waist like Nanami’s, but far less neatly.
You know who he is before Nanami even opens his mouth.
Satoru Gojo—Formula 1’s reigning legend, its most magnetic headline, the youngest to ever win a championship, and the only one in history to hold six.
He's lounging like the paddock was built for him. Which, in a way, it probably was.
“Gojo,” Nanami says, voice low but firm. “This is—”
“The perfumer,” Gojo cuts in, turning toward you with a slow grin that’s far too pleased with itself. “From the boutique. Finally.”
You blink. “How do you—?”
“He told me,” Gojo waves vaguely at Nanami. “Which, by the way, is basically the loudest thing he’s ever said about anyone that wasn’t tire pressure or lap data.”
Nanami exhales, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Don’t listen to him.”
“I always listen to me,” Gojo replies, then leans toward you slightly, conspiratorial. “We met once, didn’t we? No—wait. You look like someone I bumped into in a hotel lobby in Tokyo. Summer of ’52?”
You stare at him. “I… don’t think that was me.”
“Shame,” he sighs, settling back with a wink. “That woman smelled amazing.”
Nanami levels him with a look.
Gojo just shrugs. “Anyway. Welcome to the circus.”
He offers a hand, and despite yourself, you take it. His grip is firm, warm.
“She’s staying for the rest of qualifying,” Nanami says, not quite a question.
You glance at him, then back at the chaos of the garage, the speed of everything moving around you.
And then back at him.
“I suppose I am.”
Nanami gestures for you to follow him as Gojo is swept up by a mechanic calling out lap times from a clipboard. You catch Gojo’s parting wave over his shoulder, sunglasses slipping back down his nose.
“Don’t let him scare you,” Nanami says, his voice low as he walks beside you again.
You glance over at him. “He doesn’t scare me.”
“Good,” he replies, eyes flicking ahead. “That’s half the problem with him. Too many people act like he’s untouchable.”
You walk in step with him through the maze of garages, wires coiled along the walls, tires stacked chest-high, crew members brushing past with focused urgency. Every space buzzes with energy, but there’s something methodical in the chaos—every movement part of a larger rhythm.
“Where does all of this go when the race is over?” you ask, sidestepping a cart full of tools.
“Crated up and shipped out. We’re in Spain next week,” he says, barely needing to raise his voice over the din. “Every week, a new city. A new setup. Then we do it all again.”
You nod slowly, trying to imagine the weight of that repetition. “It’s a lot.”
“It is.” A pause. “But it doesn’t feel like much when you’re the one in the car.”
You glance at him, curious. “What does it feel like then?”
Nanami’s quiet for a beat. The sounds of the paddock move around the two of you but he doesn’t rush his answer.
“Still,” he says finally. “Everything else gets very quiet.”
You let that settle for a moment as he leads you toward one of the support trucks—open on one side to reveal rows of spare parts, stacks of helmets, and a row of posters outlining engine diagnostics.
Someone calls his name as you step inside—an engineer, tall and lanky, clipboard in hand.
“This is Ino,” Nanami says. “He keeps the car alive.”
Ino nods in greeting, then glances at you with faint curiosity. “You’re not press.”
“No,” you say. “Perfumer.”
He smiles slightly. “Weirdly, that makes more sense.”
Nanami shows you the tire wall next, different compounds lined up in rows, all marked with coded paint. He explains the differences simply, clearly, the way someone does when they’re used to being misunderstood but still want you to get it.
Then it’s on to the telemetry station, the broadcast trailers, a corner of the paddock where someone’s quietly eating lunch beneath a fan. It’s a strange, moving village of its own, temporary, but entirely self-contained.
When he finally circles you back to his garage, the quiet between you has settled into something softer. Familiar, even if it shouldn’t be.
He checks his watch, then glances at you.
“You have about ten minutes before we’re called for briefing,” he says. “You want to stay?”
You lift a brow. “Would it be strange if I did?”
He considers this.
“No,” he says. “But it would be rare.”
You smile, just a little. “I’m not here to be common.”
That earns the barest flicker of something at the corner of his mouth—close to a smile, but not quite.
He nods toward the back of the garage, where a spare stool sits tucked near the wall.
“You can wait there,” he says.
You settle onto the stool, your bag tucked against your side, the sounds of the paddock humming around you. Nanami moves a few steps away to speak with one of his engineers, his posture instinctively straightening the closer he gets to the car.
And as you sit there—watching him shift from man to machine, you realize you’re not just seeing him differently now.
You’re seeing the whole world he lives in. And you’re not sure yet if you belong in it.
He returns fifteen minutes later, his undershirt now slung casually over one shoulder, his upper body bare beneath the suspenders of his racing overalls.
His skin gleams faintly under the garage lights—golden, lean, traced with the kind of strength built over years, not months. There’s a scar low on his left rib, pale against the skin, and a thin trail of oil smudged near his collarbone, like he’d wiped his hand without thinking.
You look up as he approaches, and he doesn’t say anything right away and just runs a towel across the back of his neck and tosses it over a nearby crate.
“You alright?” he asks, voice quieter now, the edge of work still clinging to him.
You nod. “Warmer here than I expected.”
“Heat’s worse inside the suit,” he mutters, half to himself. “You forget how heavy it is until it’s already on.”
He reaches for a bottle of water, twists the cap off, and takes a long drink. His throat moves with the motion, and for a moment, the rest of the garage noise dulls around you.
There’s something oddly private about it all, this glimpse into a world just behind the curtain.
He catches you looking and offers a small, wry smile. “You’re staring.”
You raise a brow. “You walked in half clothed.”
“I didn’t realize it was a problem.”
“It’s not,” you say simply, and his smile deepens just slightly.
Then someone calls his name again and he sets the bottle down.
“I have about twenty minutes before I’m in the car,” he says, glancing toward the pit lane. “You want to stay and watch?”
Your fingers brush the edge of your satchel.
“Wouldn’t have come if I didn’t.”
Nanami nods once, then starts pulling his sleeves up.
And you sit back, quietly, as the man becomes the machine again.
“So what’s this race about?” you ask, your voice low beneath the hum of the garage. “If it’s not the official thing.”
“Qualifiers,” he says, adjusting the strap on his glove without looking up. “We run laps. Fastest time gets pole position for the main race.”
You nod slowly, watching the way his hands move—calm, practiced, every gesture deliberate.
“And you… want to be in front?”
He glances up at that, something flickering behind his eyes. “You always want to be in front. It means clean air. No one kicking dirt up in your face.”
You study him for a beat. “You sound like you’ve done this a few times.”
That earns you a look. Not annoyed—more like amused that you’re still pretending not to know.
“I read the papers,” you admit, softly. “After you left.”
Nanami’s mouth twitches at the corner. “And?”
“And now I know who you are.”
He pauses. “Do you?”
The question lingers between you, but you don't answer. Not right away.
Then someone calls five minutes, sharp and clipped. Nanami gives a short nod in return, then looks back to you.
“You’ll hear the engine before you see anything,” he says. “It’s loud. Stand near the monitors if you want to see times come through.”
“What’s a monitor?” you ask, brows lifting slightly. “Is that like a… television?”
He pauses mid-step, glancing back at you over his shoulder. There’s a brief flicker of something in his expression—half amusement, half recognition that yes, you’re definitely not from this world.
“Sort of,” he says. “It’s a screen that shows lap times and sector data. Mostly numbers. Nothing exciting unless you know what you’re looking at.”
You nod slowly, trying to picture it. “Right. Numbers on a screen. Riveting.”
That earns the smallest twitch of a smile from him. “I’ll explain after.”
He turns back toward the car, and you watch as he steps into the flurry of activity—crew moving in sync, tools being passed, someone crouched near the front wing checking tire pressure. There’s an energy that builds as he gets closer to the machine, like the whole space subtly shifts to meet him.
Someone helps him zip up the rest of his suit. He pulls on his gloves, then his helmet, and his goggles go over his eyes. And just like that, the man you’ve been getting to know is replaced by something sharper.
And then the engine starts.
The sound rolls through the garage in a low, thunderous growl. It’s not just loud—it’s alive, rumbling through your ribs, climbing the walls, spilling into your chest like heat.
You take a step back, instinctively.
A mechanic gestures for you to stand near a small viewing station along the wall—a curved screen behind glass, the numbers already flickering in and out as the first cars begin their laps.
You find your spot, heart racing, eyes flicking between the screen and the blur of motion as Nanami’s car pulls out of the garage.
The moment Nanami’s car slips onto the track, something changes.
The garage doesn’t go silent, but the energy shifts. People move with more purpose, eyes fixed on equipment, radios crackling with clipped phrases and calm urgency. One of the engineers stands near the viewing station, arms crossed tight, murmuring lap times under his breath as they roll in.
You stay near the edge, just far enough not to be in the way, watching the monitor like you’re learning a new language in real time.
You’d asked someone what the sectors meant. They’d explained it simply enough: the course is divided into three parts—sector one, sector two, sector three. Each car is timed in each section. Green means faster than their last run. Purple, fastest overall. Yellow means slower.
“Clean run,” someone mutters. “Grip’s holding better than yesterday.”
You don’t really know what that means, but you watch the screen anyway, Nanami’s name appearing third on the timing list after his first flying lap. Cars continue to cycle through, all streaking past the garage entrance with a high, sharp whine that cuts clean through the air.
Nanami’s back into the pits quickly. The crew swarms the car—adjusting tire pressure, checking suspension, brushing dust from the body with gloved hands. You don’t see his face again, not under the helmet, but you can tell he’s speaking to the team lead—his gestures are quick but calm, head tilted just slightly as he listens.
The board updates. He’s holding at P4 now—provisional fourth on the grid. Two tenths off the lead. Half a tenth behind Gojo, who he manages to overtake at the next corner.
“Car’s tighter through the chicane,” the engineer murmurs beside you. “Still losing time on the back straight.”
You squint at the monitor. “That’s… bad?”
“Not bad,” he replies. “Just not pole.”
You glance toward the track again, watching Nanami slice through a corner at full speed, barely a whisper of tire screech. Everything about his driving looks effortless—fluid, precise, like he’s threading a needle at 150 miles an hour.
He finishes his final lap with just two minutes left in the session. The board doesn’t change—still P3.
Someone exhales beside you. “That’s probably it.”
The engine sound fades as Nanami pulls back into the garage. The moment the car rolls to a stop, the team moves in again, but it’s calmer now. More routine. The kind of silence that follows a job well done—even if it wasn’t perfect.
He removes his helmet a beat later, raking a hand back through damp hair before he steps down from the car.
His eyes find you immediately.
You don’t say anything—just offer a small nod, not quite a smile.
And he nods back, a quiet kind of understanding passing between you.
Gojo’s name flashes up on the board a few minutes after Nanami’s final lap—P8.
You don’t know much, but even you can tell that’s not where he’s supposed to be.
The garage doors roll open again and Gojo storms in before the car fully stops, tearing off his gloves and helmet in one motion. The second his boots hit the floor, he throws the helmet with a sharp thud across the cement, where it bounces once before spinning to a stop near the tire racks.
“No way Fushiguro got pole,” he snaps, voice loud and sharp, echoing off the concrete. “I was two tenths up before that last sector—two tenths!”
No one responds right away. The air in the garage has shifted again, but not like before. This time it’s thick with heat, frustration hanging like humidity in summer.
Gojo paces in a tight circle, running a hand through his hair, eyes wild behind his sweat-slicked fringe.
Nanami doesn’t flinch. Still suited up, still standing beside his car, he watches Gojo calmly, like this is just part of it. Like he’s seen worse.
“Maybe next time don’t overcook turn six,” Nanami says, evenly.
Gojo whirls around. “I didn’t overcook turn six.”
Nanami raises a brow.
Gojo exhales hard, dragging a hand down his face. “Okay. I slightly overcooked turn six.”
One of the engineers edges over, muttering something about cooling down the car. Another crew member discreetly retrieves the helmet and sets it back on the bench like it never happened.
You stay quiet in the corner, watching. It’s not tense, not really. Just charged. Like everyone here knows this is what it means to want to win badly enough that losing stings even in practice.
Eventually, Gojo turns and catches your eye, as if just now remembering you’re still there.
He points a finger at you. “Don’t look at me like I’m crazy.”
You blink. “I wasn’t.”
“You were. That was a judgmental blink.”
Nanami sighs. “Satoru.”
Gojo throws his hands up. “I’m fine. I’m fine.” Then, grinning despite himself, “I’ll just crash his car tomorrow and sleep better at night.”
Nanami doesn’t dignify that with a response.
Ino, the engineer from earlier, walks over to the two of them, clipboard tucked under one arm, a streak of grease smudged near his jaw like he hadn’t noticed or didn’t care.
He nods at Nanami first. “Your second run was tighter. You’re still dropping a little time on the straight, but sector one’s clean now. You hold P3 unless someone pulls something stupid in the next three minutes.”
Nanami gives a small nod, already half-aware.
Ino turns to Gojo next, raising a brow. “You want the good news or the bad news?”
Gojo groans. “Is there any good news?”
“You didn’t blow the engine,” Ino offers dryly.
“Comforting.”
“And the telemetry’s clean. Your brakes were cooking, but not catastrophic. You need to ease off.”
Gojo snatches a water bottle off the table behind him and takes a long drink. “I hate this track.”
“You said that about Imola.”
“And Spa.”
Ino doesn’t even blink. “And Monza.”
“Don’t act like Monaco isn’t cursed,” Gojo snaps, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. “That kid getting pole? That’s not talent, it’s voodoo.”
“Fushiguro is fast,” Nanami says simply, checking his gloves before slipping them off. “He always has been.”
Gojo looks like he wants to argue, but doesn’t. He just slumps back onto the nearest chair like he’s aged ten years since stepping out of the car.
Ino gives you a brief glance, like he’s reminding himself again that there’s a civilian here, then gestures to the side of the garage. “They’re clearing the lane. Both your cars will be inspected in ten.”
Nanami nods, and Ino disappears back into the chaos, already flipping through the pages on his clipboard.
Gojo leans his head back, eyes shut now, voice low.
“You’re not going to be insufferable if you finish ahead of me again, right?”
Nanami doesn’t answer.
You glance at him. “Is he usually insufferable?”
“Without trying,” Nanami replies, calm as ever.
Gojo lifts a hand and flips him off without opening his eyes.
“We have to go get weighed,” Gojo says after a beat, still sprawled in his chair. “Then we’ve got that fan event on the south side of the track.”
“I’m not going,” Nanami announces, without looking up from where he’s unfastening the top of his suit.
Gojo lifts his head. “You have to. It’s in the contract.”
“I’ll take the fine.”
“You always take the fine.”
Nanami doesn’t respond.
Gojo swings his legs down, sitting upright now, like he’s actually considering arguing. “Nanamin. Come on. Just an hour. You stand there, you sign a few things, you pretend to smile. That’s it.”
“No.”
“Why not?”
Nanami finally looks up, then glances briefly in your direction. “I have other plans.”
You blink, unsure whether that was for your benefit or Gojo’s.
Gojo raises a brow, follows the look, then slowly leans back again, smirking like he’s solved a puzzle no one else was playing.
“Ah,” he says, dragging the word out. “Other plans.”
Nanami doesn’t dignify that with a response.
“Fine,” Gojo says, standing up and brushing off his pants. “I’ll just tell the team their golden boy’s brooding in the garage with his perfume girl.”
You open your mouth to say something but Nanami speaks first.
“They already know.”
Gojo grins. “Of course they do. They know everything.”
He points at you as he walks off. “Try not to ruin him. He’s delicate under all that quiet.”
Then he’s gone, whistling to himself as he disappears toward the weighing station.
The garage is quieter now, less crowded. Most of the crew has scattered, radio chatter fading into static, the sharp edge of the session giving way to a lull that feels oddly intimate.
Nanami glances at you again, his suit still half-open at the collar, hair damp, posture loose in a way it hadn’t been when you arrived.
“I’ll be back soon,” he says, voice lower now, not quite private, but close to it. “Wait for me?”
You nod. “Alright.”
He watches you for a beat longer, as if making sure you mean it, then gives a quiet nod and turns, heading toward the far end of the garage, where the weigh-in area sits just beyond the barriers.
You watch him go until he’s out of view. Then you settle back on the stool, the noise around you muted now, the space oddly warm despite the open structure of the paddock. The smell of fuel and rubber still clings to the air, but it’s familiar now. Like the room’s adjusting to you as much as you’re adjusting to it.
Outside, the sun is starting to dip, casting long shadows across the asphalt.
He returns when the sky’s gone pink and orange. The energy of the paddock has dipped with the light. There’s less urgency now, more clean-up and conversations echoing faintly from somewhere down the row of garages.
You spot him before he says anything.
His hair is damp, pushed back neatly, still drying at the temples. He’s changed, traded the fireproof suit for a loose linen shirt and khakis, the sleeves rolled to his forearms. A pair of worn-in Sperrys on his feet. It’s the most relaxed you’ve seen him look, and somehow, the quiet suits him just as much as the control.
He stops in front of you, tilting his head slightly.
“My apologies. Medicals took longer than expected.”
You glance up at him, letting your smile show this time. “It’s okay. I told you I would wait.”
He shifts his weight slightly, glancing around the now-sleepy garage. “You’ve been sitting here all afternoon. You hungry?”
You blink. “Are you… asking me to dinner?”
“I’m asking if you’ve eaten,” he corrects, but there’s something dry and just barely amused in his tone. “There’s a place across the water a local recommended to me last summer.”
You pause like you’re considering it, even though you already know your answer.
“Alright,” you say, pushing up from the stool. “But only if you tell me what it felt like out there, while you were driving.”
He looks at you for a moment, unreadable. “Dinner first.”
You fall into step beside him as he leads the way out of the garage, the last of the sunset slipping across the marina, and the rest of Monaco humming quietly in the distance.
He walks you down a narrow path past the quieter edge of the paddock, the fading light stretching long across the concrete. A few lingering crew members nod at him in passing, but no one stops him. He moves like someone used to being observed, but not interrupted.
At the edge of the lot, he unlocks the door to a sleek, low-slung car and drops a duffle bag into the small trunk.
It’s a Maserati A6G/54 Spyder Zagato—all smooth curves and polished chrome, deep navy blue with cream leather seats. Even idle, it looks fast.
You blink at it, then glance at him. “Courtesy of the team?”
He shrugs like it’s nothing. “Technically.”
You trail your fingers lightly along the passenger door before he opens it for you. “It’s beautiful.”
You settle into the seat, the leather soft and warm from the sun, and watch as he slides into the driver’s side—steady hands, relaxed shoulders. He starts the engine, and it purrs to life.
The car winds through Monaco’s narrow streets with a grace that feels effortless, the engine low and smooth beneath the hum of the evening. Streetlights flicker to life as you pass beneath them, casting soft, golden glows across shuttered windows and balconies dripping with summer flowers.
You don’t talk much on the drive, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. Nanami drives like he lives: measured, focused, never wasting more than he has to. Every so often, you catch him glancing toward you at red lights, like he’s still not entirely sure you’re real.
You arrive at a small restaurant tucked into the hillside just past the marina, a little hidden terrace overlooking the curve of the coast. No sign out front. Just warm yellow lights strung low and the scent of wood smoke and garlic wafting into the street.
“This doesn’t look like the kind of place they put the drivers,” you murmur as he helps you out of the car.
“That’s the point,” he says simply.
The hostess greets him by name, not even surprised to see him. No fanfare. Just familiarity. You’re shown to a small table near the edge of the terrace, the kind with worn wooden chairs and a view that makes you sit back a little slower. The sea stretches wide and dark below, the harbor glittering quietly behind you.
Nanami orders without looking at the menu, something in practiced French. A bottle of wine, too, and water without ice. You watch him as he leans back slightly in his chair, fingers resting on the rim of his glass. The linen shirt clings slightly to his arms now, still damp from the heat of the day, his collar open just enough to soften the edge of him.
The server disappears, and the quiet settles again.
“So,” you say after a beat. “Is this your idea of recovery?”
His mouth lifts slightly. “Better than the fan event.”
You take a sip of wine. “Still sounds like a fine to me.”
“I’ve paid worse.”
You smile, letting the moment breathe. The food arrives not long after—simple dishes, local and warm, the kind that taste better outside under fading light with someone who isn’t pretending to be anyone else.
For a while, you talk about everything but racing. And perfume. The things in between. Where you grew up. The first time he crashed a kart. How you used to try and match scents to people you passed on the street.
“You still do that?” he asks, eyes flicking toward you over the rim of his glass.
“Sometimes.”
“And me?”
You pause, considering. “Something sharp, like cut stone. On the cleaner side of things.”
He raises an eyebrow. “That sounds... impersonal.”
You shake your head. “It’s not. You don’t budge for anyone, but you don’t need to.”
He doesn’t answer, not right away. But he doesn’t look away either.
And under the soft clatter of dishes and the far-off hum of the city below, something between you begins to settle into place.
“So,” you ask, taking a bite of your food, letting the wine smooth out the edges of your nerves, “how’d you get into racing in the first place?”
