odd request but can u write smth where reader loses a bet with bf!riki and her punishment is to walk around the house naked for a week. the entire thing is just riki being a perv and her trying to keep up with his insane sex drive
"You have to walk around the house naked for a week."
The words echoed through your mind as Riki sunk his last ball. It was supposed to be a quick win, you were usually good at 8-ball. But for some reason, you were more focused on what would happen if you lost rather than if you won.
You accepted on an impulse because you truly believed it wouldn't be that bad. You realized now that you should've bargained with him.
"Mmm," Riki hummed, coming around the table to tower above you from behind. "Look at that, baby."
Your cheeks grew hotter. "Riki, what if—"
"Ah ah ah," Your boyfriend tsked, a smirk ghosting his lips. "A bet is a bet."
"Best of three?" You tried, eyes pleading.
To your surprise, Riki nodded. "M'kay, but the consequences raise if we do."
You nodded furiously, waving him off. "Yes, yes, of course. Blah, blah, blah. New round!" But for some reason, you felt something deep in your stomach curl at the thought of being so exposed to him.
And when he won the second game with ease, he didn't boast about it. He simply reached out his hand and curled his fingers around your slightly shaky ones.
"Don't worry, baby," He cooed. "It'll be fun."
But you knew Riki too well to trust him like that. You knew he had probably been fantasizing about this, and that he'd make the absolute most of this week.
And he did.
You weren't oblivious to how crazy riki's sex drive could get, how far he could push you. You just didn't realize he could get this desperate for it, that he couldn't suppress his lustful thoughts.
On the morning of the first day, when you were still half asleep and putting together a bagel and eggs, you felt Riki creep behind you.
"Morning," He mumbled, as if he had just woken up. "Excited?"
You turned around to find him closing in on you, and you frowned slightly. "I still don't understand why you chose this," You tried to bluff. "You see me naked anyway—"
But the words in your throat hesitated when his hand dipped from your waist to your hips, then to your thighs. Your body betrayed you quicker than you thought you'd last, heat pooling at your core.
"I mean," Riki's eyes flickered over your bare figure, his fingers drawing light circles on your inner thighs. "Two weeks paid vacation, no? Could've been for longer."
Your eyes narrowed, preparing some retort you hadn't fully thought about, until two of Riki's fingers abruptly entered you.
"Fuck, baby, you're so tight around my fingers and I haven't even moved yet." Riki taunted, free hand trailing up to support your back.
It took everything in you not to gasp at the feeling of being filled, throwing your head back and gripping the counter.
"Oh?" He said sardonically, curling his fingers to get a sound out of you. "Why so quiet?"
As riki pushed him fingers deeper into you, a small part of you wanted to tell him off. But your body responded before your mind did, and a whimper fell from your lips.
Through hooded eyes, you saw Riki's expression shift to something darker. Without warning, he set a brutal pace, fingers plunging in and out of you mercilessly.
The more he moved, the deeper he was, forcing stifled moans to fall from your lips.
Riki hummed in approval. "Just like that baby, let me hear you."
"Riki..." You whimpered, your voice breathy. "Please..."
"Hmm?" He teased. "Please what? Use your words, angel."
You felt humiliated being fully naked while he was dressed, even if it was just a t-shirt and sweats.
You cried out. "Please fuck me."
Riki didn't waste a second after the words left your mouth. Twisting your body around so your back moulded into his chest. He pulled his shorts and boxers off in one shift movement, lining himself with your hole.
His hand found your stomach, and he bottomed out without another thought. His back arched at the stretch being much bigger than his fingers, your head tilting back to rest on his shoulder.
"Fuck," He breathed out. "You feel so good clenching around me, baby."
Riki let you adjust before he moved slowly to transition from pain to pleasure; once your winces became desperate whines, his thrusts relentless. He fucked you like he hadn't in weeks, like there was no tomorrow. Hand rubbing your stomach where his cock bulged, the feeling was nothing short of euphoric.
His force had you nearing your edge quickly. "Riki, I can't— please, I need to—"
Riki's eyes lit up, powered by your approaching high. "What, hmm? Tell me. Tell me what you need."
"I need to cum, please—" You tried to say. The pleasure was too much, but Riki's pace never faltered.