Nanami exhales through his nose, slow and deliberate. “You’re not going to sell me to the press, are you?” he says. It’s meant to be a joke, but it lands a little flat, like even he knows it’s just a deflection.
You offer a small smile. “I make no promises,” you joke back. “With the kind of money I’d make from that I wouldn’t need to sell another bottle of perfume for years.”
He chuckles, then he reaches for his glass and finally says, “I didn’t mean to. Not really.”
You look at him, waiting.
“My best friend growing up, Yu, he was the one who was obsessed. We started at this little track near his family’s house. Mostly on weekends and summer breaks. He was the one who read all the specs, memorized every pole position, begged his parents for a secondhand kart.”
A faint smile tugs at his mouth, though it doesn’t quite reach his eyes.
“When we got older, he wanted to go pro, but I went to law school. Thought I’d grow out of it, eventually. And there’s no guarantees in motorsport, I needed something stable.”
You don’t say anything. Just let the space fill in with the hush of cutlery, the low murmur of other tables.
“He was hit by a car,” Nanami says quietly. “Week before his twentieth birthday. Didn’t make it. I wasn’t even in town for his funeral.”
You mouth hangs open, just a bit.
“I dropped out after that. Took every yen I had, moved to Europe, started over. Didn’t really care about the politics or the sponsors. Still don’t. I just… liked the feeling of being behind the wheel. It was the only thing that made sense.”
You set your fork down, gently.
“And the interviews?” you ask, softer now.
He shakes his head. “They never asked about him. Just about me. And I never had anything worth saying if it wasn’t about him.”
You watch him for a long moment, the lights from the harbor casting soft golden arcs across his features.
“You could’ve walked away,” you murmur. “And you didn’t.”
He looks at you, really looks at you then, and there’s something quiet and raw in his expression. Not grief, exactly—but something that lives just beside it.
“I think,” you say carefully, “he’d be proud.”
He doesn’t reply right away. But then he lifts his glass slightly, toward you.
“Thank you,” he says, voice low.
Your hand finds his across the table, your delicate fingers resting atop his larger ones. The touch is light at first, but he doesn’t move. Just lets your warmth settle there, grounding him.
Nanami glances down at the contact, then back at you. His hand shifts, not to pull away, but to turn beneath yours so your palms meet. His fingers curl gently around yours, like he needed that touch just as much.
The noise around you fades into something distant. The clink of glasses, laughter from a nearby table, the sound of the sea brushing against the marina wall—all of it softened beneath the weight of the moment.
“You didn’t have to tell me any of that,” you say quietly.
“I know.”
“But I’m glad you did.”
He doesn’t speak. There’s a kind of peace in his stillness now. A quiet that feels less like restraint, and more like understanding.
Outside, the sky is deepening into navy blue, the last hints of color giving way to the shimmer of early night.
Nanami gives your hand a gentle squeeze. “You want to go for a walk?”
You nod.
And this time, when you rise from the table, it’s with your fingers still threaded through his.
He walks beside you down the narrow path that winds along the edge of the hill, the restaurant fading behind into soft music and clinking cutlery. The air smells like salt and warm stone, the city lights flickering gently across the bay below.
“How about you?” he asks after a minute. “Why become a perfumer?”
You glance at him, then out toward the water. “My dad was one,” you say delicately. “My dad and my great-aunt. They ran a small lab together in Grasse. I grew up in it. I helped stack blotters in jars, labeled things in terrible handwriting, and got scolded for messing up the oils.”
Nanami doesn’t interrupt. Just listens, eyes on the cobblestone ahead, but tuned completely to your voice.
You pause before continuing.
“But when I was ten, my dad left. Cheated on my mom. Moved to America with his new family.” You exhale, slow and controlled, like you’ve said it before but it still costs you something. “He took the name with him. My mom didn’t want to fight over it. She and my great-aunt started over with what was left.”
His hand tightens around yours—not sharply, just enough that you feel it. Like a presence rather than a reaction.
“They raised me,” you say. “And I guess I always wanted to prove something. That we didn’t need him to keep doing what we loved. That our name wasn’t the only one that meant something in a bottle.”
You look at him then, half expecting pity, but he offers none.
Just understanding.
“You did,” he says softly. “You are.”
For a moment, you’re quiet again, the path ahead lit in gold from a streetlamp clinging to the curve of the road.
Then he adds, a little drier, “Though I’m biased. I helped with your last one.”
That pulls a quiet laugh from you.
“Don’t let it go to your head, Nanami.”
He glances down at you, that same subtle pull at the corner of his mouth.
“Too late.”
You’re mid-laugh, brushing his shoulder as you say something teasing, when the sound of wheels suddenly cuts through the air.
A child rockets down the hill on a bicycle, his laughter echoing off the walls as he barrels past, too unbothered by the curve ahead.
Nanami reacts before you do.
One hand wraps around your waist, the other steadies the small of your back as he pulls you in, tight against him. The bike zips past, barely missing you, the gust of it brushing your skirt.
Your breath catches from the nearness of him.
His chest is firm under your palms, his shirt still faintly warm from the restaurant, smelling of clean linen and the barest trace of something woodsy, something sharp. His hand lingers at your hip, fingers splayed wide like he forgot to let go.
You tilt your head back, eyes meeting his.
He’s close. Closer than before. His brow still slightly furrowed from the reflex, his jaw tight. But it’s his eyes that give him away.
You don’t move. Neither does he.
“I should’ve pulled you sooner,” he says, voice low. “You almost got hurt.”
You shake your head slightly. “No harm done.”
Except your pulse is doing a slow, traitorous thrum beneath your skin. And he still hasn’t let go.
Nanami’s gaze drops, not far. Just to your mouth. Then back up again.
A breath passes between you.
And then, slowly, he steps back. Releases you with the same care he took holding you. His hand brushes along your waist as it slips away, a ghost of contact that lingers longer than it should.
The moment’s over.
“Shall we?” he asks, voice perfectly even.
You nod, heart still a little too loud in your chest. “Yeah. Let’s keep walking.”
You walk for a while without speaking, your footsteps falling in sync as the road curves lower along the coast. The air smells of sea salt and something faintly sweet—maybe someone baking, or citrus trees behind gated villas. The city is quieter now, softened under twilight, Monaco’s usual shine turned more golden than blinding.
You don’t reach for him again, but you’re aware of every inch between your bodies. A distance that feels deliberate. Measured. Like you’re both pretending not to feel the gravity tugging you closer.
“I don’t usually do this,” you say eventually, voice barely above the hush of the waves below.
Nanami glances sideways. “Walks?”
Your mouth quirks. “No. Let strangers pull me into their garages. Let them buy me dinner. Tell them about my father.”
A beat. Then, softly: “I don’t usually tell people about Yu.”
You glance up at him. “So we’re even.”
His eyes catch yours, the quiet understanding still there, but something warmer now underneath it. He nods once.
“I’m glad you came,” he says.
You don’t answer right away. The truth is, you’re not sure why you did—at least not in any way that makes sense. You just know that when he looked at you in the garage, oil-smudged and serious, asking if you’d wait… you wanted to.
“I wasn’t planning to,” you admit. “But then I read the papers. Saw your face everywhere.”
He raises a brow. “Recognized me then?”
“No,” you say, teasing. “Still don’t really know who you are.”
That gets a rare smile—something softer, not as carefully managed as the others. “Good.”
You walk in silence again, your shoulder brushing his once, then twice, before either of you adjusts your pace.
“Come on,” he says suddenly, cutting left onto a narrow path that veers uphill. “I want to show you something.”
You hesitate only a second before following. The path is steeper here, lined with ivy-covered stone walls and shuttered doors. You climb higher, the sounds of the street fading below.
When you reach the top, the view opens like a secret—Monaco spread out beneath you, lights glittering against the dark, the sea stretching endless and black beyond the bay.
You breathe in, quiet awe catching in your throat.
“It’s not a podium,” Nanami says beside you. “But it’s close.”
You turn to look at him, but he’s already watching you.
“Step up on that rock,” he says, nodding to a flat stone nestled against the overlook’s edge. “You get a better view.”
You glance at it, then at him.
“You just want an excuse to look at me from below.”
A faint smile pulls at his mouth. “I am nothing but a gentleman.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s heat crawling up your neck as you step up anyway, the stone cool under your heels. He was right—the extra height shifts the whole scene, widening the scope. The harbor glows below like a spilled string of lights, the sea calm and endless beyond it.
But it’s not the view that keeps your attention.
It’s the way Nanami’s watching you.
His hands are in his pockets now, but his shoulders are relaxed, chin tilted slightly back to keep you in frame. There's something unguarded about the way he looks at you now, like he’s not pretending not to want you anymore.
“You were right,” you murmur, gaze flicking back toward the bay. “It’s beautiful.”
He steps closer, just enough that you can feel the heat of him through the soft night air.
“So are you,” he says.
Your eyes meet his again, and this time, neither of you looks away.
The silence stretches.
Then his hands are at your waist, steady and warm, guiding you gently back down from the rock like you’re something fragile, like you’re precious.
And when your feet touch the ground, you don’t let go.
His hands are still at your waist, and yours have found their way to the front of his shirt, fingertips brushing the fabric like they’ve been meaning to settle there all evening.
“Forgive me if I’m reading into this wrong,” he murmurs. His face is mere inches from yours, breath warm against your cheek. “But I can think of nothing else other than kissing you.”
Your pulse flickers, your breath catching.
You don’t pull away.
Instead, your thumb brushes lightly against the collar of his shirt, just above the first button. “You’re not wrong.”
He leans in slowly, giving you space to change your mind.
You don’t.
When his mouth meets yours, it’s careful at first, like he’s still unsure if he’s allowed to want this.
But you kiss him back, softly at first, then deeper, until the quiet restraint that’s defined every shared glance, every half-smile, finally gives way.
His hand slides up your back, fingers anchoring at your nape, while your body leans into his, instinctive and natural.
The city glitters on, indifferent to your moment.
The kiss deepens with a slow, deliberate ache.
He tilts his head slightly, lips moving against yours with a patience that only makes you want him more. There’s nothing rushed about it—just quiet, measured hunger, like he’s been holding back all day and only now letting it show.
You curl your fingers into the front of his shirt, his chest warm and solid beneath your palm. One of his hands slides to your jaw, thumb brushing the edge of your cheek as he coaxes your mouth open, like he’s memorizing the way you taste.
A soft sound escapes you, too quiet to echo, but enough that he hears it.
His mouth lingers just a second longer, before pulling back—barely.
And then: “Ahem!”
The sound snaps you both apart like you’ve been caught stealing something.
You glance to your right.
An older man, walking his tiny dog along the path, gives you both a disapproving squint as he continues past, muttering something in French about “young people” and “no shame.”
Nanami clears his throat, one hand falling from your waist, the other smoothing his shirt like it might help him recover the last minute of composure he just lost.
You stifle a laugh behind your fingers, cheeks flushed.
He looks at you again, jaw ticking, but there’s the faintest hint of a smile tugging at his mouth.
“Well,” he murmurs. “That was… untimely.”
You nod, still trying not to laugh. “Very.”
But even as you start walking again, your shoulder brushing his—you know neither of you has forgotten the kiss. Or the way you’ll be thinking about it all night.
By the time you make it back to the car, the night has settled in fully—quiet and warm, the scent of the sea curling in through the open passenger window. Nanami opens the door for you without a word, the gentleman in him never missing a beat, and you slide into the passenger seat with a sigh that’s softer than it should be.
He circles around, settling behind the wheel. The engine hums to life beneath his hands, low and sleek, and the Maserati rolls forward like it’s barely touching the ground.
“Where can I drop you?” he asks after a few quiet blocks, his eyes flicking over to you before returning to the road.
You glance at him, then out at the empty streetlights glinting off shuttered windows and balconies. It feels too early to say goodnight, and too late to pretend this was just dinner.
“My boutique,” you say at last, voice gentle.
He nods, shifting gears like he already knew you’d say that.
“I want to know more about you,” he says, eyes still on the road.
The words aren’t dramatic. They don’t land with a crash. But there’s something about the way he says them—calm, intentional—that makes your breath catch a little.
You glance over at him, finding only sincerity in his profile. The strong line of his jaw. The slight furrow between his brows, like he’s thinking too hard about something that matters more than he’s willing to admit.
“Like what?” you ask, your voice softer now, quieter with the windows rolled down and the wind lifting strands of your hair.
He takes a beat.
“What your favorite scent is,” he says. “What you dreamed about when you were twelve. If you like mornings or if you hate them. If you’re planning on staying in Monaco after this commission’s done.”
You smile—slow, surprised.
“That’s a lot of questions.”
“I have time.”
“Okay,” you say, a smile tugging at your mouth. “Ask me one by one. But you have to answer too.”
Nanami hums in approval, turning onto a quieter street, where the lamplight stretches long across the pavement. “Let’s start simple.”
You glance over at him, waiting.
“How old are you?” he asks.
“Twenty-three,” you reply.
He nods once. There’s a pause, brief but noticeable.
You tilt your head. “Your turn.”
“Thirty-one,” he says, eyes still on the road.
The numbers settle between you like a quiet marker. Not alarming, not awkward—just honest.
You glance at him again, thoughtfully. “That’s not so bad.”
He raises an eyebrow, just enough for you to catch it. “Were you expecting it to be?”
“No,” you murmur, smile curling at the edges. “Just… not surprised.”
He doesn’t answer right away. But the corner of his mouth twitches, like he’s holding back something wry or self-deprecating.
“Your turn,” he says.
You think for a second.
“What did you want to be when you were little?”
He exhales a short laugh, like the memory surprises him. “I think I wanted to be a writer,” he says. “Or maybe a detective. Something quiet.”
You glance at him, slightly amused. “And instead, you chose the fastest, loudest job imaginable.”
His smile finally breaks through. “I was six.”
The car slows as he nears your street, engine humming low beneath your feet.
“Your turn,” he says again, voice quieter now. “What scent do you love most?”
You don’t answer immediately. Instead, you look out the window, eyes tracing the familiar turn toward your boutique.
“Ambergris,” you say eventually. “It’s rare and very expensive, but it smells exactly like the ocean. It just lingers without asking for attention.”
He pulls up in front of the boutique, shifting the car into park. Then looks at you—really looks.
“That makes sense,” he says.
You glance over. “Why?”
He studies you for a moment longer, his voice soft.
“Because you linger, too.”
The silence that follows isn’t heavy and neither of you moves to open the door.
"Do you want to come in?" you ask, fingers resting lightly on the strap of your satchel. "I have work to do, but it's only six… and I think I have a bottle of champagne left from when I signed the lease."
His gaze lifts to the windows of your boutique, still dark behind the shutters. Then back to you.
“You’re offering me cheap champagne and the scent of plaster dust,” he says, the faintest trace of a smile at his lips.
You arch a brow. “That’s the offer, yes.”
He doesn’t hesitate.
“I’d be an idiot to say no.”
You slide out of the car, footsteps quiet against the cobblestone as you move toward the door. He follows without a word, hands tucked into the pockets of his linen slacks, the evening light soft on his face.
When you unlock the door and step inside, the familiar scent of wood, resin, and unfinished plaster greets you. You flick on the light—just one lamp near the counter—and the space glows with a quiet, golden warmth.
He steps in behind you, gaze drifting across the shelves still half-stacked, the walls still bare.
“It’s different at night,” he murmurs, more to himself than to you.
You slip off your hat by the door, already moving toward the back room, calling over your shoulder, “Make yourself at home. I’ll find the champagne.”
You find the bottle tucked away behind a box of sample vials—still wrapped in the tissue paper the landlord had given you when you signed the lease. A single champagne flute sits in the cabinet above, and you pull out a second, mismatched one from a crate marked “to unpack.”
When you return to the front, Nanami is standing by your workbench again, one hand resting lightly on its edge, eyes scanning the scattered bottles and handwritten notes you’d left from earlier in the day. He hasn’t touched anything, but you can tell he’s paying attention.
You set the glasses down and start working the cork loose.
“It’s not cold,” you warn, tilting the bottle.
“I won’t hold it against you,” he says.
The cork pops a little louder than you meant it to, echoing in the quiet of the boutique. You pour, handing him the less-chipped glass before settling on the stool you’ve claimed as your own over the past few weeks.
Nanami remains standing, sipping carefully, then nods once in approval.
“Not bad.”
You smirk. “You expected worse.”
“I expected something flat. This is… charmingly mediocre.”
You raise your glass. “To mediocrity, then.”
He clinks his against yours.
A quiet stretches between you. He takes another slow sip, then glances around the space again.
“It suits you,” he says.
You swirl your champagne once, letting the bubbles settle. “It’s still a work in progress.”
“So are most things worth doing.”
Your eyes flick up to meet his, and for a moment, neither of you looks away.
Outside, the street is quiet, the world soft with the hush of early night. But in here, there’s something warm building between you—measured, patient, but undeniable.
You take a slow sip and set your glass down. “Do you want to see what I was working on earlier?”
He sets his drink beside yours, stepping closer. “Yeah,” he says quietly. “Show me.”
You walk him toward the back of the boutique—past boxes of hand-labeled vials, scattered strips of scent blotters, and an old drafting table repurposed into your mixing station. There’s a small amber bottle sitting near the edge, uncapped, waiting.
“I started reworking an old formula after you left,” you explain, reaching for a clean blotter. “I want something I can put on shelves that everyone knows about.”
You hand him the strip, freshly dipped.
He doesn’t move right away. Just watches you, like you’ve offered him something more intimate than a piece of paper.
Then, he brings it to his nose.
The reaction is small, just the soft lift of his brows, the almost imperceptible way his eyes narrow, like the scent has caught him off guard.
“It’s familiar,” he murmurs.
“It should be,” you say, offering a small smile. “You inspire finish it.”
You move beside him, shoulders almost touching as you lean forward to adjust the proportions on a handwritten note. “The base is the different, but I added more of what you picked yesterday. I think it finally feels… real.”
He looks down at the bottle again, but then his eyes are on you.
“And what will you call it?”
You pause.
“I haven’t decided,” you admit. “Names come last.”
He studies you for a long moment, the air between you thick with something that isn’t just perfume.
“I think,” he says, voice quiet now, “you’re not giving yourself enough credit.”
You blink, unsure how to respond.
“You have a talent for making things feel like they’ve always existed, like they’ve just been waiting to be found.”
You don’t look at him right away. You can’t. Your throat is too tight, your pulse too loud.
Instead, you move to cap the bottle, fingers steady despite the warmth rising in your chest.
And when you do finally turn back, he’s still watching you, like he’s not in a hurry for you to say anything at all.
“I haven’t known you very long,” he says, voice low, the kind of quiet that draws your attention even before the words fully register. “But I really like you.”
You look up at him, caught between surprise and something warmer that’s been building slowly since the night began. His expression is steady, unreadable in that maddeningly calm way of his—but there’s something in the set of his jaw, the way his hand flexes against the edge of the workbench, that gives him away.
You set the capped bottle down between you. “That’s… honest,” you murmur.
“I don’t see the point in anything less.”
His gaze drops briefly—first to your mouth, then lower, to the exposed sliver of collarbone just visible beneath your blouse. When his eyes rise to meet yours again, they’re darker. Focused.
It sends a subtle wave of heat up the back of your neck.
You don’t step away. Neither does he.
The air between you tightens, thrums.
“What is it you like?” you ask quietly, almost a challenge.
He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he takes a single step closer, close enough now that the scent of your work mixes with the crisp linen of his shirt, the faint trace of his skin beneath it.
“I like that you don’t fawn over me,” he says, his voice lower now. “That you looked me in the eye before you knew who I was.”
You tilt your chin, breath catching. “And now that you know I know?”
His hand lifts—slowly, deliberately—brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers linger, feather-light against your jaw.
“I like that you still look at me the same way.”
Your pulse flutters beneath his touch. You’re sure he can feel it.
Neither of you moves for a long, suspended second.
Then, barely a whisper, “Do you want me to stop?”
Your breath slips out shakily.
“No,” you say, almost too quickly. “I don’t.”
His hand slides fully to the side of your face now, fingers curling behind your neck—not rough, but sure. His thumb brushes along your jaw as he leans in, eyes flicking to your mouth just before his lips meet yours.
The kiss is warm at first. Controlled.
Measured.
Like everything else he does, it starts with intention.
But then you respond.
Your hand lifts, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt just over his heart, and something in him shifts. The restraint breaks.
He kisses you deeper—his other hand bracing against the workbench behind you, caging you in. His body presses in closer, firm and solid against yours, and you gasp softly into his mouth when his lips part yours with a heat that steals the breath from your lungs.
His mouth moves with purpose like he’s been waiting for permission and now refuses to waste a second.
You pull him in harder, your side hitting the wall. His hands slip to your waist, fingers splayed, gripping you like he needs the anchor, like the scent of your skin is something he’s desperate to memorize.
You’re not sure how long it lasts.
Time loses shape.
There’s only the brush of his mouth, the soft catch of your breath, the quiet sigh that escapes you when his tongue strokes against yours—and the low groan that rumbles from his chest in response.
By the time you break apart, your lips are kiss-swollen and your breath comes in shallow pulls.
His forehead rests lightly against yours, breath still uneven, but his hands steady now—one still on your waist, the other resting just beside you on the bench, giving you space even as he stays close.
“I won’t go farther if you don’t want me to,” he says, voice low, nearly a whisper against your lips. “I really do like you. And I am a patient man. I can wait.”
Your fingers are still curled in his shirt, and you can feel the rise and fall of his breathing beneath your palm. He hasn’t pulled away. But he doesn’t press in either.
Just waits.
Your gaze lifts to meet his, and what you find there makes your pulse trip all over again—want, yes, but tempered with something gentler. Something careful.
“I won’t make you wait,” you say, pressing a peck against his jaw. “Not when I want you just as badly.”
You feel the way his breath hitches slightly at your words. His hand at your waist tightens, fingers flexing as if he's grounding himself, resisting the urge to close the space between you again too quickly.
He turns his head, brushing his nose against your cheek, lips ghosting over your skin. “Say it again.”
You tilt your chin, letting your mouth find his ear.
“I want you, Kento.”
This time, he doesn’t hold back.
His mouth finds yours, hungrily, with none of the earlier restraint. His hand slides up your spine as his tongue slips past your lips, tasting, claiming, like he’s been waiting all day for this—like he’d kept it bottled somewhere deep behind his calm exterior until now.
You gasp softly against him, your back arching as his body presses flush to yours, the heat of him making your head spin. The scent of him floods your senses, grounding you even as everything tilts.
His hand cradles the back of your neck, holding you there as he deepens the kiss, slow but intense, lips moving against yours like he’s memorizing the shape of your mouth. Your fingers clutch at his shirt, desperate to pull him closer, to feel more.
When he finally pulls back, just enough to breathe, your lips are tingling, your chest rising and falling with uneven breaths.
“I’ve been thinking about this,” he murmurs, voice rough against your skin, “since the moment I walked into your shop.”
You smile, dizzy and breathless.
“I knew you were trouble the second you touched that bottle,” you whisper.
His mouth brushes your cheek, your jaw, your throat—hungry again already. “Then it’s mutual.”
He works his way down, peppering slow, open-mouthed kisses along the curve of your jaw, then lower, down the column of your throat, to the soft slope of your collarbone. You tilt your head back to give him space, your breath catching each time his lips meet skin.
His hands are patient, practiced. They find the buttons of your blouse, undoing them one by one, with the kind of care that feels more intimate than haste. When the last button gives, he eases the fabric from your shoulders, letting it fall to the floor behind you.
What’s left is your slip—a delicate, lace-trimmed undergarment in soft ivory, the kind worn beneath dresses in the summer, structured yet feminine. It hugs your figure in all the ways that matter, the satin catching the low light of the workbench lamp.
He exhales like he’s just seen something sacred.
“Beautiful,” he murmurs, not in awe, but reverence like the word was made for you.
You reach for him again, tugging him closer by a belt loop on his pants.
“Come here,” you whisper.
His mouth finds yours again. You respond in kind, hands fisting in the linen of his shirt as your back hits the edge of an unfinished cabinet behind you. It’s half-constructed, shelves still bare, wood unpainted, the scent of sawdust lingering in the corners of the boutique.
You stumble back together, tangled in each other, laughter catching in your throat before it’s swallowed by another kiss. His hands slide to your hips, gripping firmly, guiding you up as you shift—half-sitting, half-leaning—against the wooden structure, your legs parting instinctively to let him settle between them.
The hard edge of the shelf presses into your thigh, but the only thing you feel is the heat of him, his palms skating over your sides, thumbs brushing just under the hem of your slip. His lips drag along your jaw, your neck, the place just below your ear where your breath stutters.
You cling to him like he’s the only solid thing in the room.
“I need to sit,” he murmurs, breaking the kiss just long enough to catch his breath. His voice is warm with affection, but there’s a touch of gravel in it now—strained, uneven. “Forgive me… my knees are going to give out.”
You smile against his mouth, breathless, lips tingling. “I thought race car drivers had stamina.”
“I do,” he says, brushing his thumb over your cheek. “But I also crashed yesterday.”
Fair enough.
He lowers himself onto the stool again, settling with a soft exhale as his back meets the wall. You follow without a word, slipping sideways into his lap, your knees bracketing his thigh, one arm looping around the back of his neck.
He lets out the faintest groan when you settle against him, hands instinctively coming to rest on your hips. His palm slides up, slow and steady, until it rests just beneath your ribs, anchoring you in place.
For a moment, you just look at each other, your breath mingling in the space between you, your fingers toying with the buttons near his collar, his eyes dark and unreadable beneath heavy lashes.
“I could stay like this,” he says quietly, voice close to your ear now, rougher with honesty than heat.
“So stay,” you whisper, your lips brushing the shell of his ear. “No one’s asking you to go.”
You nip gently at the soft skin of his earlobe, and he exhales sharply through his nose. Your mouth trails from there, slow and unhurried, pressing wet kisses along the strong curve of his jaw.
His skin is warm, still carrying the faint trace of whatever cologne clung to the collar of his shirt.
Your hand slides up into his hair, fingers curling tight for a moment, before you loosen your grip, moving down to the buttons of his linen shirt. One by one, you undo them with quiet precision, the fabric parting beneath your fingers to reveal the hard lines of his chest and the soft rise and fall of his breath.
He watches you closely the entire time, eyes dark, jaw set, but not stopping you.
When the last button gives, you push the shirt open, your hands resting lightly against his chest, feeling the steady drum of his heartbeat under your palms.
“You’re very quiet,” you murmur, pressing a kiss just below his ear.
He swallows, voice rough when it finally comes. “I’m trying not to lose my mind.”
His hand lifts gently to your chin, fingers warm beneath your jaw as he coaxes your gaze away from his chest and back up to his eyes.
“Hey,” he murmurs—low, steady. There’s a softness in the way he looks at you, like he wants you to feel everything, not just rush past it.
And then his mouth is on yours again.
His lips move against yours with a kind of quiet urgency, like he’s afraid of forgetting how you taste if he stops for even a second.
His hand stays on your jaw, thumb brushing the hinge gently as your mouth parts for him again, and you feel him sigh—into you, through you—as if kissing you is the only thing anchoring him right now.
You shift in his lap, drawn closer by instinct, and his other hand slides down to grip your thigh, grounding both of you in the middle of the barely-finished boutique, between scent bottles and blueprints and dust.
Your legs bracket his, one tucked between his thighs, the other hooked snugly over his left leg. The position draws you closer, chest to chest, your breath mingling as the kiss deepens.
“Need more,” you murmur, the words slipping out between kisses, barely coherent.
Your hips shift on instinct, a slow, investigative roll against him, and his grip on your waist tightens in response. His breath catches, a stifled sound that makes your stomach twist, and when he breaks the kiss, his forehead drops to yours.
“You’re going to ruin me,” Nanami whispers, voice ragged.
His hands slide down to your hips, fingers firm, guiding your movements as you rock against him. Even through layers of fabric, the friction is electric, every shift sending sparks up your spine. Nanami’s eyes are half-lidded, gaze fixed on you with a hunger that makes your pulse race.
He leans in, lips brushing your ear as he murmurs, “Just like that. Let me feel you.” His voice is low, rough with restraint, and the way he holds you makes you feel cherished and wanted all at once.
Your breaths come faster, mingling with his as you move together, the press of your bodies and the heat building between you. His thigh flexes beneath you and you can’t help the soft sound that escapes you as the coil tightens in your belly.
Nanami’s hand slips up your back, drawing you closer still. “You’re incredible,” he whispers, and the sincerity in his voice makes your heart flutter.
As pleasure finally begins to rip through you, Nanami’s hands move gently. He brushes his lips along your jaw, then trails them down to your shoulder once again. With a soft question in his eyes, he slides his fingers to the straps of your slip, giving you a moment to nod your consent.
Slowly, he eases the fabric from your shoulders, letting it fall away and leave your upper body bare to the cool air and his admiring gaze. His breath catches, his eyes drinking you in. His hands trace lightly over your skin, his touch feather-light, as if committing every detail to memory.
“You’re the most beautiful woman I have had the privilege of seeing,” he murmurs, voice thick with emotion. He presses a gentle kiss to your collarbone, then another to your heart, holding you close as you come down from your high.
His lips find their way back to yours, each kiss a gentle promise. “Let me taste you,” he murmurs between kisses, his voice deep and intent. With surprising strength, he rises, your legs instinctively wrapping around his hips. He lowers you to the floor with careful precision, his movements both protective and yearning.
As you settle beneath him, Nanami pauses, a rueful smile touching his lips. He brushes a stray strand of hair from your face, his thumb lingering on your cheek.
“I must confess,” he says softly, a hint of dry humor threading through his words, “this isn’t quite how I imagined our first time—on the floor, of all places.”
He leans in, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead, then meets your gaze.
His eyes flash with something you haven’t seen before.
“But I wouldn’t trade this moment for anything.”
His hands roam delicately over your skin, exploring as if memorizing every detail. The floor may be hard and the moment unexpected, but the warmth between you is undeniable. He lowers himself, lips trailing along the outline of your breasts.
“Tell me if you’re uncomfortable,” he whispers, his voice a gentle invitation. “I want you to feel safe with me, always.”
You nod, your hands coming up to his face, bringing him back down toward you.
Your legs fold under you, allowing space for Nanami’s larger body to fit atop of yours.
Nanami’s gaze searches yours, patient and attentive, as if he’s reading every unspoken word. He leans in, his forehead resting gently against yours, and you feel the steady, reassuring rhythm of his breath.
“I trust you,” you whisper, your voice soft but certain.
His hand lifts off of the ground, cupping your breast, and delicately massaging the underside.
His lips curve into a gentle smile, and he brushes a stray strand of hair from your face. “Thank you,” he murmurs, his fingers lingering with care.
Your head tips back, feeling a warmth blossom in your chest. With every touch, every look, Nanami makes it clear that your comfort comes first. The world outside seems to fade away, replaced by the quiet intimacy you share.
His mouth finds your nipple, latching on and suckling on the bud gently. Your hands are tangled in his hair. Around his neck. On his shoulders, your nails digging into him slightly.
And when he licks his way down your body—your dress and slip discarded somewhere in your boutique—your back arches off of the ground, trying to find more friction. Any friction.
“Lift,” he whispers, a roughness in his voice you haven’t heard before. Two of his fingers tap at your hips, and you comply, pushing your feet into the ground as you raise your hips.
Nanami’s index fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, pulling them down to pool at your ankles. His lips, now wet and swollen, make contact with the skin at your pelvis, trailing open mouthed kisses down toward where you need him most.
Your hand moves slowly, from the ground up toward his head, pushing him down more aggressively than you had initially meant to.
He breaks contact, sitting upright on his knees, and his eyes meeting yours.
“Patience, sweetheart,” he says. “Good things come to girls who wait.”
You groan at the loss of contact. “Please, Kento. I can’t wait much longer.”
Your hips lift again, this time wiggling upward toward him, begging for him to touch you anywhere.
Nanami’s eyes darken with desire as he watches your pleading movements, the air between you thick with anticipation. Slowly, deliberately, he lowers his gaze back to your exposed skin, his breath warm against your sensitive flesh. His fingers trail lightly along your inner thigh, sending shivers through you, before he finally leans in again.
His thumb glides gently along your center, gathering your arousal with a slow, deliberate touch that sends a shiver through your whole body. He brings his fingers to his lips, tasting you with a quiet, appreciative hum before letting them slip free, glistening in the low light.
His gaze meets yours before he lowers his hand again. With exquisite care, he slips a finger inside you, the movement unhurried and attentive, as if he’s savoring every reaction you give him. He sets a steady rhythm, his touch both patient and purposeful, coaxing pleasure from you with every gentle thrust.
His free hand rests on your hip, grounding you, his thumb tracing soothing circles on your skin. Each sensation is heightened by the way he watches you, utterly focused, as if you’re the only thing in the world that matters.
“So wet,” he murmurs.
His lips linger on your skin, each kiss a gentle promise that leaves your nerves tingling. The teasing is exquisite—every touch, every press of his mouth against your knee, stoking the fire building inside you. When his tongue finally traces a slow, deliberate path up your inner thigh, your breath catches.
He pauses, teeth grazing the soft curve of your thigh in a playful bite, his eyes flicking up to meet yours. The warmth of his breath fans over your most sensitive skin as he peppers kisses closer to where you need him most, each one drawing out a fresh wave of longing.
When his mouth finally finds you, the sensation is overwhelming. He takes his time, savoring every reaction, every gasp and shiver. The world narrows to the press of his lips, the slow, deliberate movements of his tongue, and the way his hands anchor you.
With every caress, he’s not just exploring your body—he’s worshipping it, making you feel cherished and seen. The pleasure builds in slow, steady waves, each one higher than the last, until you’re lost in the rhythm of his devotion, the world beyond the two of you fading away completely
Your hands tangle in his hair, pulling him closer as waves of pleasure build. The world narrows to the two of you, your breaths mingling, hearts pounding in sync. He’s now three fingers deep, stretching out your cunt, showing you just how much he’s captivated by you.
His name tumbles from your lips as you come undone.
Nanami slows, grounding you with gentle touches as you ride out your orgasm.
He withdraws his hand with care, then shifts back, reaching for his belt. The sound of his zipper is quiet but electric, anticipation humming between you as he slides his pants down and off.
His cock springs free— long and thick and angry at the tip. It slaps against his lower stomach with a vulgar noise, precum leaking down his length slowly.
You catch your breath, eyes widening as you take him in. He notices your hesitation, pausing to search your face. “Is this your first time?” he asks quietly.
You nod, cheeks flushed. “I want to… I just— I’ve never—” Your gaze drops, lingering on the space between you.
He moves closer, cupping your cheek. “We don’t have to do anything you’re not ready for,” he murmurs, voice low and reassuring. “But if you want this, I’ll go slow. I promise.”
You glance down, nerves fluttering in your stomach. “You’re… bigger than I expected,” you admit, a nervous laugh escaping you.
Nanami smiles, gentle and understanding, a soft laugh escaping his mouth. “We’ll take our time,” he assures you, brushing his thumb across your cheek. “Tell me if anything hurts, and I’ll stop. I want this to be good for you—only if you’re ready.”
He leans in, kissing you softly, letting you feel his patience and care with every touch, making sure you know you’re safe, wanted, and never rushed.
Nanami’s hands cradle your thighs, spreading them. He settles between you, his gaze searching yours for any sign of hesitation. You nod, giving him silent permission, and he positions himself at your entrance, the anticipation making your heart race.
You feel the gentle pressure as his tip begins to enter you, your breath catching at the unfamiliar stretch. Instinctively, you tense, a soft wince escaping your lips. Nanami immediately stills, his hands soothing over your hips, his voice calming.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” he murmurs, pressing a reassuring kiss to your forehead. “We’ll go as slow as you need.”
You bite your lip, nerves and anticipation mingling. “Is it in yet?” you whisper, glancing up at him.
He lets out a low, shaky breath, his restraint evident. “We’re about halfway,” he admits, his voice thick with both concern and desire. “You’re so tight… it’s almost too much.”
A flicker of doubt crosses your face. “It won’t fit,” you say, your nails digging into his arms as you try to anchor yourself.
He meets your gaze, his eyes full of warmth and encouragement. “You can take it,” he assures you, brushing his thumb along your cheek. “Just relax for me, yeah? I’ll take care of everything.”
He moves slowly, his hands never leaving your skin, grounding you as he begins to press forward. The stretch is intense, and you tense instinctively, a small gasp escaping you. Nanami pauses, brushing your cheek with his thumb, his voice a soothing anchor. “Breathe with me,” he murmurs, waiting for you to relax, his patience unwavering.
You focus on his touch, the warmth of his body, and the trust in his eyes. Gradually, you adjust, your body yielding to him. The discomfort fades, replaced by a new, overwhelming sensation—pleasure blooming where there was once tension.
He moves with care, watching your reactions, letting you set the pace. Soon, the pain is a distant memory, replaced by a deep, rolling pleasure that makes you cling to him, your breaths mingling as you move together.
“That’s it,” he whispers, awe in his voice. “You’re perfect. Just like this.”
Nanami’s head rests near your shoulder, his breath warm against your skin. You cling to him, your nails digging into his back, grounding yourself in the overwhelming sensations. The room is filled with the sounds of his grunts and your screams. The world outside fades away and your vision goes white.
If anyone were to look through the window, they’d find you an unclothed, cock-drunk mess on the floor— courtesy of Nanami thrusting deep in places you didn’t know existed inside of you.
“It’s too much,” you whisper, your voice trembling as you shift beneath him, overwhelmed by the intensity of sensation.
Nanami’s hand finds yours, fingers intertwining as he steadies you. “Shh, it’s okay,” he soothes, his tone gentle and encouraging. “You’re doing so well for me.”
He presses a kiss to your temple, his breath warm against your skin. When you instinctively tighten around him, he lets out a shaky laugh, his control wavering. “Careful,” he murmurs, voice rough with restraint. “If you keep that up, I won’t last much longer.”
You meet his gaze, a flush rising to your cheeks at the vulnerability in his eyes. He slows his movements, giving you time to adjust, his thumb tracing comforting circles on your hip.
“Just focus on me,” he says softly.
Your breath comes in short, desperate gasps as the pleasure builds, overwhelming and all-consuming. “I’m close,” you manage, voice trembling. “I think—I don’t know, it just feels so good.”
Nanami’s grip tightens on your hand, his own restraint slipping as he meets your gaze, eyes dark with longing. “Me too,” he murmurs, his voice rough. “Just hold onto me.”
The rhythm between you grows frantic, both of you chasing that final, shattering release. His words—soft, encouraging, reverent—anchor you as the sensation crests, your bodies moving in perfect sync. In one breathless moment, the world falls away, and you both come undone together— his name on your lips, your on his, his arms holding you close as you ride out the aftermath side by side.
He pulls out of you, the sensation leaving you feeling empty. With gentle care, his hand moves between your thighs, rubbing once more at your clit, his touch lingering as he traces the evidence of your shared release. He brings his fingers to your lips, his gaze locked on yours, warm and intent.
“Open for me,” he murmurs, his voice low and coaxing, a hint of a smile playing at his lips. “Taste the mess you’ve made.”
You part your lips, letting him press his fingers gently to your tongue. Afterward, the room is quiet but for the sound of your mingled heartbeats and gentle, contented breaths. Nanami presses a tender kiss to your forehead, his fingers tracing lazy patterns along your back.
“You were perfect,” he whispers, awe and affection in every word.
You rest against him, cheek pressed to his shoulder, limbs boneless and warm. He wraps an arm around you carefully, protective without being possessive, the pads of his fingers tracing idle shapes along your spine as your breathing slows.
After a beat, he leans back just enough to look at you, brushing a damp strand of hair from your cheek.
“Are there any towels in the back?” he asks softly, voice low, grounding. “I’ll get you cleaned up.”
You nod sleepily, pointing toward the curtained hallway near the rear storage room. “Stack in the cabinet beside the sink.”
He kisses your forehead, then slips away with quiet efficiency, disappearing into the shadows. You hear drawers opening, a tap running briefly, and when he returns, it’s with warm water and soft linen.
He kneels in front of you without a word, gentle and unhurried as he helps you feel like yourself again—caring for you in a way that says more than any compliment ever could.
When it’s done, he helps you slip back into your clothes, fastens the buttons with surprising care, and reaches for the bottle of champagne you’d been drinking earlier.
“You still want that toast?” he asks, raising the bottle slightly, a rare glint of playfulness in his eyes.
You nod, smiling as he pops the cork. He hands you your cup and sits beside you, your bare knees brushing.
“To your boutique,” he says softly, raising his glass.
“To your first place finish tomorrow,” you counter, clinking it against his.
The champagne is warm and flat, but neither of you seem to mind.
You lean your head against his shoulder, and he tips his glass back, his free hand finding yours again.
“Come tomorrow,” he says, quiet but sure, the way everything he says is. “To my race.”
You take a sip of the warm champagne, eyes still on the rim of your glass as you reply, “Can’t,” a faint smile tugging at your lips. “You’ve distracted me far too much, Mr. Nanami.”
He lets out a soft laugh, low and almost private, as if he’s not used to being told no—but is strangely delighted by it when it comes from you.
“Is that what I’ve done?” he asks, turning slightly to face you better. “Distracted you?”
You finally meet his gaze. “Completely. And I do have a boutique to finish setting up, you know.”
“Right,” he nods, but the glimmer in his eyes betrays him. “Don’t let me get in the way.”
You’re quiet for a long moment, the gentle clink of glass against wood filling the silence as you tidy up the space around you—folding a stray cloth, straightening a few scattered bottles. Your hands move on autopilot, but your mind’s already slipping ahead, out of this room, out of this night.