"Go on," He encouraged you, fingers finding your clit to rub tight circles. "Cum for me like a good girl."
His words had your orgasm crashing over you, letting out a hoarse scream from the overstimulation. Riki fucked you through it, thrusts more frantic than before, chasing his own high.
Your moans harmonized with Riki's, mixed with the sound of skin against skin and your dripping cunt; the two of you were lost in pleasure.
His fingers twisted around your neck to plunge two fingers into your mouth, stifling your moans as you begged for more.
You felt yourself clench around Riki against when he whispered, "Yn, I'm gonna cum, fuck—"
He tipped his head back as he finally bottomed out, spilling inside you. The only sounds left were raspy gasps and the subtle squelching of you bodies together. Riki pulled out slowly as to not hurt you, and carefully place your worn out frame on the counter.
He then leaned in and kissed you deeply, a sensual practice that felt completely different from his desperate attitude a few moments ago.
He savoured you like a starved man who thought that if he stopped kissing you, you'd disappear right in front of him.
In that moment, with you sitting on the counter and Riki's kisses trailing down your neck, you knew you had misinterpreted how this week would really go.
The rest of the week was carried out the same.
You spent all day fully unclothed, and most of the time, you were trying to keep up with Riki.
It was harder because he made it so obvious. He'd smirk when you stepped out of the bathroom after a shower with nothing on, chuckle softly at the sight of you eating dinner with your breasts on full display.
And he'd touch and tease you all the time. Spanking you or grasping your thighs from behind. It was as if he could not go a few hours without touching you. Like you were his oxygen.
Some days, like today, he only wanted your mouth. Whether it was on his mouth or on his cock.
It was evening, after you had cooked dinner with Riki's palm hitting your ass all while you cut vegetables, and you had tucked yourself underneath the sheets reading a book.
A tiny part of you believed maybe he wouldn't desire anything else, but then his voice rang through your apartment. "Yn."
You froze. It was loud enough to be firm and demanding, but not enough to scare you. enough to keep your heart rate up, excited.
"Come here." He added with no urgency, as though he had all the time in the world.
As you approached him in the living room, his eyes scanned your body as usual. "I was going to say strip," He jeered. "But it seems you've already done that."
What Riki was undeniably good at was staring. But staring in a way that made you feel wanted and pathetic at the same time. You had never noticed until now, but he was more of a freak than you'd ever sought him out to be.
You felt your knees slightly tremble already as he stood, stalking towards you like a predator circling prey. He stopped just in front of you, hand lifting to caress your hair.
You opened your mouth, but he shushed you by pushing your head down and forcing you onto your knees. "Oh were you going to say something?" He urged jokingly. "Or were you just opening your mouth to take my dick?"
You swallowed, and Riki noticed. Of course he did. "That eager, hm?" You couldn't help but nod.
"Such a hungry cockslut, yeah?" His pants now his ankles, throbbing length level with your face. Although you've given him head before this, it was always a shock just how big he really was. "I'll give you what you want, baby, don't worry."
Riki took his dick in his hand, stroking it a couple of times before bringing it closer to your face. "Open up, angel."
As soon as your mouth was wide enough, his hand snaked around to fist your hair, shoving his dick inside. He groaned loudly at the warm sensation, throwing his head back. "Fuck, yes. You feel so good."
His grip on your hair tightened as he angled your head so you could take him deeper. "You like that?" he smirked, thrusting in and out and producing wet, sloppy sounds. "You like choking around my cock?"
You managed a weak nod, tongue swirling around him, a motion that elicited another deep moan.
"Yeah..." Riki nodded, slowing his thrusts. "You think you can deep-throat for me, baby?"
Your eyes found his, feeling confident in yourself. You bobbed your head as a yes.
"You let me know if it's too much, mhm?" Riki's free hand stroked your cheek softly, thumb moving in a comforting pattern.
Your eyes teared up as he pushed in again and held you there. His groans turned to pants as the head hit the back of your throat. The loss of air made you choke around him, Riki's thumb still drawing circles on your skin.
Just when your eyes began tearing up, he pulled out, leaving you gasping for air.