He watches you, then breaks the stillness with a question that lands heavier than you expect.
“When do you leave?”
You pause, your fingers brushing over the rim of a glass before curling into your palm.
“I don’t know,” you admit. “Soon, I think.”
Nanami shifts on the stool, his eyes following you as you move. “I can extend my stay,” he says, steady and certain in the way only he can be. “I want to see you again.”
You smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes.
“That’s not the best idea,” you say softly.
His brows furrow, not in anger, but confusion. Maybe even hurt.
“Why not?”
You exhale through your nose, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Because you’ll be gone again in a week. And I’ll be back in Grasse.”
He opens his mouth, like he wants to argue, but you hold up a hand.
“I’ve seen how this works,” you continue. “You live on tracks and in hotel rooms and in front of cameras. I’m simple, and we’re both busy, and you live this fancy life, and we… We don’t exactly… fit.”
There’s a long pause.
“But it felt like we did,” he says, and it’s so quiet, you almost miss it.
You turn away, suddenly too aware of how close he still is. “It’s not that simple, Nanami. You and me—it’s not real. Our lives are too different.”
You hear the stool scrape against the wood floor, then the soft hush of his footsteps crossing the boutique. They stop just a breath away.
“Why won’t you at least try?” he asks, voice low but unmistakably strained. “We can make it work. I can write letters, send postcards. I’ll fly you out for all the European races. Hell, I’ll take the train if you hate flying. Just—don’t walk away from this before it even starts.”
You turn to face him, your mouth already drawn tight with the ache you’ve been trying to swallow since he kissed you the first time.
“It’s not about trains or flights, Nanami,” you snap, sharper than intended. “It’s about reality.”
His brows crease. “Reality is whatever we decide to make of it.”
“No,” you cut in, shaking your head, “reality is that you’ll be gone again in two days, and I’ll be here, sweeping dust off the floor and trying to get this place to open before summer ends. While you’re on podiums and avoiding magazine covers, and getting asked to dinner in every country you visit.”
“You think I care about any of that?” he says, incredulous now, frustration bleeding into his voice. “Do you think I want champagne parties and interviews and—being chased down the street? I hate that part of this.”
“Then why do you do it?” you fire back. “If you hate it so much, why not just leave?”
“Because I love racing,” he says, like it costs him something to admit it. “Because I made a promise to someone who never got the chance to chase this dream. And because it’s the only thing that makes sense most days.”
You stare at him, and something inside you twists.
“And I love what I do,” you whisper. “But I don’t expect anyone to wait around while I chase it.”
He steps closer, jaw clenched. “I’m not asking you to wait. I’m asking you to try. That’s all. We met a few days ago, and I already know I’ll regret it if I don’t fight for this.”
Your voice is quiet now, but no less sharp. “And I already know it’ll hurt more if I let myself believe you mean that.”
The silence that follows is thick like the whole room is holding its breath.
Finally, he says, softer, “So that’s it?”
You look at him, and for a moment, it feels like your heart might break under the weight of his gaze.
“I don’t know,” you say. “But I need space to think. And you… you have a really big day tomorrow, so you should go.”
He nods, jaw tight, the muscle ticking as he turns slightly—like he might leave. But then he looks at you one last time.
“I meant it,” he says. “All of it.”
And then, without waiting for a reply, he walks toward the door.
Nanami’s hands are sweaty, his gloves damp despite the leather’s grip. The temperature in the car is really hot.
He rounds turn eleven during Q3, the tires screaming just a little too loud as they catch the edge of the curbing. His jaw tightens.
The engine roars in his ears, but his mind is sharp, steady. There’s only one lap left. One shot.
He calculates it in a heartbeat—Gojo, Fushiguro, and Zenin are ahead. Barely.
He’s P4.
Just tenths of a second separate them, and he knows their driving styles as intimately as his own. Gojo overdrives the straights, Fushiguro’s quick through tight corners but burns tires fast, and Zenin is ruthless, but predictable.
If he plays his cards right—tightens his line through the chicane, keeps the throttle steady through the tunnel, shaves time off in sector three—he can catch up. Maybe not all of them. But at least one.
Maybe two.
And maybe, if the universe doesn’t hate him today, all three.
He exhales once, eyes narrowing beneath the visor. The blur of Monaco’s cityscape whips past him, but all he sees are his marks. His gaps. His openings.
Turn twelve—tight, downhill, dangerous.
He brakes later than he should, later than anyone else would dare. The tires scream, the rear twitches under him, but he holds it. Just enough grip to slip past Zenin, who’s forced wide and loses the line.
P3.
He doesn’t celebrate. No time. He’s already recalculating.
Gojo is ahead, quick as ever, but messy under pressure. Nanami takes the tunnel clean, narrows the gap by half a second. Gojo swings wide, Nanami takes the inside.
P2.
His heart hammers, sweat trailing along his spine. He doesn’t blink.
Sector three now.
Fushiguro’s precise. Even though it’s his first season, he’s almost too perfect. But perfection is brittle under heat.
Nanami pushes the engine harder, clips the apex like muscle memory, tires barely grazing the barrier. He knows this car and it listens to him now like it was made for this moment.
The final corner comes and goes in a blink.
He’s inside. Fushiguro tries to defend, but there’s no room. Not unless he wants contact. Not unless he wants to lose everything.
He lifts.
Nanami’s through.
P1.
The straight opens ahead. The crowd is a blur—flashes of white gloves and waving flags. The checkered flag rises into view.
The engine’s screaming at redline, and Nanami crosses the line with a full car length to spare.
First.
The radios burst to life—his engineer yelling, the garage roaring, someone laughing through static.
But Nanami says nothing.
He exhales again, slower this time.
Under the helmet, a faint smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
He won.
Mechanics swarm the car before the engine even cools, team radios barking, photographers he’s trying to avoid already jostling for angles.
He unclips the wheel, hands trembling slightly. He’s soaked through, suit clinging to his spine, chest rising and falling under the weight of it all.
He climbs out slowly, methodically—no fist-pumping, no yelling. Just the quiet stillness of a man who doesn’t need to scream to know he earned this.
The cheers roll down from the stands like thunder. But he doesn’t really hear them.
His helmet comes off.
His blond hair is flattened with sweat, face streaked with grit, but his eyes sharp— looking for you.
“Nanami!” a team member shouts, clapping him hard on the back. “You fucking did it!”
He barely nods before being pulled away.
First stop: the weigh-in station. Every driver is weighed post-race to ensure minimum weight requirements. He steps onto the scale, tired but upright, and a steward records the number before waving him off.
Then the media zone. Bright lights, too many microphones. A blur of questions he half-hears, and avoids.
“Nanami, how does it feel—?”
“Three back-to-back wins—what changed this weekend?”
“Talk us through that pass on Fushiguro—”
He waves them off, refusing to answer.
And then he’s moving again—past the cameras, through the tunnel of crew members offering slaps on the back, hugs, champagne flutes shoved into his hands.
There’s a podium ceremony to prep for.
The white Maserati race suit is peeled off and replaced with a clean one, zipped halfway as he walks out into the golden hour light of Monte Carlo, sun dipping toward the sea.
Gojo’s already on the second step, grinning like a lunatic. Fushiguro stands on the third, jaw tight, refusing to look anyone in the eye.
Nanami takes the top step.
The anthem plays. The flags rise. He doesn’t blink.
When the champagne sprays, he lifts the bottle, but barely raises his arm.
The moment protocol lets him breathe, he’s gone, pushing through the maze of garages and crew tents, pace urgent but composed.
He only stops once—at a little flower stall tucked beside the marina. The woman behind the cart recognizes him immediately, mouth agape, but says nothing as he gestures toward the simplest bouquet she has: cream roses, lavender sprigs, something fragrant and soft.
“For someone special?” she asks, eyes twinkling.
He only nods.
He drives fast—quieter roads now, the Grand Prix chaos receding behind him, the Maserati gleaming under the falling sun as it winds through the narrow city streets toward your boutique.
The windows are dark when he gets there. Still half-built, still quiet. But the door is unlocked—just slightly ajar—and that’s when he sees him.
The architect. The same one from that first day. He looks up from a blueprint, blinking at the sound of the bell.
Nanami steps inside, bouquet still in hand.
Your name falls from his lips when he walks in, posed more as a question.
“She’s not here,” the man says gently. “She left this morning. Said she had to return to Grasse to finalize something.”
Nanami’s lips part. “She didn’t—she didn’t say goodbye.”
“She said she’ll be back next weekend,” the man adds, scratching behind his ear. “Didn’t mention much else.”
Nanami stands still for a long beat. The bouquet hangs loosely at his side, the scent of the flowers mixing with faint traces of dust and wood glue still lingering in the air.
Next weekend.
He nods once, quietly and then he leaves, the door closing softly behind him.
By morning, he’s already on a plane to his next race—another country, another city, another track.
loveisland!sukuna who isn't interested in you at first (or anyone for that matter) but due to his little feud with gojo he decided to spend time and time with you, as it seemed as though gojo was smitten with you. but his scheme ended up with him actually being into you, oh boy!
loveisland!sukuna who isn't as charming or sweet as the others, and he doesn't pretend to be. for a place where men are encouraged to be on their best behavior he sure sticks out like a sore thumb, but you'd be lying if you said that it didn't attract you to him
loveisland!sukuna who is just passionate. the second he decides you'll be his, he makes it known to everyone, specially you. in your dates, he never shies away from any "hard" questions, nor does he acted like he has mixed feelings. sure, maybe he doesn't call you my love, nor does he tell you sweet nothings at all times, but when you ask him if he'd actually be in a relationship with you when this all is over, or whether he's genuinely into you, his answers make your doubts go away, as if there was never a reason to have them to begin with. he's not quite the talker, but you come to realize that he's a good fucking listener. sure, he looks annoyed about half the time, but you best believe he remembers the names of your plushies, your favorite dressing, the show you've watched 17 times, and the exact spot in your neck where you'd rather be bit than sucked on, the pace at which he should thrust into you, and what sounds let him know that you need more, that you're about to cum, or that you want to change the pace. he truly does make you wonder if anyone's truly known you before him
loveisland!sukuna who always wins the heart rate challenge, for the only one who spikes his off the charts is you, and everyone else is well, just there. this always earns him dates with you, in which he makes sure he spikes your heart rate off the chart. be prepared to wake up sore, because no matter how active you may or may not be, this man is fan of multiple rounds, and even if that was just part of the game, he believes you owe him for getting him all riled up, and he makes you pay for it. you must want to kill him by showing everyone in the cast and crew, who struggle trying to censor the obscene bulge he's worked up after your little performance. whether it is by fucking your throat relentlessly until he feels like you've earned pleasure, or by putting you in all fours and gripping your waist and hair so damn hard that you barely have time to notice he's about to go all in with no mercy, though the way your pussy clenches and gets even wetter lets him know you don't mind one last bit, or maybe even by making you sit your cunt on his tattooed face and not stopping until you're a crying, whimpering mess begging for a break, which spoiler alert! he's not giving you
loveisland!sukuna who is feisty. he's quick to get into a fight when he overhears the other contestants talk about you as if they could get you, or if god forbid, someone disrespects you. if it weren't for the public absolutely loving his twisted temper and how he is towards you, the black eyes and broken noses he's caused would've made him get sent home wayyyy sooner than planned
loveisland!sukuna who loves adventure dates and dinner dates. horseback riding in a forest or mountain can be super romantic, he gets to tease you and let his competitive side shine through, but you shouldn't be surprised to find that he was on a quest to find the perfect hidden spot where he could take you without interruptions, as it was already rough focusing on riding the horse while all you wanted to do was ride him, and he had made it clear he had about the same intentions when he "helped" you get on your horse, which sure, yeah you were secured alright, but you heavily doubted the rubbing of his fingers on your clothed pussy did anything to adjust your seat, or the fact that he explained everything to you between kisses along your neck and shoulders as his breath landed right on your ear had actually helped you on your journey. if anything, it made you wish you had worn a bikini instead of your cotton underwear, which was soon to be torn to shreds. as for dinner dates, he actually loves listening to you speak. he may always bitch when you ask to taste his food, but as he rolls his eyes he pushes his plate towards you, and makes sure to look back just in time to see you've liked his choice, not that he ordered something that would be of your taste, his taste just so happens to be excellent, the mere coincidence it has with your favorite meals is purely random, not him trying to impress you, don't be stupid. and sure, maybe he's making mental notes of your favorite desserts when it's time for those, but he makes sure you can't tell he's scheming by having you as his dessert, because who the fuck would have a spoonful of ice cream when they could easily be nose deep in your cunt instead?
loveisland!sukuna who's cutscenes with you are just hilarious. he loves to banter with you and see how witty you can be with him, and he loves the way your mouth never gives out on him, whether in argument or bed is his favorite is a big dilemma, but he knows he doesn't need to settle it
loveisland!sukuna who has always been secure of everything he's done in this life. who has never known what fear means. but the second he realizes he's fallen for you, he begins to question whether he deserves you at all, and he's fucking terrified at the thought of losing you. it pisses him off terribly to have met his match, and you make him oh so weak, it's agonizing. and yet, in the quiet of the night where it's just the two of you, he comes to realize that maybe, just maybe, he only feels safe with you, only you have lit the fire on a heart that he swore was born cold, and he'll go to the end of the fucking world for you, if you need him to, because even if he thought he preferred his life the way it was, you've given it a meaning, something to yearn for, and he'll be damned if he backs down, because truly, what fool would shy away from earning the greatest treasure of all?
synopsis: he watches your live streams, always quietly tipping — and tipping bigger than anyone else ever did. when you finally notice, you offer him something in return.
content warnings: nsfw, smut (mdni), modern au, non curse au, camming (might have gotten some things wrong), mutual masturbation, sub kento (we all cheered), oral (m receiving), p in v, riding, no protection, crude language, spitting, creampie, very little plot.
(1) notification: this just randomly popped into my head months ago and has been collecting dust in my google docs. sorry to my fbi agent for all the sites i had to research. enjoy (please)!
wc: 4.7K (i say very little plot but can’t stfu)
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The lights are off in his apartment — the only source of light being the red hue coming from his laptop. Heavy moans and the sounds of fingers slipping in and out of something wet clashes with the pristine quiet of his apartment.
His tie, still half knotted, is lazily thrown over his shoulder. Button up shirt half away undone. His slacks tighter around his tense thighs. He feels hot. He still feels too restricted. He wonders if his clothes were dried for too long during their last run through the dryer. Or if his air conditioner is working.
Especially as you’re completely bare on the screen in front of him. Plush thighs pushed open. The pixels of the laptop not capturing just how perfectly their glistening, your slick dripping from your own fingers.
A hand is already curled tight around his cock. Wet with his own spit and precum, he strokes slowly — trying to match the movements of your finger slowly dipping into your folds.
He’s studying everything you could possibly show him through this little screen.
But, that’s the thing — Kento Nanami has memorized every way you cum. He knows how you like your fingers curled up and the heel of your palm pressed to your clit. Or how you prefer vibrators for clitoral stimulus over a dildo for penetration — depending on how big the tip is, you’ll throw one into your routine. Or the way you spend just a little bit more time pulling at your right perky nipple, sometimes ignoring the left one all together.
He knows what you like and how you show that you like something. Like how your left eyebrows twitches when your fingers curl up, or how you bite your lip when you do use a dildo. Your moans muffled while you breath heavily out your nose, like you want to make sure your equipment picks up on the sound of your wet pussy plunging down on it. And all of this, because of this little website he stumbled upon a year ago.
jerkmates.net
“Are you making yourself feel good, baby?”
Your voice rings through his laptop speaker and his hand tightens around his cock. He almost wants to nod his head yes, as if you’ll get the answer and relish in the fact that he’s hunched over his laptop watching you finger yourself.
You’re leaning back on your elbows, one hand bracing yourself to the bed, the other one has your index finger pumping into yourself, slow and teasingly.
You glance up at the camera, blinking slow and wide-eyed like you’re innocent, like you’re looking directly at him. His hand on the desk turns into a fist. The hand pumping his cock, pumps a little faster.
The sound of his rugged breathing, the slick of precum and the sweat from his own hand mingles with the sound of your middle finger dipping into your wetness. Your hips buck, rustling the sheets below you.
Nanami has to pause his own movements, to watch how you curl your fingers up, just enough for effect. You let out a quiet, shaky breath — soft, just barely picked up by the mic — and spread your legs a little wider. The inside of your thighs wetter. Nanami’s stomach feels tighter.
He licks his lips, narrowing his eyes at the screen. If he could bring it closer, get bifocals, to see the definition of your wet sloshing pussy, he’ll do whatever it takes.
All he could continue to do is fuck into his own hand.
He watches you squirm. Watch your thighs tighten and shake, the perfect glisten on the inside of them. He wonders how they’ll feel wrapped around his head. He watches the way your stomach jumps, the moment your fingers press in deeper, rub harder. And obviously (and naturally), he wonders how his cock would look when he presses in deeper, if he ever had the chance to fuck you.
“I hope you know, I’m about to cum… just for you.”
Your free hand trails up your stomach, circling your right nipple with a slick thumb before giving it a sharp tug. Your back arches — palm meeting your clit. You gasp, shaky and soft. Your hooded eyes never leave the camera.
The corner of the screen, he sees the chat light up in a frenzy. Usernames drop corny one liners, some respond with one word answers. And some are just so crude, even for the site that they’re on. He ignores it. He never found the need to type something out for others to see.
His eyes avert back to you. Your chest is rising heavily, your tits perched up perfectly. And as if he could read your mind or the fact he’s watched you at least three times a week, he knows you’re close.
He bites the inside of his cheek, pulling himself closer to the screen. He strokes are tighter now, like he’s holding on to his own cock to ground him.
Fist closed, twisting slightly at the base the way he knows makes his thighs twitch. He wants you to know that little trick too. His stomach contracts with every upward pump. He can feel it building, tight and low.
Your fingers are moving faster. His pumps are faster. You’re curling two fingers into your pussy. He’s pumping from base to top, running his thumb over his leaking tip whenever he makes it back. His balls feel tighter, heavier. The muscles in his back feel tight, strained.
He wants to speak out, make a noise. His jaw slacked. All he could do is let out these pathetic gasps, your breathy moans speaking for the both of you.
And then it happens — you cry out, soft and needy, and your body jerks in that way that makes his mind go blank. Your head falls back, and he wishes he was there to take you by your chin and watch how your eyes roll back. Your fingers still pumping into your cunt, your other hand fisting the sheets below your flushed body.
He almost swears he’s in the little filming room with you. Breathing in your sounds, helping you cross that line the way you have helped him.
He finishes with a grunt that sounds like it’s stuck right in the middle of his throat — the first sound he made since he logged on. Hot ropes of his cum spill across his knuckles, leaking over his hand. His shoulders curl in and he jerks a final time into the fist still wrapped around his twitching cock.
Without much thought, it’s almost second nature at this point. Like conditioning, you cum, he cums, and then he goes to the sidebar to tip you. Never leaving a comment, never asking for anything in return.
Your breathy moans acts as background music as he inputs a number, one he can’t even fully flush out since he’s still coming down from his high.
He’ll go over his credit card statement next month and come back to this moment.
Tipped: ¥78,000
You: Hi! I’ve seen you tip before but that amount last night was way too much. Do you want a private video or something?
Nanami: I didn’t think you’d notice my amount.
You: You tipped double what anyone else ever sent.
You: Please, how can I repay you?
You: Where are you located?
You: Are you a creep in your mom’s basement?
Nanami: Tokyo
Nanami: I could lie to you but no I’m not a creep. And I live alone — in my own place.
You: If you go through the proper avenues (FaceTime, calls, pictures) would you like to meet? You: You know, so that I could repay you.
Nanami: Just tell me when and what I have to do.
Is he a real person? Check.
FaceTime to check? Double check.
Does he seem respectful enough? Triple check.
Are you staring at him right now, wondering just how badly you want to fuck him? Quadruple check.
“Why don’t you show me what it is that you do when you watch me?” Your voice is soft and a little teasing.
You’re sitting on the edge of the hotel bed. You’re in nothing but a lacy pair of panties and a matching bra to match. The blonde, quiet tipper is standing a few feet away from you. An aura of.. hesitancy wafted between you two. His hands are balled into fists in front of him. His shoulders tense.
You would’ve thought he would be nervous, a little awkward. But it is almost obvious he’s almost excited to be here but he’s afraid of messing something up. The way his eyes flick on every crevice of your body whenever you make the slightest move. Or the way he leans in whenever you say a word.
Maybe your allure would be gone after having you jump out of his laptop screen and be placed in front of him.
He looks down at you, his hazel eyes trailing along your body so slowly you almost feel like he’s touching you. You clench your thighs at the invasion of his eyes lulling at your chest. His left eyebrow twitches in response to your movement.
“We could cosplay as if you’re watching,” you whisper as you shuffle up the bed, inching up slowly. You’ll be lying if you said you weren’t excited to get this going.
Leaning back on your elbows, as you do when you’re streaming — your fingers start to tap along your shoulder blade to push down your bra strap. The tipper’s eyes running along every movement.
You’re used to people watching you, but under his stare you felt seen. He starts to lean forward, his hands finally unballing and softly brushing your shin.
“No,” you huff out, pulling your leg close to your body. “Just like how we ended up here… no touching.” You shrug. His eyes are trained on the very obvious wet spot starting to pool in your panties. “From you, that is.”
“What a way to repay your best tipper,” he hums, amusement evident in his voice. His eyes darkening and the sound of his hands fumbling with his belt buckle. His movements are fast, but a little clumsy. Like he’s trying to keep this moment going on as slow as he could.
“You should remember,” you fully pushed one of your bra straps down. The air sweeps over your perked nipple, making you shift a bit. “I only stream for thirty minutes.”
“Trust me,” he has moved closer to the bed, his thighs pressed into the mattress as he stands at the head of it. His hands pushing his pants down. “I remember.”
Your eyes train along his body. Suit jacket has since been thrown to the side. The tie loosely and lazily hanging around his neck. That blue button up shirt, pressed tightly around his biceps. Rolled up just perfectly. You could confidently and shamelessly stare at the veins on his forearms. His glasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. His blonde hair falling forward, brushing his eyebrow.
You wonder, is this how he looks before he tips you? You have to hold in a breath, as your eyes finally trail down.
He’s big. Long, yeah, but it’s the weight of him — heavy, veined, curving up slightly. He wraps his hand around the base and it barely covers it. His thumb swipes over the slit, slow, deliberate, and your mouth actually waters.
“Show me what I do to you,” you murmur, your eyes not leaving his hand slowly pumping his cock.
“Should I tip you after?”
“I’m sure we could find other reimbursement methods,” you stare up at him. His cheeks already have the faintest tint of red, from the slow twist he’s been doing to his dick.
Without breaking eye contact, you slowly unhook your bra — throwing it somewhere across the room. Your hands immediately cupping your tits. Your index and thumb roll over your right nipple and you arch your back, lifting your hips in the process.
You catch how his jaw twitches and he leans forward a bit. His hand pumping his cock picks up some speed.
You stay there for a while, watching him as he so often watches you. Your hands are still cupping your breast. Legs bent at the knees, you feel his stare at the very wet print on your panties. You spread your legs a little wider, giving him a better view.
You don’t move. Don’t say a word. Only smiling slightly at his reactions and movements. The way his eyes jump from your left nipple back to the lace sticking to your clit.
His strokes are long, languid. Like he’s savoring it. His eyes drag over your body while his fist moves in rhythm — from the thick base of his cock to the flushed head, slick with precum that glistens under the harsh hotel lights.
The noises he’s making are low, and controlled. You’re thinking of a way to get more out of him. You want to hear how he sounds when he’s watching you in his dark bedroom, his credit card statement hanging over his head.
“You’re just watching me.” He huffs through his nose. He squeezes just a bit at the base of his cock, his head lowering.
“Roles are reversed, I guess.”
You push yourself up, standing up on your knees. He watches, not slowing down the pumps on his cock. His chest rising rapidly. His hazel eyes are dark and watching you with an interest that makes it feel like you’re buzzing.
You crawl towards him and he pushes his lower body deeper into the side of mattress.
“Remember,” you lean down, laying flat on your stomach. Your tits squishing into the plush bed below you. “You’re not allowed to touch me.”
Nanami’s pumps have slowed down, like he’s still trying to savor the little bit of normalcy that he has when he watches you. His cock twitches ever so slightly when you tilt your chin up to look at him. You make sure you send him your widest, doe eye look. The one you know gets you the most tips.
He swallows a groan, and you swallow a laugh. Your thighs clenching below you, pressing your knees into the bed.
You don’t wait for permission, or even for his fist to completely come off his throbbing dick. You’re already leaning forward, your lips brushing against the head of his cock — featherlight, not even a kiss, just a breath. You close your eyes and take in the sounds. You hear the very sensitive shift of air in the room. Nanami’s stifled groan, his hips pushing forward — his thighs practically imprinted to the side of this mattress.
You scoot forward a bit more, moving one of your hands from under you. With a drop of his hand, your hand is now able to grip him as you bring your mouth closer to him.
He lets out a strangled moan, it almost surprises you. You expected him to be rough.
With a slowness that you’re sure is killing him as much as it is killing you — your mouth is on him. Wet and hot. Your tongue flattens against the underside of his hard dick. Slow and aching. Dragging from base to tip in a single, wet stroke. His stomach jumps, so does yours.
“Fuck,” from the corner of your eye, you see his hand twitching. As if he’s fighting every single power in the world to not put his hand on you.
Looking up at him, your tongue sticking out just a bit, licking your bottom lip. His cock now wet from his precum and your spit. “You’re being so good. With no touching and stuff.”
He groans and you almost laugh at the weak restraint that is so obvious.
Your lips are brushing the leaking tip before wrapping fully around him. The saltiness of his own juices dancing on the tip of your tongue.
He exhales like he’s been punched in the gut. His hands balling into a fist on the side of his thighs.
You go slow, hollowing your cheeks and taking him in inch by inch. Closing your eyes as you take as much as you can of him. Your nose pressed into the blonde hair at the base of his cock whenever you make it that far.
You use your hand at the base where your mouth can’t reach, twisting ever so slightly and squeezing whenever you see his hands try to grip on to something other than themselves. Like a little warning for this game that you’re playing. Your free hand trails up his thigh, feeling the muscles twitch beneath your fingers.
Your mouth moves in a steady rhythm. Wet and warm, the soft slurp of each pass louder than Nanami’s huffing, in the quiet room. You moan around him on purpose, just to feel the way he jumps at the sound. His thighs tense, like he’s trying not to buck. You want him too, you want to feel him at the back of your throat.
“Do you reward all your big tippers this way?” His voice is forced, the control that he’s losing breaking through. You hum around him, feeling him twitch in your mouth.
You pull back with a pop, a string of saliva keeping you connected. Lips wet and swollen. You flutter your eyes up at him, licking a drop of his precum from the corner of your lip.
“Only the ones who don’t live in their mother’s basement,” you joke. You lean forward again, keeping your eyes on him. Your lashes flutter whenever you take him too deep.
You wrap both hands around the base, twisting slowly with your mouth at his swollen tip. You give kisses, open-mouthed licks. Your tongue flicking the underside, running slowly along his protruding vein whenever your tongue reached it.
You want to drive him crazy. You want him to remember exactly what you feel like when he thinks about tipping you again. Maybe you’ll reward him again.
When you take him deep again, you make sure to moan around him, watching as his left hand reaches towards the bed. He’s wrecked — red in the cheeks, sweat at his temple, teeth sinking into his lip so he doesn’t groan too loudly. You pull back
“What’s the rule mister tipper?” You whisper. Pushing yourself back up to your knees, you’re almost eye to eye.
“No touching.”
“Such a good boy,” you mewl as you lean forward, your hard nipples pressing into his chest. Your nose barely touches his. Each of you could move less than a centimeter and you’ll be lip to lip. He huffs through his nose, his eyes not leaving yours.
“Sit down for me.” With balled fists, his pants hang loosely around his thick thighs — Nanami shuffles around you. The slightest brush of his body on yours as you switch spots. Shuffling off the bed to stand in front of him.
The wetness between your legs is almost unbearable. You ignore his eyes as you quickly shimmy out of the now ruined lace. You’ll use his tip to buy another pair.
Your knees are brushing his as you walk in between his legs. His eyes haven’t left you since he’s possibly walked in here — you almost want to ask if he’ll like to record this next part so he could keep it forever.
“Still can’t touch you?” He mumbles as you brace your hands on his shoulder, lifting your body onto his lap.
“You don’t get to touch me when you’re watching,” you shrug, scooting up a bit. Your knees settle on either side of his thick thighs, and his breath hitches audibly as your heat hovers just over his cock — still hard, still twitching. His eyes narrow between your face and your bodies just barely touching below.
With your hands still gripping onto his shoulders, you lean forward, noses almost touching again. One of your hands reaches over, gripping the back of his head slightly pulling his head back. He hums surprisingly. You could feel him holding back, his fist slightly hitting the bed below you. His breathing is coming out slow and broken. His eyes finally closing — as if he’s sending out a prayer for some restraint.
“A good boy deserves a good reward,” you murmur, running your fingers along his undercut. Your pussy is so close from his throbbing cock, and you’re fighting every restraint to not roll down on him. Not just yet.
Before he could even open his eyes or even respond, you tap his chin with your free hand. He opens slightly and your mouth parts. A string of spit drops from your lips and lands on his tongue, right as he opens it for you — no hesitation. His eyes flutter tighter, and a low groan escapes his throat. His tongue runs over his bottom lip as he swallows, like he’s trying to commit the taste to memory.
“Such a good boy.”
Your hand gripping onto the back of his head moves down to between your bodies, your warm fingers wrapping around this thick cock softly. His eyes are still shut, his tongue still running over his bottom lip. You guide him to your entrance, running his swollen tip between your slick, coating him in everything he’s made you feel.
You're slowly dragging him between your folds and his fists beat into the bed. You smile to yourself.
“You don’t move,” you lean forward again, his eyes open just the tiniest bit. “Just sit here, and let me reward you.”
“I think we passed what I deserve.” His voice is shaken and his eyes so dark, they look completely different than they did a second go.
“Mhm, that’s for me to decide.” With all the control you could muster, you sink down on him — inch by inch. The stretch pulls a gasp from your throat, your nails digging into his shoulders as you finally bottom out. He’s thick, the curve of him hitting exactly where it needs to, and your thighs tremble slightly as you adjust to the weight of him inside you. You don’t even wait for him to collect himself or find a response for you.
His head falls back, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows down the groan that still somehow made it through. You feel how tense his whole body is. His thighs below you are holding you up, his fists slightly pounding into the bed. His jaw clenched as he watches through watery lashes as you start to get comfortable with the stretch.
You start to move — slow at first, dragging yourself up until only the tip is left, then sliding back down, savoring every inch. You roll your hips as slow as you can, watching his face for every little twitch, every broken breath.
“Fuck,” his tongue is sticking out and his eyes are squeezed shut. You lean forward again, nose brushing his. Your hands on his shoulders meet at the base of his neck, squeezing slightly. He opens his left eye, eyebrow rising with the movement.
“Look at me.”
You sharply roll your hips, earning a hiss from his swollen lips. His breath kissing your cheeks since you’re so close to his face. His eyes hooded, staring at your pussy meeting his cock.
You start to build a rhythm, up, down, roll. The drag of him along your walls has your mouth parting, letting out the same breath sequence Nanami is.
The wet sounds of your wet cunt meeting his cock fills the hot room — the soft slap of skin, the breathless noises slipping from both your lips. You move with purpose, hips rising and falling in a steady pace that keeps him fighting his restraint.
You’re having so much fun, you wonder why you haven’t done this before.
His cock fills you just right — thick, curved, stretching you as much as your body could take. Your thighs begin to tremble from the effort of keeping up with fucking him. But it’s worth it.
Every time you sink down, his jaw tightens. Every time your walls clench around him, he lets out the most pathetic moan. Almost a whimper and you hide the way you want to giggle.
You reach for one of his balled up hands. He looks like he might pull away out of instinct, but you place it on your left tit.
“I could break my own rule,” you whisper.
His fingers twitch, then his palm settles over your breast, thumb brushing your nipple just lightly. His lips part, a groan half-escaping before he sucks in a shaky breath. And because you’re far too gone, you ignore his other hand reaching up to grab your other tit. His fingers tugging and rolling your perky nipples.
His self-control is withering, if he even still has some— you could almost taste it. You’re obviously not that far behind him.
You don’t know who is louder. Nanami’s barely restrained whimpers or your loud moans as you feel him buck his hips to meet yours. His fingers tugging a little more roughly. Your hands back on his neck, squeezing just enough to make his eyes shoot open and stare back into yours.
“Do you want to cum?”
“Y-yes.”
“Then be good and wait.”
You pick up your pace. Your hips snapping as they meet him with every thrust. Your thighs are burning, but you can’t skimp out in his reward. You refuse too — especially with how good he’s making you feel.
You almost forget about his grip on your tits. His thick digits rolling your nipples — tugging a little harder on the left one. You arch your back and he smiles, an easy one as if he was so sure that would happen.
Sweat is dripping from not only Nanami’s forehead but yours as well. And you feel your walls tightening around him, you’re so close. And with the way he’s panting and rutting into you, he is too.
“I would’ve tipped you this much a long time ago if it means I could be here,” his voice is gruff and low. And that’s all you needed to send you over the edge. His hands still holding on to you, his breath tickling your cheeks.
You roll your hips, his own hips still bucking up. You want to stop and tell him he’s breaking the no moving rule. But he feels too good. He fits too well to try to stop it now.
“Well tip again and we’ll be back,” you moan. Your eyes are clenching. You’re biting into your bottom lip as you feel your walls clench around him. The drag of his cock, the twisting of his fingers. It’s too much.
Your mouth parts, no sound coming out. Your body shudders, falling forward. One of his hands that were on your tits is on your thigh as you shudder against his broad shoulder.
You cling on to him, your nails digging into his skin through his shirt. You’re still hastily grinding, ignoring the fire in your thighs for the way he’s huffing through his nose and his fingers gripping into your plush thigh.
Your slick and his own precum is coating everything between you. A wet spot on his shirt. You grind down harder, ignoring just how far over you are your own limit.
You feel him. The way his cock is twitching inside of you. How frantic his hips are bucking into you, begging for more friction. The hand on your thigh holding on so tightly, it almost hurts.
“C-can I cum?” His eyes are already rolled halfway back, his head lulling to the side.
You don’t respond, not verbally. You let out a moan as you grind down on him a little harder, giving him all that you have left.
He lets out a broken moan as he spills everything he has in you. His back arching, his eyes closed shut. He’s cumming hard — deep and hot. You feel it as you slow down your grinds.
He doesn’t stop shaking.
“How was this as a reward?” You hum, your breathing still heavy. You watch as Nanami’s chest rises slowly — as he collects his bearings.
He has not opened his eyes yet. His hands dropped to the bed below, with the faintest dud. The aftershock of orgasm still makes you feel the throbbing of his still hard cock.
You lean back. A whimper leaving his lips as you shift on top of him.
“I could give you my credit card number if you’d like.”
my little (and by little i mean over 5k wc 💔) one-shot for @lily-bisque ‘s summer bash collab gonna be out friday at 8 a.m.
guys i’m so excited i think it’s my longest work to date and the one ive been the most locked in with since ive started my writing journey plz give it some love once it comes out 😭🙏
Synopsis: You’re determined to get over Suguru, and Suguru’s determined to never let you. Amongst annual vacations, unresolved tension, and one hell of a view, what could go wrong? Come to Mykonos and find out!
Content/Warnings: MDNI! Smut, p in v, fingering, cunnilingus, blowjob, handjobs, public nudity, m! masturbation, edging, teasing, friends-to-lovers, yearning, soo much tension, mutual pining, fluff, slight angst, vacation, Shoko and Gojo betting on your future.
Wc: 9k
A/N: The images are from pinterest. I can’t take credit for them. Divider creds go to @bronzewasp. Check out other amazing works and the place that inspired me to make this fic here at @lily-bisque’s summer bash collab!
Suguru is many things. A tattoo artist, a music lover, a sweet talker, a witty man, a softie at heart, and for the longest time, perhaps since he drew your favorite flower after your crush rejected you to lift your spirits up back in high school, or was it in middle school when he got your favorite snack after you completely bombed a test? You’ve had the stupidest crush on him. You've loved him for so long, all the memories have become a blur, you can no longer remember when he did what, but what you do remember is that even at the ripe age of 13 Suguru has known how to sweep you off your feet.
Maybe that’s why no one else has ever stood a chance.
You’ve tried. God, have you tried. But every relationship since him has been doomed before it began. They all paled in comparison: too soft, too cocky, too dull. Too not Suguru. And maybe they knew it. Maybe they all saw the look in your eyes when his name popped up on your phone or heard the way your voice changed when you talked about him.
You’ve told yourself you’d get over him. You meant it, too. But then he sends you one of those effortless selfies, or calls you just to hear your voice, or keeps his promise to go on vacation with you every year. And suddenly, all that resolve evaporates like mist off the ocean.
What you don’t realize is that Suguru’s just as far gone as you, maybe worse.
It's stupid really, he has no clue as to why you haven't realized that he has so many memory cards for his digital camera purely because he cannot bring himself to delete anything where you're in. There's so many photos and videos of you just being silly, one of you sleeping on his couch, another of you running away from Satoru after he realized you stole his mochi, even one of you petting a cat on the street.
Unbeknownst to you, you inspire the tattoos he's become so known for, which is quite funny because Suguru fears one day you'll have the bright idea of visiting his shop, he wouldn't know what to do if you noticed your favorite flower on different styles on the walls, your birthday on roman numerals, samples of fonts which say your name, middle name, and/or last name, and in a hidden crook of his studio, your eyes.
It sucks having to miss you so much, since you only see each other once a year, but on the bright side, you also don't get to see the fool you've made of him.
Since college, you knew you'd be apart from each other most of your time, as Suguru pursued his dream of owning his own shop in Tokyo whereas your aspirations took you somewhere else. You both have always been very supportive of each other, but at the same time, you're so stuck on each other that you made a pact to go on vacation for 2 weeks every year, taking turns on choosing the spot, and this year it was Suguru's turn to choose.
📩 Suguuu <3: have you checked your email yet songbird?
📩 my muse: SUGURU SHUT THE FUCK UP
📩 my muse: YOU DID NOT
📩 my muse: MYKONOS?
📩 Suguuu <3: surprise surprise
He marks the days like a countdown, two weeks where he gets to have you close, but never close enough. Where he watches you fall in love with the world and aches knowing you’ll never look at him the same way. It’s his favorite part of the year, and also the hardest. Because no matter how far you go together, he always ends up right where he started: still loving you, still silent, and still too much of a coward to ruin what you've built for so long.
You step off the plane, the salty Mykonos breeze kissing your cheeks, and it hits you: this is going to be dangerous. Not because of the cliffs or the scooters or the cocktails you’ve already mentally committed to drinking by the dozen—but because Suguru looks like that in a white button-up and linen pants. He pushes his sunglasses up his nose and smiles at you with that same familiar softness that’s been ruining your dating life since you were 13.
“This place is already ten times better with you in it,” he says casually, grabbing your suitcase like it’s second nature.
You don’t respond. You can’t. Your brain has momentarily stopped functioning.
Choosing to just giggle as a response to avoid any awkward, mumbled response, you pick up your phone to double-check the address of the hotel you had chosen. It took a while, but you reached an agreement with Suguru: if he paid for the tickets, you would pay for the stay.
Since he had gone all out with the location as was, you decided to level the playing field by choosing a suite with a private pool, big ass beds, and the most beautiful view of the beach.
“Songbird, you sure this is our room?” Suguru asks, curious, but also excited?
“‘Course Sugu, why wouldn’t it be?” You ask oblivious to what he was looking at, too busy contemplating at the pool.
“Well, there’s just one bed, it’s huge, but one bed nonetheless,” he says, his lips curving in a dangerous smile.
“Oh.”
“Oh sounds right.” He chuckled, looking at your mortified expression.
“No wonder the lady who checked us in kept treating us like a couple, and you didn’t even correct her!” You realize, jokingly putting the blame on him.
“Would you have wanted me to?” He asks, his purple hues locking your own.
You didn’t have it in you to respond directly, and the loud beating of your heart wouldn’t have let your mind come up with a good answer anyway, so you just opted for saying, “I could sleep in the hammock?”
“Fuck no.”
“So then?”
“If anyone’s sleeping on a hammock it’s me,” he says in a tone that suggests he won’t be swayed otherwise. “But I was thinking of just sharing the bed instead? It’s big enough, you’d probably need an Uber to get to the other side anyway.”
“Okay dummie,” you giggle, “pillow fort it is.”
“Don’t think you could stay away from me in your sleep? You flatter me,” he teased.
“I really couldn’t, you’re just so humble and handsome,” you play along, trying your damned best to ignore the heat in your cheeks.
“If only you truly meant that,” he mumbled.
“What’d you say?” You ask, not having heard him right.
“That you better not snore, songbird.”
“YOU better not snore,” you replied giggling.
“And if I do?” He asks.
“Then I’d have to do this,” you say, and he stands there clueless as to why you’re moving around in silence. Poor Suguru only remembered you were having this conversation by the pool after you had pushed him in, clothes and all.
As he resurged from the water, he just looks at you and smirks, his snake-bites shining in the bright afternoon. You knew he was up to no good, but you sort of felt guilty for pushing him in, so when he extends his hand towards you, you don’t hesitate to take it. Should’ve known you’d be drenched the next second.
As you swim back to the surface, you’re startled to find Suguru so close to you. It should’ve been obvious; he pulled you in, so of course you’d be close. You’ve been pining for this man for years on end, and every year you tell yourself it’s going to be the last, but when he pulls shit like this it’s easy to forget your top new year’s resolution for the past 12 years: to get over Suguru. But he doesn’t help! It’s not easy to get over your best friend if he’s your dream man incarnated, specially when he looks so fucking good with wet hair and a look of mischief in his eyes, with his lips merely an inch away from yours.
He noticed you staring, and it was driving him insane. It took every bit of his (very strong mind you) resolve to not kiss you right there and then and potentially ruin a friendship of over a decade. So, to stop it from going further he just splashed water at your face and started a water fight. He had hoped he’d be able to contain his feelings until the right time, but seeing as he gets worked up so easily even if you’re not trying to seduce him lets him know it’ll be harder than he thought.
About 2 hours later you both finally stopped trying to get back at each other and decided to go out for dinner. You took an awful long shower, which gave Suguru time to rent a bike for your stay, as he remembered how much you loved to ride it with him back when you were in college.
“Songbird! You done in there or are you trying to pluck all your feathers?” He called out teasingly, he knew how much you hated to be rushed, and he had a dirty little liking for working you up.
“Gentle reminder that I’m not a man and can’t serve without proper preparation,” you yelled back, going back to retouching your makeup.
“I’m not even going to comment on that,” he responds, realizing that you truly didn’t know how beautiful he found you, no makeup or prep at all. He’d love to argue with you about it, but admitting to stroking his fat cock for 2 hours straight after he’d seen you with the tiniest shorts and a sweatshirt (one you stole from him by the way) ready to go to bed a year ago wasn’t probably the best argument. But you couldn’t blame him right? After walking around Berlin he was physically and mentally exhausted, so he couldn’t really think better than to just imagine how nice it would be to get to see you like that every time as you walked to your shared bed before he could rearrange your guts goodnight, it’d make you both sleep better!
He was ready to go down that rabbit hole of a memory, but you snapped him away from his thoughts as you finally walked out of the bathroom with the prettiest dress he’s ever seen. Maybe that’s a vague description of your clothes, but you made everything look fucking great, he started to think you’d even look good with a trash bag.
“Staring much?” You ask, basking in his attention and quiet praise.
“I have every right to have a staring problem too you know,” he replies, referring to your little mishap at the pool.
“Oh shut up.”
He chuckles, and for the pure sake of annoying you, he texts you what he was going to say.
📩 Suguuu <3: come outside
“You do realize I’m right next to you right?”
📩 Suguuu <3: you told me to shut up
📩 Suguuu <3: who am i to say no to you?
“You’re so dumb,” you say as you hurry outside, trying your best to hide your blush from him.
You hear him laugh behind you, and you’re about to keep fighting him when you see a red Kawasaki Ninja, and all of your college memories flooded. You couldn’t conceal your smile as it all came back to you, and he takes this chance to speak up.
“You liking our sweet ride for these next 2 weeks?”
“This is fucking amazing Suguru, thank you,” you say as you look at him with the sweetest smile, and you’ve made him melt once again for this evening.
“Let’s get going then, Mykonos awaits!” And with that, you two go into the night looking for trouble, which in itself was scary to think about because it surely felt dangerous to be on this ride with Suguru, and not because he likes to speed, but because being this close to him, getting to wrap your arms around him and press your head on his shoulder, trying your damned best not to succumb to the intoxicating smell of his, made you wish you were riding him instead.
Unluckily for him, you've failed to notice the raging hard-on he sports every night you've gone out for a ride, he chalks it up to his ability to choose bottoms that make it easier to hide, but it really is just the mere fact that you both end up so flustered after those that you don't look at each other much past stolen glances the first couple of minutes, which gives Suguru the perfect chance to run straight to the bathroom to... decompress!
It’s been 1 week in Mykonos and you’ve both fucking loved it. Apart from all those times you’ve come awfully close to kissing or confessing, and ignoring all the damn tension, it’s been great. You spend your days strolling through markets or landmarks, then come back to the suite to hop in the pool and the end the day by clubbing somewhere, it is Mykonos's whole thing for a reason.
Today was a little different though. You were feeling the impulsivity that could only come from days being away from your reality, being with Suguru, the man that made anything and everything seem possible, and of course, the unspoken agreement of vacation, and even if the saying names Vegas, you're in Mykonos aren't ya?
“We should go to a nude beach today,” you say as you bite your koulouri.
Suguru nearly chokes on his yogurt. “A w-what?” He asks, looking at you with wide eyes.
“A nude beach! Wouldn't it be so liberating? And you know I've always wanted to,” you say with the sweetest smile you can muster, acting as if you wouldn't also be a mess if you saw him naked.
“Well, if there's nothing else you'd rather do,” he gives in, trying to think of what the fuck he'd do if he gets hard, it's already bad always making sure he's up before you to hide his morning wood, but a nude beach? God knows he couldn't even cover it up with both of his hands if he tried.
“Not at all,” you smile as you watch him get up to get ready, “I looove you.”
“Seems like you're trying to kill me,” he says with an honesty you weren't expecting at all.
“How so?” You ask innocently.
“You're gonna be the death of me, remember that.”
Shit, you remember other things too. The other night you two had a little too much wine, and while Suguru is usually suave and calculated when he's sober, when he's drunk you really get to see why him and Satoru are such good friends, it makes you see that they're both fairly unhinged, to put it some way.
Sure, in different ways, but unhinged all the same. At least, that's the best word you could find to describe what it was like to hear from your best friend's pretty lips that he’d eat you alive if you let him.
He said it so casually, so slurred and sweet, like it wasn’t the kind of thing that would replay in your mind every time he looked at you a second too long. Like it wasn’t going to haunt you now, while you’re both about to strip down in public like it’s just another Thursday.
You don’t think he remembers. He laughed right after, laid his head on your lap and started telling you how the stars in Mykonos looked fake, like they were too pretty to be real, just like you. But you remember. You remember everything.
Now, as you stand on a rocky path down to the beach, your sundress fluttering in the breeze and Suguru beside you, trying to act nonchalant while adjusting the strap of his backpack for the fifth time, you feel the tension tighten. Not in a dramatic, movie-scene way—no, it’s worse than that. It’s subtle. Controlled. His silence is louder than any confession.
“I googled it,” you say suddenly, trying to fill the silence. “The beach. Apparently it’s, like, super secluded.”
“Right,” he says, clearing his throat. “Secluded is good. We like secluded.”
You hum in response. “Means no one will see if I trip and fall flat on my ass.”
He chuckles. “But I would see though, that’s more than enough.”
A few minutes later, you reach the sand—white, soft, hot beneath your feet. Suguru sets down your things and stretches, his shirt lifting just enough to expose a sliver of skin and the bottom edge of a tattoo you don’t recognize. Your eyes catch on it a second too long.
“What’s that one?” you ask, pointing to it before you can stop yourself.
He freezes. Then glances down. “Ah. That one’s… new.”
You raise an eyebrow. “Of what?”
He shrugs. “Something that reminds me of you.”
And before you can press further, he takes his shirt of fully and it takes you a moment to register what the fuck you're looking at. As if it wasn't already hard not to stare at his muscular back, slutty waist, and broad shoulders, now you have to deal with looking at all of that and your favorite flower on his lower back.
Yeah, right where your hands are when he lays his head on your lap and wants you to comfort him. And you do so by just hearing him out and caressing his lower back, good to know. Good to know what the tattoo was.
Almost as if he could hear your thoughts, right before that part of his body could be covered up by the water he glanced back at you with a smirk, locking eyes for a second too long. Enough to put you in a trance that didn't even let you realize you had been staring at that damn direction for too fucking long.
“So you dragged me here to just sit by the shore with your clothes on?” He yelled, as he was fairly deep in the water.
“You didn't put up too much of a fight anyway,” you replied.
“Because I thought it would be even humiliation but you're sitting there like a princess while I'm completely naked.”
Before you could even process what you were doing, you took your shirt off, and put up a fucking show for him, it was only fair right? If he had you blushing every other sentence, you could fluster him by letting him see what he's allegedly been wanting to eat.
And fuck, you just made him hungrier after that.
You managed to swim and put the tension behind a barrier, even if it was fragile, and you two found a cove not too far from where your things were at.
The cove is half-shaded, half-glowing with the soft shimmer of the Aegean sun. The rocks cradle the space like it was made just for two idiots in denial, and the water here is calmer, like it knows something’s about to happen.
You float lazily beside him, your arms brushing every so often under the surface. If you didn’t know better, you’d think the ocean was trying to make you touch him on purpose.
“You're quiet,” Suguru says, voice low and a little breathless from the swim.
You shrug. “Just thinking.”
“About?”
“That tattoo,” you say without looking at him, even though you can feel him looking at you.
He hums. “Knew you’d notice.”
You flick water at him. “You put it where my hands always are. Kind of hard not to.”
There’s a beat of silence, the kind that fills your lungs heavier than the sea.
“I put it there because that’s where you always are,” he says, so casually you almost miss it.
You blink, heart stuttering. “What?”
But he doesn’t answer. He swims a little closer, hands finding the edge of the rock behind you, his body suddenly close enough to cage you in without touching.
“Can I tell you something?” he murmurs, voice low, unreadable.
You nod.
“I lied the other night. When I said you were gonna be the death of me.”
Your breath hitches. “Oh?”
“I meant to say you already are.”
You can’t decide what happens first, your pulse skyrocketing, your stomach dropping, or the burning desire to kiss him so hard you forget every reason you told yourself you couldn’t.
But his lips are right there, and you’re both naked, half-drenched, and you’re fully ruined for anyone else—and you’re starting to think he might be too.
You swallow hard, not from nerves, but because it’s suddenly too quiet. The air shifts, the world narrows. His hands are still braced behind you, his body close enough that you feel the heat of him through the water, your knees occasionally brushing under the surface, sending jolts straight to your core.
“You can’t just say shit like that,” you whisper, trying to sound unaffected and missing the mark completely.
“Why not?” he murmurs, his eyes searching yours like he’s looking for the line between brave and stupid, safe and honest.
“Because,” you say, voice a little shaky now. “Because I don’t know what you mean.”
He lets out a soft laugh. “Yeah, you do.”
You try to look away, but his voice drags your gaze back.
“I meant it, y’know,” he says. “The tattoo. The flower.”
“Suguru—”
He leans in just slightly, not close enough to touch, but close enough that your heart forgets how to beat properly.
“Every time you touch me there, it grounds me,” he admits, quieter now. “Even when I’m barely holding it together. Even when I want things I shouldn’t.”
Your breath catches. “Things like?”
He doesn’t say it. Instead, he lets the moment stretch.
The sun catches on the water between you. He looks devastating like this—dripping, golden, pupils blown just a little too wide to blame on the sunlight.
But then, as if he senses you need an escape route, he gives you a smirk, tipping his head back and letting the tension almost break.
“You still owe me for dragging me out here alone,” he says, voice back to playful, but his eyes? Still fixed, still dark, still hungry.
“Oh?” you manage, breathless. “And what exactly do I owe you?”
He shrugs, but it’s mocking. “Dunno yet. But I’m sure I’ll think of something by tonight.”
And with that, he pushes off the rock and swims a few feet away, leaving you stewing in the heat he left behind, mouth slightly parted, heart absolutely wrecked.
Coming back to the suite was something else. Sure, it was already bad having to share a bed with the man you've loved for so long, but today was just rough. Your glances seemed to last a little longer, if you walk past each other you're so awfully aware of your skin touching, so much so it feels electric.
For his “get back” he ended up taking you to a club, but this time he had laid out an outfit for you to put on: a cute little purple dress along with some silver heels.
“Suguru what the hell are you planning on doing?” You ask, trying to suppress your giddiness.
“Clubbing,” he says walking into your shared room with his fit on, and to your surprise he was wearing a button-down shirt matching your dress, alongside silver accessories to match your shoes.
He loves watching you dance, you look so happy and carefree, but he'd also be lying if he said that was all there was to it. He loved seeing you flaunt your curves without a care in the world, and even if he knows better than that, he likes to imagine that you're putting up a show just for him. So, why not let the Greeks think that you were his and only his?
“And is there a reason to be matching?” You ask.
“Yeah, it'll be easier to find each other if we're wearing the same color,” he says just to instantly realize how stupid that sounded.
“Like we're on a summer camp?” You giggle.
“Yeah. A summer camp, but now we won't have to give up or phones or try to hide the booze,” he chuckles.
So, you're off to the club. It's not the first time you're clubbing in this trip, but tonight is just different. After learning about his tattoo earlier and being the closest you've ever been to actually kissing him the tension is through the roof, and you'd think a club would be stimulating enough to let your mind focus somewhere else, but something about those colored flashing lights, his easy smile and his luscious hair going everywhere along his moves gave you goosebumps. It surely didn't help that now he was using every excuse to flaunt the tattoo he'd done an amazing job of hiding up until earlier.
The club is alive. Bass thrumming through your chest, lights flashing pink and violet like they’re syncing with your heartbeat. You’ve danced before, plenty of times. But never like this. Never with his eyes on you like this.
You weren’t expecting them to play it — the familiar swirl of ikaeotiotiko rising like smoke through the haze of the night. The DJ must’ve been Greek. Or brave. Either way, the mood shifts, the crowd parting slightly as people start forming loose circles, clapping into the rhythm, shoes sliding against the floor with practiced ease.
You’re mid-laugh when Suguru’s hand slides around your waist.
“Thought you didn’t dance,” you tease, breathless.
“I don’t,” he says, but he doesn’t let go.
The circle opens around you, and somehow you’re pulled in, your hands brushing against others, your body keeping time with the rising tempo. You spin once, then again, feet moving instinctively. The music builds. Quick.
You feel him again before you see him. Suguru at your back, steady and grounded while the world moves in rhythm around you. He doesn't grab you outright, but his hand returns to your waist like muscle memory.
When someone reaches out to join hands with you again, he steps closer.
“She’s with me,” Suguru says. Casual. Almost bored.
But you know better. His voice is strained honey, the smoothness so fake you know it's just trying to feign calm. His fingers tighten at your side, not enough to hurt, but enough to speak volumes.
You move faster. The music demands it. The steps get looser, sweat slicking your skin, your dress hitching a little higher with every spin. You’re glowing with it, the dance, the music, the heat — and you lean back into him, letting your hips graze his.
Suguru doesn’t back away. If anything, he braces you.
“You’re playing with fire,” he murmurs into your ear, the beat thrumming through your chests as one. His mouth is so close to your skin, it feels like a kiss.
You smile without looking at him. “Maybe I like the burn.”
The music’s lifting now — that final run, that fast-breath, foot-stomping energy unique to ikaeotiotiko — and you let go. Let your body trust the rhythm. Let yourself press flush against him as the circle breaks into wild joy. But Suguru? He stays still behind you, like stone, like an anchor, his hand sliding lower now.
“Careful,” he breathes, “If you keep dancing like that, I’ll forget where we are.”
“Then maybe you should.”
That pause, thick with want, thick with years of unsaid things, lingers between you longer than the last note of the song. Even as the music fades and the next track bleeds in, he stays molded to your back. Possessive. Unmoving. Burned in.
You turn your head just enough to glance at him. “Possessive much?”
“Can you blame me?” he says, and it’s so honest, so fast, it makes your pulse skip.
The DJ switches to something darker, deeper. The kind of song that slows the room down and pulls bodies closer. Your hands find his shoulders, his settle on your hips. It’s instinct now.
You shouldn’t be doing this. But you also should’ve stopped a long time ago.
Your noses nearly brush as he leans in like he’s going to say something. But he doesn’t. His gaze flicks down to your lips, then back up.
You can’t breathe.
“Say something,” you whisper, voice almost drowned out by the music.
He swallows hard. “I’m trying really fucking hard not to ruin everything right now.”
The way he says it, so raw and vulnerable, sends your heart crashing into your ribs. You want to ask why not ruin it? what if it’s already ruined? what if we’ve been lying to ourselves this whole damn time? But you’re trying to see if he'll cave in, but unfortunately your patience is dangerously close to boiling over.
So you smile instead. Force a little laugh. “You think dancing with me is going to ruin everything?”
“No,” he says, shaking his head slightly. “Wanting more will.”
At this point you're fucking fed up, the tattoo, the side comments, and now to top it off the fucking possessiveness. Your heart couldn't handle that much.
“Stop playing with me. You keep talking so sweetly to me and I know you're a sweet person but this has gotten so out of hand. You keep saying I'm the death of you, that I calm you in ways no one does, and you just rile me up so fucking much. It hurts Suguru, to have wanted to for so long and to keep wanting you and all you do is play around. Honestly I've kept quiet for the sake of our friendship, but it costs me too fucking much, and I can't take it anymore,” you confess, tears threatening to spill over.
Before you could think logically, you let your pride take over and ran out into the rain because it seemed like a better option than to let the man who's controlled your feelings for so long watch you cry over him.
Your inner turmoil doesn't let you realize that he was chasing you the whole way.
“Y/n wait! Fuck, come here,” he says out of breath.
“Haven't you had enough this past decade? What else do you want from me?!” You ask, looking at him through your tears.
“You didn't let me reply,” he says so easily, as if he wasn't holding you as you broke down, as if you both weren't getting completely drenched by the rain. “I have always loved you. Insanely so. You've always plagued my every thought, been the muse to all the art I've made, the force behind every one of my efforts, my partner in crime, my favorite voice to wake up to, the last person I want to see before I fall asleep.”
His hands cup your face like you might slip away if he doesn’t hold on tight enough, but his touch is gentle. Careful. Like he knows how badly you’ve been hurting and hates himself for being part of it.
“I never said anything because I didn’t want to lose you. Not to distance, not to time, not to something I said too early or too late. I’ve had so many chances, and I ruined every one of them by keeping my mouth shut.”
You’re crying harder now, but you’re not backing away. You're just there, in his hands, trying to catch your breath as his confession keeps unraveling.
“I wanted to say something a hundred times on this trip. I almost kissed you on the bike, when you leaned into me and I forgot how to think. And again on the beach. And at the cove. And right now, I am so close to doing it I can’t even breathe.”
You blink up at him through the rain. “Then do it.”
Suguru pauses just long enough to make sure you mean it, his thumbs brushing your cheeks.
“Please,” you whisper.
And he kisses you like he’s been waiting to. Not careful anymore, not calculated. Just full of every second, every day, every year he’s spent loving you in silence. You melt into him, fingers curling in his shirt, finally holding him like you’ve dreamed of doing a thousand times.
When you part, both of you breathless, soaked, and shaking with adrenaline, he rests his forehead against yours.
“No more waiting,” he murmurs. “I’m yours, okay? I’ve always been yours. I've even got a mark of it.”
You laugh softly. “About time, idiot.”
He grins. “I’ll take that.”
Needless to say, you don't take too long to get on going to the suite. It should've been a quicker trip, but with Suguru slamming you into walls every 5 minutes and kissing you like a man starved it made a 10min walk into a 40min one, but you'd be lying if you said you didn't play into every bit of it.
By the time you make it into your room, your skin is on fire, not even the droplets of water clinging to it can do anything to calm the burning sensation down. It makes you act as though coming in contact with his skin with every inch of yours might ease it, but it only makes it worse.
Suguru’s not holding up any better. Years of longing are pouring out through his lips, tongue, hands, cock, everywhere. He’s all over you, kissing your neck as struggles not to whimper, hands busy trying to take your drenched clothes off as he doesn’t let you an inch away from him while he guides you towards the bed.
“So have you thought about it?” He asks, his lips one inch away from yours as he holds both of your arms above you with just one hand.
“Suguru I haven’t thought of anything that wasn’t you since we got off the plane,” you reply breathlessly.
“I’m talking about my offer, or should I say request?”
“And what would that be?” You reply smiling, kissing his neck, feeling it vibrate as he chuckles.
“That I’d eat you if you’d let me,” he says, eyes now fully locked on yours.
“YOU REMEMBER THAT?” You ask startled, fully convinced you were the only one who kept that night alive through your memory.
“I remember everything songbird, so well that I don’t recall there being an answer.” He pauses just to look at you, and as he inches close enough where you can feel his breath on your lips he speaks up again. “So, can I?”
You don’t feel like replying verbally, so you opted for smashing your lips into his. Kissing him felt so right, far above the feeling you got from anyone else even fucking you. This kiss alone made you wish he took all of your firsts, and with how nervous he’s making you, it almost feels like you’re a virgin again. Close enough right?
He understood perfectly. His hands started going south, roaming through your abdomen and navel, getting a feel of all the skin he’s only ever allowed himself to look at. As he tries to stop his mind from going overdrive so he can please you the way he’s always dreamed of, he places wet kisses from your neck to your collarbone, sneaking in some bites and hickeys to pave down his newfound territory.
“F-fuck Suguru,” you moan, eyes rolling to the back of your head.
“That’s it songbird, don’t hold back. You’ve starved me long enough,” he says as he finally reaches your breasts. He takes one into his mouth, outlining your sensitive nub, as he moves one of his hands towards your other breast, taking your nipple between his thumb and index finger, rotating it back and forth, the pressure and friction taking your soul out your body.
You feel yourself grinding into him, and he’s so big. So damn big, it’s obscene to even look at the tent in his pants, and you’re insatiable. You’re grinding on his drenched boxers, whether there was more moisture from your own dripping cunt or the pouring rain you didn’t know, but it doesn’t matter because either way it makes the fabric cling to him so deliciously, and it made your back and forth motion so much better.
Every roll of your hips sends a jolt through him, his grip tightening on your waist like he’s afraid you’ll vanish. You hear his breath catch, low and sharp, just before he mutters something guttural against your skin — something you can’t even catch, but it makes your thighs tremble.
Somehow, he gets harder, and you feel his cock pulsate through the thin layer of cloth between you. You whimper loud, and he takes that as encouragement to keep roaming further. His hand finds its way to your wet cunt and starts taping it, quick enough to make you ache for him but not hard enough to ease your want.
“Are you really fucking teasing me after making me wait years for this moment?” You manage to get out, so overwhelmed by your physical state and emotions.
“If anything you kept me waiting this long, and for that fact alone I should be given a reward don’t you think? I want it to last forever,” he breathed out before circling your entrance, toying with your dripping pussy as you arched your back for him.
“S-sugu,” you moaned, desperate for more.
Your plea — that broken little whisper of his name — makes something primal flash in his eyes. Suguru’s jaw flexes, and his breath stutters against your neck as he finally presses two fingers against your folds, sliding them through the mess you’ve made of yourself. He’s slow, deliberate, like he’s savoring every second of having you this way: spread out, soaking, and absolutely wrecked just from the friction and his mouth.
“You’ve got no idea how many times I’ve thought about this,” he growls, voice ragged. “You, desperate like this… begging me. Needing me.”
You can’t think. Can’t speak. Every nerve ending in your body is screaming for more, but he’s still just barely touching you, the pads of his fingers brushing your entrance, teasing you open but never pushing in. He knows exactly what he’s doing. It’s cruel.
“Then stop thinking,” you gasp, hips rocking up into his hand. “Just do it.”
He chuckles, low and dangerous. “So bossy when you’re this fucked out.”
And just when you’re about to snap — right on the verge of clawing at his shoulders and dragging him under you — he finally slides his fingers inside, slow and deep. It steals the air from your lungs, and your body tightens around him like he belongs there, like you’ve been waiting your whole life for this.
“I told you I’d make it worth the wait,” he whispers, his lips brushing your ear as he curls his fingers just right. “Now be a good girl and take it.”
Even if it's just 2 fingers it takes you to a whole other world. Suguru has always had a sixth sense for what you need and desire, and it doesn't surprise you that it translated over to bed. It takes him less than 30 seconds to find your sweet spot, and once he realized it he abuses it so deliciously.
"K-keep going Suguru," you breathe.
"That's my girl," he says as he keeps working you up. He loves to be in control, and he does it almost well enough that he's rutting into the bed, trying to find the friction you were giving him earlier in the mattress, and he thinks you wouldn't notice... but you did.
You don't know where you find the strength, but you manage to flip you guys over so you're on top of him now, and you're feeling like returning the favor. So before he can even guess what you're about to do, you take the hand he was just fingering you with and suck your slick off his fingers, then you take your tongue out and start dragging it from his chest all the way down to his waist without taking your eyes away from his, as he watches you hungrily through lidded eyes.
You waste no time in putting your hands to work, so fucking slowly. You drag your fingertips down his torso like you’re tracing a path you already know by heart — over the hard planes of his stomach, the twitch of his hips when you get too close, then back up just to hear the frustration in his breath.
“You’re really gonna tease me now?” he mutters.
You don’t answer, just smirk, letting your lips follow the trail your tongue blazed moments ago. Every inch of him tastes like salt and rain and something only he could ever smell like, so familiar and addictive.
When you finally reach the waistband of his boxers, you pause. Just enough to make him twitch. Just enough to watch the way his jaw tightens.
You glance up at him through your lashes. “If I kept you waiting all this time, don’t you think I should take my time making it up to you?”
He lets out a strangled groan, and his hand flies up like he’s going to grab something, but then he stops himself. Lets you stay in control.
That alone makes you ache.
You press a kiss right below his navel, slow and intentional. Then you hook your fingers into the waistband and drag it down, inch by agonizing inch, until he’s fully exposed and twitching against his stomach.
“Fuck,” he hisses, voice cracking as you wrap your fingers around the base of him, your thumb brushing the bead of precum at the tip.
You lean in, mouth barely grazing him, breath hot and teasing. “I want to see how much you can take before you lose it.”
"You're signing up for a long night then Songbird," he says, not even bothering trying to conceal how worked up he is.
Your adrenaline is going overdrive, and even as you’re trying your damned best to get it together to put on one hell of a show, your resolve is crumbling quicker than you’d like it to. You’re toying with his cock so painfully, licking his tip as you stroke him with one hand and cup his balls with the other, allowing yourself to revel on how hot, moist his dick is, and above all, how delicious his veins feel on your palm alone. If it was intoxicating here how bad was it going to be when he was actually inside you?
“S-shit,” he pants, giving in to the pleasure.
You wanted to keep him waiting, but his honeyed voice sounded so pretty breaking down for you, you decided you’d give him a reward! Instead of continuing to tease him, you actually took him in your mouth, and it was a delight to both of you. Feeling him twitch and keep leaking in your mouth made your cunt impossibly wetter, but you tried not to pay that much mind to focus on your task.
Having one hand free now, you opted for using it to caress your favorite flower inked on his back, the gesture making him buck violently into your mouth. You gagged, but that only made him more eager to take you. It truly didn’t take you much to turn your “reward” into further torture, the funniest part is that you didn’t realize it at all.
“This is g-gonna be so f-fucking embarrassing for me if I l-let you keep going,” he moans out. “Let me t-taste you instead.”
You intended on continuing sucking him off, but he pulled that same stunt you did, so you found yourself on your back once again at his mercy, and the glint in his purple hues told you you were going to get ruined for everyone else, now in a whole different area.
He dove right in your pussy as if you were the only oasis in the desert he had walked on for days. He was nothing short of calculated and intentional, but only Suguru could be those things while at the same time being desperate and so fucking hungry. He was lapping at your cunt as his nose pressed on your clit, the pressure making you cry out in pleasure.
“Suguru! F-fuck, don’t stop,” you moan.
He chuckles and the vibrations go straight to your core.
“Since you’re being so good for me, and taste so fucking delicious, I’ll give you a little gift,” he says, taking his tongue out your cunt just to softly blow on it, making you shiver, then put it around your clit and get his fingers back in it again.
To say you’re moaning would be quite offensive. You were screaming at this point, certain that everyone on the hill could hear Suguru’s name being yelled at the top of your lungs. Even taking all of this into account you were holding it up quite well, his skilled tongue along with his fingers at the same time is no fucking joke, adding on to the fact that your body’s been waiting for this for years.
And in just a moment you start feeling it, that pressure begging to be released pooling inside of you, and he feels it too, he knows he’s driving you to the edge.
“You want to cum pretty?” He asks mockingly, as if it wasn’t tearing him apart as much as it did you.
You nod frantically, unable to form a coherent sentence in the state he’s put you in.
“Shit baby, I can’t hear you. Guess you can wait a little hmm? You’ll get another chance to cum, don’t worry.” The fucker smiled as he said that repositioning himself so that he was centered right at your entrance.
Testing your patience, he started dragging his hard length through your folds back and forth, driving you both insane by feeling your cunt up with just his leaky, pretty red tip, overstimulated beyond belief with such brief touches.
“Always knew you were quite the tease but didn’t know you were a masochist Sugu,” you said impatiently, wondering just what you’d have to do to get him to put it in already.
“You really don’t know me at all, but don’t worry, you will soon enough,” he says, and before you can answer he goes balls deep in only one thrust, making you scream out his name once again at the sudden (but not unwelcome) intrusion.
“You feel so fucking good,” he says breathlessly, locking eyes with you as he locks you in a mating press.
You feel him hit all of your sweet spots without fail, as if he had mapped you out long before he even got to this point, all his thrusts erratic but never unintentional, he was determined to make sure you lost your mind just as much as him.
You can’t breathe, can’t think, the stretch of him inside you is overwhelming — thick, deep, perfect — and all you can do is hold on as he fucks you like he’s trying to brand himself into your cervix.
Your legs are folded tight to your chest, and he’s so deep it feels like he’s rearranging you. Every slam of his hips makes you cry out, makes your body arch against him, and when his fingers find your clit, rubbing tight and fast, and your vision blurs.
“S-Sugu, f-fuck! I-I,” you don’t even know what you’re trying to say. You can’t get it out.
“I know, baby. I know,” he groans, forehead pressed to yours, his pace somehow rougher and sweeter all at once. “Let go for me.”
And it’s all you need.
You shatter.
The orgasm tears through you like lightning, loud and blinding, your whole body trembling as you clutch at his shoulders like he’s the only thing keeping you grounded. And he doesn’t stop; he keeps moving through it, keeps dragging every last drop of pleasure out of you until you’re gasping for air and moaning into his mouth.
“Fuck— you’re squeezing me so tight,” he chokes, hips stuttering now, losing rhythm, chasing his own end.
You wrap your arms around his neck and pull him down into a kiss, sloppy and desperate, as he finally lets go, burying himself deep with a guttural moan and spilling inside you in thick, pulsing waves.
For a moment, everything’s still. Just the sound of your uneven breaths, the weight of him on you, the rain still faintly tapping against the window outside.
Then he exhales a laugh, soft and wrecked, nuzzling into your neck.
“Guess we made up for lost time, huh?”
You smile, still dazed. “You think that was making up for it?”
His eyes flicker open, dark and gleaming.
“Right. Round two, then.”
And with that, it is safe to say you did not get any sleep that night.
The rays of the sun woke you up, and as your eyes adjusted to the lighting, you took a look at your surroundings, delighted to find you and Sugu’s body tangled up to the point where you couldn’t tell when your body ended and his started. You felt him flutter awake too, looking up at you with the most lovesick smile you’ve seen in all your life.
“You sleep good Songbird?” He asks in his raspy morning voice, sounding so fucking sexy.
“Best sleep I’ve had in years. You?”
“I think I’m doomed,” he confesses, as he grabs a strand of your hair to play with it.
“What do you mean?” You ask, growing concerned.
“I doubt that after tonight there is a way I’ll be able to get any sleep without you by my side,” he declares, so easily, as if he wasn’t accelerating your heartbeat with merely some words.
“You’re so silly,” you giggle, relaxing at his cheesy confession.
“I’m just being honest,” he says, caressing your face. “Can you promise me something?”
“Anything,” you say, feeling how much you mean it.
“Can we please keep this going outside of Mykonos? I know I may have rushed it, but believe me when I say I meant every word I said out in the rain. I don’t want us to be a hook up, just a vacation thing. I genuinely want to wake up like this every day, getting to see your beautiful face and hearing your voice first thing in the morning. It would kill me to have done this and to go back and pretend like you’re not the love of my life and like I haven’t realized it yet,” he says without missing a single beat.
You reach up and place your hand over his, the one still cradling your cheek with such gentleness you know he means every word he just said.
“I don’t want to pretend either,” you whisper, voice barely steady. “I want this… all of it. You.”
The smile that spreads across his face is slow and devastating, the kind of smile that says finally.
“Good,” he murmurs, kissing your forehead like it’s the easiest thing in the world. “Then it’s settled. Mykonos was just the start.”
You nod, melting into his chest as he pulls you in tighter, the warmth of his body grounding you even as your heart soars.
And as the Aegean sunlight filters through the curtains and the sea murmurs softly outside, you fall asleep once again wrapped in his arms — no longer wondering what comes next, but knowing that whatever it is, you’ll be in it together.
Meanwhile, somewhere in Tokyo there are two close friends of yours arguing, which isn't surprising, but to think that it was about the two of you made it hilarious.
“Shoko I'm telling you, I know Suguru better than anyone, that fucker will keep pining after her like a lovesick ghost. You said the same thing about their trip to Berlin last year, why do you think this one would be any different?” Satoru asks, getting into yet another bet he fully expects to win.
“Because I just feel it, nothing screams more romance than a getaway at Mykonos of all places. Besides, this is the first trip where they've only had one bed to sleep in,” she explains, believing more and more in her conclusions as she gets the words out.
“Not buying it. It would take a life or death situation for him to cave in,” he says stubbornly. “But since you're so certain, it wouldn't hurt to bet on it, right?”
“You have no problem in reminding how little you care about your money huh?” She says, more than willing to give in once again, her pride taking over her better judgement.
“Just recognizing an opportunity when I see it,” he shrugs.
“Fine, ¥14,450 they'll come back a couple.”
“You're so on Shoko,” he says, grinning as they shake hands.
Needless to say, after you two came back and had diner with those two to update them on all, Satoru not only lost his ¥14,450, but also his pride, especially when Suguru kissed you right in front of them like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Shoko sipped her drink smugly. “Told you. Mykonos equals love.”
Satoru groaned dramatically, slumping back in his chair. “Unbelievable. All it took was Mediterranean air and a single bed? You folded faster than Go Fish.”
Suguru just smirked, arm lazily draped around your shoulders. “You won't understand me until you're in my spot, Satoru.”
“You shut your traitor mouth,” Satoru muttered, pushing his plate away like the betrayal had ruined his appetite.
“You’re just mad because you lost,” you grinned.
“I’m mad because now I owe her money and I know she'll spend it on some wine she won't even share,” he said, gesturing to Shoko, who just raised her glass in victory.
“Correct,” she said. “And it’ll be imported.”
The night ended with Satoru dramatically Venmoing Shoko under the transaction label “This won't happen again.”
And you? You leaned against Suguru’s shoulder, already planning the next trip — two tickets, one bed, and no intentions of ever holding back.
my little (and by little i mean over 5k wc 💔) one-shot for @lily-bisque ‘s summer bash collab gonna be out friday at 8 a.m.
guys i’m so excited i think it’s my longest work to date and the one ive been the most locked in with since ive started my writing journey plz give it some love once it comes out 😭🙏
about: pick a destination getaway! whether that be a popular city, resort, cruise, etc. for a fluffy, angsty and/or smutty time. you get to bring along any one of our favorite men (gojo, geto, choso, toji, nanami, and/or sukuna!)
yes, i said and/or… this collab can include as many of the guys as you’d like.
i’ll be capping entries off at 15 fics total, but there is no rush on when the fics can be completed. they can range from at least 800 words to as many as you’d like.
how to enter: send me a message or comment here and i’ll send you one 🫶 entry status: closed!
rules are as goes: these can be 18+ and include dark content, but nothing too dark such as noncon, incest, stepcest, etc. if you’re wondering if something is too dark, shoot me a message! and just be sure to tag your fic accordingly. these can include pre-established relationships or a vacation crush coming to fruition, whatever best fits your writing! THESE CAN ALSO BE FROM ANY TIME PERIOD! as a girl who loves period pieces, i’d love to see one done from a times past 💛
some inspiration: capering around a bonfire, sundresses and kisses, airport crushes, sand sticking to wet skin, lagoons and conch shells, street food and shopping, shared hotel rooms and hot tubs, salty hair and drinking from a coconut, etc. although this is sort of promoted as a summery destination concept, these do not have to have a 'beachy' theme to it. let your imagination run wild!
have fun with this! i love reading everyone’s writing here <3
destination one 𓍯𓂃 amalfi, italy
doin' time — toji fushiguro
written by me ⇁ ticket tba
༄ sum: sparkling turquoise waters, hidden coves, and limoncello for days in the illustrious city on the amalfi coast was just how you wanted to start your work-trip—instead struggling to find a room for the night thanks to your arrogant boss leaving you to fend for yourself. yet your hopes begin to float just above the surface when your fate crashes with your old childhood neighbor with a questionable past but an annoyingly dashing charm beneath the sunkissed shore glow. it really is a small world after all.
destination two 𓍯𓂃 goa, india
strawberry daiquiri — satoru gojo
written by @tangyneon ⇁ ticket tba
destination three 𓍯𓂃 myrtle beach, south carolina
tourist trapped — ryomen sukuna
written by @indiewritesxoxo ⇁ first class ticket here! ᯓ ✈︎
༄ sum: what's currently on your summer itinerary? hot days and handsy nights on the sand and under the sheets, bikini-clad and slathered in sunscreen or soap. not getting stranded five hundred miles from your destination with the best friend of the guy you were supposed to be spending your vacation with. but when his car breaks down and you're stuck sharing the bed with Sukuna, you can't help but start to consider there might be more to him than tattoos and terrible music taste. who knows what sort of souvenirs you'll end up leaving with?
destination four 𓍯𓂃 agadir, morocco
buried in silk and sand — suguru geto
written by @nialovessatoru ⇁ ticket tba
༄ sum: stranded in agadir due to “booking issues” with your hotel, you decide to make the best of it and explore. you spot a wealthy looking caravan and with it, your shot at stealing a few valuables to secure your survival. turns out the man you stole from is morocco’s most influential one. when you get caught, he doesn’t punish you, but he does collect what’s his.
destination five 𓍯𓂃 outer banks, south carolina
lost and found — satoru gojo
written by @starmapz ⇁ ticket tba
destination six 𓍯𓂃 paris, france
eiffel for two — satoru & sukuna
written by @designerpvssy ⇁ ticket tba
༄ sum: you didn't expect to see your ex while with your next! in the city of love with your fwb-turned-boyfriend when you just so happen to run into your ex while checking in your hotel, now they're both making motion in the ocean.
destination seven 𓍯𓂃 phuket, thailand
— satoru gojo
written by @edensrose ⇁ ticket tba
destination eight 𓍯𓂃 breckenridge, colorado
— ryomen sukuna
written by @seellove ⇁ ticket tba
destination nine 𓍯𓂃
—
written by @thbbie ⇁ ticket tba
destination ten 𓍯𓂃 mykonos, greece
stereo love — suguru geto
written by @bxnfire ⇁ ticket tba
destination eleven 𓍯𓂃 monte-carlo, monaco
push to pass — kento nanami
written by @goonforgeto ⇁ ticket tba
destination twelve 𓍯𓂃 aegean islands, greece
my love of ikaria — choso kamo
written by @mierins ⇁ ticket tba
༄ sum: she leaves one land of long memories for another, alighting in agios kirykos with a shadow in her eyes and a single suitcase in hand. rarely do visitors stay, not like this—and rarely do the men they’ve mourned and tried to forget follow after them like a ghost.
destination thirteen 𓍯𓂃 kuantan, malaysia
wave goodbye — kento nanami
written by @twilightsumu ⇁ ticket tba
༄ sum: you visit kento’s favorite place to live in the pockets he has left behind and to say goodbye.
destination fourteen 𓍯𓂃 san diego, california
— suguru geto
written by @getouyuri ⇁ ticket tba
destination fifteen 𓍯𓂃
— kento nanami
written by @callme-naomi ⇁ ticket tba
loveisland!choso who entered as a bombshell. he had no interest in being something he saw as staged and fake but yuuji signed him up for it so he did it to impress him, but his heart also oddly did not tell him against it
loveisland!choso who doesn’t really open up to most of the islanders. he will engage in small talk, but the other participants will see the most of him in the challenges. these are also the the way he got interested in you in the first place! he didn’t feel anything for no one until you kissed him… too bad he was blindfolded
loveisland!choso who becomes active after you kissed him. he is now trying to talk to everybody, testing the waters and see if he feels a connection with someone, or at least has hopes for who he’d like his secret kisser to be
loveisland!choso who is one of the most honest of the bunch. him and nanami are up there for being straightforward, which is something that drew you to him. he has never once tried to cover up the fact that he's dead set on finding his mystery kisser (which is funny because he has no idea its you!), and you've just always tried to give him some hints here and there but he never seems to take them
loveisland!choso who realizes you were the one he was looking for all along when you chose him as your fourth base for the baseball game and kissed him oh so fucking dirty and, fuck, you put up a damn show. you were grinding on him, pulling his hair, and biting his lower lips like you were eating your last meal on this earth. you’d love to say that you were moaning and getting more aggressive for the camera, but in reality, the obscene bulge you were grinding up against and all the grunts and cusses you were hearing right in your ear were all the audience you needed, and your pussy further confirmed this fact
loveisland!choso who loves cooking/baking dates because he gets to make a mess all over you and clean it up with his tongue. that is what he’d say to you anyway, but his genuine goal is to make a mess right in your cunt. whether it’s sour or salty is ultimately up to you, but the common factor is that so long as it’s you he’s insatiable. at least you're clean now right? besides, he needs to show you just how good he'd be at taking care of you. he's also a big fan of those dates that are surprise performances, because he's deeply into music and wants to see if y'all got similar tastes. now, if after the performance he gets to have his way with you on a hidden corner, bent over some box backstage and putting his fingers with cold silver rings so far up your cunt, with his other hand covering your mouth to suppress your cries of pleasure, that was just a post-performance meet-and-greet right? he just needed to talk to your sweet cunt! wanted to know your clit a little better, learn more about your g-spot and well shit, map ‘em out with his fingers, tongue, nose, cock, thighs, did i say cock? cock, dick, male reproductive organ, oh yeah!! and his dick, not his fault looking at you from different angles, hearing all the sounds you’d make, feeling your pussy here and there and everywhere made new veins pop on his dick, make him so hard and then just a little more! almost like he discovered a whole new inch, with which he just had to tour your sweet cunt
loveisland!choso who never fears re-couplings and challenges, he’s made it abundantly clear to you (and consequently everyone) that he’s only got eyes for you, and even if other guys approach you or you even decide to explore other connections, he’ll patiently wait. you don’t need to see his jealous side just yet, or his little twisted habit of replaying your make out sessions with other guys or attempts at riling them up as he hides away to jerk his big cock off, he can’t help it! when it gets hard at the thought of you not even a cold shower could will it down, so he may as well pump it ‘til his wrist hurts as he thinks of the things he’d do to you once he gets alone with you again
loveisland!choso who didn’t expect to find a genuine connection here, and if anyone’s about deep connection past superficial emotions it’s him. and yes, it was a first for him to fall for someone’s kiss, but it was your easy laugh, your soothing voice, the way your touch felt like it was always meant to be for him, your easy conversations which usually cost him so much with everyone else were the highlight of his day, and just how he could feel safe with you which told him he’d do anything and everything in his will to get you to stay with him off the screen and far from the villa, right into his heart if you’d so desire
previously on... | currently airing: episode two | episode guide
you've got a text! looks like you're about to spend your summer on everyone's favorite trashy reality dating show searching for love (...or that cash prize at the end) will a certain pretty (annoying) blue-eyed boy catch your attention? or perhaps his dark-haired best friend? it seems this villa has a few bombshells in store too!
pairings: Gojo x Reader, Geto x Reader, Sukuna x Reader, Nanami x Reader, Choso x Reader
content: MDNI, fluff and light angst, fem reader!, she's a little bitchy but we love her anyway, gojo is down BAD, teasing, jealousy, reader is going to be unhinged in this one guys, light groping, jealousy, we support women's rights AND wrongs
creds: gorgeous art by @baobei-bu and divider by @animatedglittergraphics-n-more
What the hell had you done to deserve this?
"So, like, should we hold hands when we walk in or-"
"We're not supposed to talk to each other when the cameras aren't on," You muttered under your breath, glaring at the grown man currently pouting like a puppy dog next to you.
"So?" Gojo cocked his head to the side, leaning in until his nose grazed against yours, daring you to glare at him some more.
"You're incredibly annoying," You whispered.
You hated that he had a point.
What were they going to do?
Yell at you? Kick you off the show?
You were starting to think that wouldn't be so bad if your options were a cocky man child and a man who kissed two girls in the span of what? Ten minutes?
Maybe you'd have better luck with the rest of the men.
"You know, the meaner you are, the more I fall in love with you," Gojo teased, craning his neck down to whisper back in your ear, soft lips grazing against your still damp skin.
"I don't think you know what being in love even means," You scoffed at him.
If he did, he wouldn't just throw it around like that.
Love hurt. Ripped you apart and stitched you back together in the shape of someone you didn't recognize. If it was even real at all.
"I think I might surprise you," He hm-ed, and the producer up front finally noticed, cutting you both a sharp look to shut up.
You didn't think that was physically possible for him, but he managed to stay quiet for a couple more minutes on the rest of the drive to the villa you'd be stuck out for the next few weeks.
They quickly ushered you out, guiding you over to they wanted shots of you walking in from. The car with Geto and Manami pulled in a minute later, and you had to stop yourself from glaring when they got out.
Manami's hands were all over him, grabbing his arm as she got up on the tip of her toes to say something to him like her heels didn't give her enough height. He leaned down to listen in, still wearing that stupid relaxed smile, but then his eyes shifted over to you with an infuriating hint of apology, as if he was trying to say, 'well, what can I do?'
Jackass.
"Can I ask you something?" You turned to Gojo, clinically assessing him from the mischievous glimmer in his eyes to the casual way he gravitated closer to you.
"Anything," He grinned.
"You wanna fuck me, right?" You bluntly asked, only loud enough he could hear.
His face flushed pink, surprise making his mouth drop open. You half-expected him to start drooling.
"I-I mean, yeah, more than that, but-" He stuttered a little, the cool guy persona melting a little under the hot sun and hotter lights set up for the cameras.
"We can have sex, but stop acting like you like me, okay? It's fine for the cameras, but please cut the bullshit when it's just us," You hissed at him, brows furrowed together like it'd show him how serious you were.
"What if I do like you?"
He didn't fucking know you. There was nothing to like.
You didn't get to answer that before the producers were shouting you over, new instructions on where to look and what to do when you walked through the arches leading into the backyard, flower-lined with hidden cameras strategically placed for multiple angles.
Geto and Manami got to go first, and you tried not to notice the intense eyes watching you before they started down the path, scooting just the slightest bit closer to Gojo just for him to sling an arm casually over your hip, fingers flexing as they rested over your dress.
Then it was your turn.
Your heels clicked against the wooden platform, Gojo's hand on your waist keeping you tethered to him while you tried to picture what kind of cheesy music they'd be playing over this.
Gojo was probably plastering his smile back on, happy to have you by his side.
It was a weird feeling. Stifling almost, suffocating you under the weight of his unspoken expectations.
He'd be sorely disappointed by the second day when he used more than three braincells to piece together what a bitch you could be.
There was the faint sound of cheers ahead, people probably rushing to greet Geto and the new girl he brought with him before you walked through.
You and Gojo though?
Met with blank faces and bored reactions before returning to chatting with Geto and Manami.
"They don't like you either?" You dryly assessed, his fingers squeezing your side a little tighter. You weren't sure why. If it was reassurance or a rebuttal.
"They just like him better," Gojo said, not particularly bitter, just blunt. Like it was the story of his life.
It took a few moments for a few of them to approach you, a stunning black-haired woman with a scar running across her cheek looked at you with pity before side-eyeing the man next to you. "Sorry you're stuck with him."
She stuck out her palm politely, and you shook it back while getting all the boring introductions over. You tried to sneakily size up who else you'd be stuck with for the foreseeable future. Her name was Utahime, and she was with that blond guy from the last scene the producers showed you, except, he was much more intimidating in person.
His amber eyes were shrewd, clearly scrutinizing your state of dampness, only muttering out three simple sentences. His name. Age. Occupation.
"Excited to be here?" You tried to sarcastically joke, but his unamused expression didn't change, his face flat and his forced smile practiced.
Whatever hot man factory this robot of a guy was produced in forgot to install a sense of humor.
"Hey, Shoko," Utahime called out, drawing the attention of an equally-pretty brunette over. She didn't have a partner, so you guessed she'd probably been paired with Geto before.
All the 'nice-to-meet-you's ended fast though, a few new names you'd desperately do your best to remember in your head.
There was a tall blonde named Yuki, bright and bubbly and effortlessly cool in a way that made you endlessly jealous. But Naoya? The guy she'd gotten paired with? He was insufferable.
Dyed hair and a bratty attitude that made you look like a saint, mocking you within seconds of meeting you by calling you a mess like it was your fault Gojo got champagne all over you.
The producers were the ones who set up the first couples, pinning it on some compatibility test that had surely been set up so they could get the messiest results.
You sorta wished this was the type of show where you had the power to vote people out because you'd be scribbling Naoya in every slip of paper to send him packing.
"I kinda thought there'd be more people," You absentmindedly commented, walking through the Villa's backyard, checking out the pool and all the different seating areas they'd set up with absurd amounts of colorful pillow and decor bright enough to make your eyes hurt.
"They'll add more later, I'm sure," Gojo chuckled, a shadow it seemed you wouldn't be escaping any time soon.
You nodded, glancing back towards the villa.
"Can you show me where the bedroom is?" You asked, scanning over all the oversized windows. The sun had almost vanished, the sky painted in soft streaks of orange and pink and the moon hanging between thin clouds, but your stomach was tangled in too tight of knots for you to appreciate any of this.
"Course," Gojo chirped, taking the opportunity to grab your hand and tug you forward.
He'd probably carry you if you let him.
Not-so-hidden cameras were scattered in almost every corner, some more obvious than others. You tried not to look directly at them, but your skin was crawling thinking of all the people who might end up viewing this.
God forbid you fucking tripped or something and the clip ended up plastered on social media for the next five years.
Your suitcase was already upstairs. Just awaiting your arrival next to a bed with you and Gojo's names scrawled in marked in front of it. There were six beds total, three on each wall and evenly spread, so you guessed that at most there could be twelve people here, or six couples, although there was definitely space for more. You glanced around at the other nameplates, frowning when you read Geto and Manami's names neatly scribbled on the one next to yours.
Yuki and Naoya were in your other side, and you hoped you'd get lucky enough she'd strangle him in her sleep so you wouldn't have to add another asshole to the list of shit you were dealing with.
The one you were currently babysitting was watching you.
Gojo didn't hide his stare. You weren't sure he could if he tried.
Bright blue eyes burning through you, observing every little movement and flicker of your face before he flopped down on the wrinkled blanket, patting the spot next to him with one of those huge palms of his.
"Care to join me?"
What was your other option? Go join the rest of them where you already felt like an outsider?
You slipped off your heels, feet aching as you climbed into bed next to him. Careful to keep a few inches from him while you turned your attention to the ceiling, pretending the mic pack attached to you was irritating the hell out of you either.
"Is Suguru just like that?" You asked, sighing as you tried your hardest not to sound disappointed.
"Like what?" He hummed.
"Nothing," You shook your head, deciding just to drop it.
There was a decidedly awkward pause, his hesitation hanging heavy in the air before he even spoke.
"I do want to get to know you," He mumbled. "By the way."
"Why?"
Or more accurately, what was he trying to to get out of it?
"You're not pretending to be someone else," He shrugged, rolling over onto his side to face you. For a second, you forgot about the fact this was being filmed. Glancing over at his surprisingly serious stare.
"I am, though," You laughed at him, brow arched up in disbelief.
After the past year? You weren't even sure who you were anymore.
"Yeah, but, I mean, you're easy to see through," He grinned, all idiotic and happy like it wasn't an insult.
"You don't know me," You reminded him.
"So let me," He shrugged, leaning in a little closer.
If you moved an inch, it would be easy to kiss him. To brush your nose against his.
Your dress was clinging uncomfortably to your thighs, sticking to you the way his words had. You rolled off the bed, walking back over to the front of the bed.
"Do they even have washing machines here?" You mumbled under your breath, like you could wash away the tension.
You opened your suitcase, bending over to dig through its contents for a different, not wet, dress. You didn't bother leaving the room to change. It wasn't like there was one without cameras.
Gojo held his hand over his eyes, but you just rolled yours.
"I don't care if you look," You wryly muttered.
He'd probably see end up seeing you in a bikini more than in normal clothes anyway. Not to mention you'd be sharing the same bed for who knows how long.
But you didn't think there was even a slice of him that was coy when he literally just moved his fingers so he could literally peek through them.
"Dork," You huffed pulling out a dress and tossing it on the foot of the bed before fumbling to take off the mic pack around your waist, carefully setting it down on top of your suitcase, a little terrified to damage it. You reached around for the zipper of your dress, but your fingers felt clumsy, refusing to work the way you wanted them to.
"Need any help?" Gojo grinned.
"Fine," You grumbled.
He practically jumped up, hurrying around to be of any assistance to you. But the second he was standing behind you, his broad chest too close to your back, he took his time, tentatively sweeping the hair away from your neck and letting the tips of his fingers skim down to your zipper.
You caught yourself holding your breath, chewing the inside of your cheek when he slowly tugged it down, unsure what to make of it or him when it felt uncomfortably intimate.
"Pretty," He murmured, just for the zipper to get stuck halfway down.
He tried tugging again. Nothing.
"Is it caught on something?" You asked, face already flushing.
"Yeah, hold on one second," He chuckled, a hint of embarrassment betraying him at somehow managing to fuck up this up too.
He pulled it up a little before yanking it back down to no avail.
"I can probably just wiggle out of it," You murmured, mortified at the idea everyone you knew - including your ex-boyfriend - would be watching this back.
"I've got it," Gojo huffed, like the last time he insisted on something wasn't the same reason you were changing now.
So yeah, you weren't exactly surprised when you heard the rip.
"Shit."
Your dress, or what was left of it, hit the ground with a soft thud. Left standing in a tiny set of bra and underwear they might have to censor on tv. Gojo gasped - the strangled sort of one that you could tell only slipped out on accident. You wondered if the mic around your neck caught the sound.
Probably not when the door swung open and hit the wall loud enough you jumped.
Gojo's hands were suddenly over your breasts, fumbling to cover you up and shield you from someone else.
Really, it probably only ended up looking like he was groping you.
"It's not-" Gojo started.
Suguru and Shoko were standing in the doorframe. Shoko didn't react, just tilting her head to the side and jutting her thumb down the hall. "We're about to play a game by the fire pit."
"We'll be there," You shrugged, holding your head up high and refusing to surrender any more scraps of your dignity.
Suguru was frowning.
Watching you with a shrewd stare, studying your face for signs of something.
Gojo's breathing was uneven behind you, his palm still pressed against your breast when they left the room after another awkward beat of silence.
Even when the door shut behind them, he still hadn't moved.
"Gojo," You said his name.
"Yeah?" He cleared his throat.
"You don't have to keep holding my tits."
"Oh, shit, sorry," He murmured, letting go of you and stepping back.
You didn't reply, just pulling out a clean dress from your bag and shimmying it up your thighs, turning again so he could pull up the zipper this time, halfway thinking he'd break it too.
"I'll buy you a new dress," He quietly said. "To replace the other one."
You weren't really interested in a man's empty promises.
"Uh-huh," You muttered.
It took another thirty seconds for you to fix the mic belt around your waist while he sort of just stood there all stilted and watched.
"Mind, um, giving me a few minutes?" He asked, his voice all strange and strained.
You realized why when you noticed the quite frankly ridiculously oversized hard-on he was barely keeping contained.
At least he had a big dick.
You hoped he knew what to do with it.
"Sure, um, take care of yourself," You teased, fighting back a smirk when you slipped your heels back on and scurried through the door.
"I'm not going to-"
"Yeah, yeah," You couldn't help but giggle, covering your mouth with your hand as you pulled the doorknob back open and slipped out before he could defend himself.
The door shut with a loud thump, and you let yourself relax a little. Everything already sucked. So why stress even more about it?
It probably would've been easier to keep that sentiment if Suguru wasn't waiting for you outside. Leaning against the wall with his hands slung in his pockets, fixing you in the type of stare that pierced through your apathetic armor.
And you hadn't even fucked his friend yet, but you were pretty fucking positive it was the slightest hint of jealousy you detected in his dark eyes.
✮ yearner!satoru looks at a picture on the wall. it’s back from your graduation, when you didn’t know what the future held for you, but your smiles were so bright it was like y’all did not care at all. he smiles softly, thinking about how he took for granted that sight, having no idea he would lose it soon after.
you are all adults now, and it’s been harder and harder to catch up. and while it was to be expected, it surely wouldn’t sting so fucking hard if satoru did not love you nearly as much as he did.
it’s like he sees you everywhere. in the quiet mornings, where you’d listen to music and lend him an earplug. in the loud cars at night, knowing that was the only way you’d get in one at all. in the smell of coffee, the kind he could only drink when it was more of sugar with coffee and not the other way around. in the restaurants on the street, knowing you’d spend your money on food far more than on anything else, and remembering how cute you looked after getting sweet little treats. the hot summer nights, where you’d dance your worries away on the sidewalk like nobody’s business. anything and everything reminded him of you and it was sickening.
although, the one thing more sickening than missing you the way he does is the thought of losing you. he’s so helplessly in love with you, he’s kept all of your silly drawings, even those in the margins of notebooks with notes he’d never use again, never washed a hoodie that now smelled more like fabric than you, but that faintness is enough for satoru. all of your movie and fair tickets are still safe in his drawer, and let’s not get started on all the birthday gifts from you: they’re his most sacred treasures, which was quite funny without context, knowing how he’s always had the world at his feet and yet any little trinket from you would have a higher value to him than any diamond. it is absolutely dehumanizing really, and the fact that it’s been going on for so long makes it worse, but he’s incapable of seeing a future in which you’re not, one way or another.
so no, distance doesn’t help his aching heart, not when you’re everywhere. he doesn’t need you, but he fucking misses you so much. if only he could express all of it to you, but he’s such a sucker, to the point where all of this comes more naturally to him than even any thought of making his love, the genuine type of love he has for you.
loveisland!toji who is confusing as hell at first. he gives a silent predator type of vibe, and by that nature nobody can tell who he’s actually into. he’ll smile at different girls and talk to some others, and when he's just with the men, he shows no clear preference even when others tend to make it awfully clear, though those that mention you find their things missing sometimes or happen to see toji go flirt with the girls they would mention, just out of spite, though he'd just play it off as "strategic" to hide how down bad he is for you, so nobody really knows if there’s a preferred one, including you
loveisland!toji who is unbelievably amused at the fact that you can’t tell he’s smitten by you. sure, he smiles at everyone and tries his best to give others proper time, but it’s all just to confuse everyone, you best fucking believe he’s already planned out both how to get you AND win over the public’s favor
loveisland!toji who only tells you about his life, only smiles sweetly at you, not sultry, not the type of smile that comes only when he wants to get something, but rather a smile that comes out of his genuine love for your presence
loveisland!toji who has his fun breaking the other girls’ hopes once he decides to take a more proactive approach to getting you. in their talks, he now talks about you and only you. how cute your laugh is, how beautiful you look by the beach, how interesting you are, etc etc etc. the nicer ones in the bunch decide to just give him advice, but others? well, some dirty looks were thrown your way, but it’s something he MADE sure you wouldn’t even notice
loveisland!toji who likes spa/hot tub and picnic/beach dates best. for the former, he’s fucking jacked and he knows how to use it to his advantage, there truly is no other reason than to want to impress you, even his dick in on it! that’s not because he gets to see your irresistible body all shiny and smooth because of the water/steam, noo, his dick would never act against his will, not even at such mouth watering sight of you, surely it will only grow oh so quickly, veins all over his girthy length, so obscenely obvious not even 2 towels could cover it up. the only downside being him fucking losing 2+ hours of sleep because it wouldn't just go down, he's been sitting far away from everyone, in some corner of the beach covered by bushes, furiously pumping his cock in hopes this time it would fucking stay down, but after cumming from the 4th time that night, he knew it would take loooonger as his awfully sensitive dick, red and sticky from sweat, cum and saliva combined from the previous sessions coated it, found a way to stay rock hard. he'll make you pay for it eventually. as for the latter, he likes to just talk to you and chill with more privacy in a way that allows him to be super casual, unlike some fancy dinner, and also so it doesn't require you guys to take much attention off each other, so a picnic in which everything is already laid out for you or at a beach in which the activities truly just come down to chilling in the water or the sand is perfect to him. you soon come to learn that toji is quite a fan of the treat between your thighs, as after you're done telling him all the stories you'll quickly forget left your mind at all after you've been sitting on his face for god knows how long about to cum for the nth time, rocking your hips, arching your back, eyes rolled all the way with tear-stained cheeks, and yet still finding energy to fuck his face, he did tell himself he'd make you pay after all, it's your fault he's been losing so much sleep lately! to top it all off, what's a picnic without a meal for two? 69 sure is a staple of your picnic menu, though for having his dick so far down your throat you still quite have an appetite after it all, but don't worry! you could have a sandwich, some fruits, or toji filling you up again, and again, and again
loveisland!toji who's cutscenes with you are actually adorable. you already act so used to each other, your dynamic so pacific, synergy unmatched, as if you were truly made for him, to the point where no other pairing truly makes sense compared to the two of you. such mundane things such as him massaging you, playing with your hair as he listens to you speak, your lack of reaction when he smacks your ass or just has his random bursts of separation anxiety and starts to put his hands all over you quickly let everyone in both the audience and villa altogether know that you're forever
loveisland!toji who has been a cheat, a bum, a lowlife, a scammer, but none of those really even begin to compare to the lover you've made out of him. sure, he can break noses, lose money in the blink of an eye, and even somehow manage to fix all those messes, and yet he has never felt the need, nor the want to reach his full potential, as he felt as though he was undeserving of proper happiness. of peace, love, a safe place. but the second he sat down by you at the beach one night and felt so seen, so accepted by you, he discovered a want deep rooted in his soul, one that had been dormant all his life and yet awoken by your embrace, full of the love and peace he had searched for so long, and the moment he realized that, he knew he'd have one last, fulfilling feat: to steal your heart
turnnoffyourmind
blakekathryn
germansingergirl
areudirty