"That was so hot, Yn," Heavy-lidded eyes stared you down. "You're so fucking hot, baby."
The praise went straight to the heat between you legs, your sweetness dripping onto the hardwood floors.
"Hey," Riki commanded, fingers lightly gripping your drooling chin. "I still need to finish. Will you let me cum down your throat, and swallow it all like the good girl you are?" It wasn't meant to be a question.
"Yes." You breathed before opening wide and sticking your tongue out.
Riki's response had you in the same position as before, except now he insisted you kept eye contact with him the whole time. "Look at me, mhm. God, you're so gorgeous."
You moaned at the praise, sending vibrations over his cock. That broke whatever restraint he had left, giving you his all.
"I'll cum down your throat, you want that? Yeah, of course you do." Everything he asked was rhetorical, not even giving you an ounce of control as he powered into you.
And when he released inside you, milking every last salty drop of his cum into your mouth, your mind felt fuzzy. "Swallow it all." He ordered. "Good girl."
Other days, he just craved pussy.
"Lay down for me," He said to you after lunch one day, because truthfully, everything you guys did during these days had warped your sense of time into a mindless, addicting paradise of sex.
You complied, but you finally gathered the courage to tell him. "Riki, what if for today, we just took it easy—"
You didn't know when he had settled between your legs, but he tongue darted out to taste your wetness. "What was that?" he mumbled against your core, vibrations travelling up your spine and rendering you speechless. "You want to what? Take it easy?"
The words fell out of your mouth before you could register them. "I feel like we've just been going at it for—"
"Do you know what you do to me?"
You froze, head snapping to see Riki still licking at your entrance.
"Do you know," He repeated, eyes heavy with lust only. "What you do to me?"
You gulped.
"It's already so hard to restrain myself when you walk around wearing skimpy shorts and a tank top. Those nipples, baby. You have me fisting my cock just thinking about it." Riki confessed, giving your clit devastating open-mouthed kisses.
His hand reached up to squeeze your boob, a pathetic moan escaping you.
"You're such a slut for that, y'know," He admitted, sucking hard on your bud. "But you're my slut, aren't you?"
It was an impossible challenge, all of it. You countlessly cursed yourself for putting you in this situation, shushing the louder voice inside you that told you it's all you've ever wanted. The voice that insisted you crave this, that you've been waiting for it.
"I didn't— I thought—" You protested weakly.
"You thought what? Didn't know what you were doing to me?" He said, strokes speeding up, lapping at your cunt like a thirsty dog.
"This also serves as a lesson, baby," He warned, two digits sinking into you with easily. "This is how fucking crazy you make me. This is what I dream of doing to you all the time."
Riki's fingers moved at a wicked tempo now, eliciting a string of moans and whimpers from your throat. His tongue still stimulating your clit, you felt your climax growing.
And then it all stopped.
Riki withdrew his hand and his mouth, lifting himself so he was towering over you at a sinister angle.
You whined at the feeling of being empty and your impending high leaving you sensitive.
"You want it bad?" Riki tested.
Glassy eyes looked up at him as you croaked out, "Yes, yes! Riki please..."
An unreadable expression shadowed his features, before,
"Then beg for it."
You tried blinking the tears away.
"Please, riki. Please let me cum. I'll come all over your face, I really— I need it please—"
Malice was the only thing that escaped his gaze. "Say it again."
"I need you to let me cum—"
Riki dove back into your heat at the sound of the first syllables, eating you out almost urgently. "You taste so fucking sweet— like candy, fuck—"
Very soon, your orgasm was nearing. "Riki, I'm so— I'm so close, baby—" You blabbered, back arching when his fingers curled into your g-spot just right.
"You gonna come for me?" Your boyfriend muttered, increasing pace. "Gonna come all over my face for me?"
"Yes!" you panted, seeing stars sparkling above your head. "Please, yes!"
"Give it to me, baby." When the words left his lips, the stretching thread snapped. Wou screamed loud enough for the neighbors to hear— something you didn't care about in the slightest.
Your orgasm washed over you for what felt like an eternity, and beneath you, Riki treated it like it was his last meal, tongue-fucking you through it. Life had never felt sweeter than that moment.
He slowly raised his head as you came down from your high, just as breathless as you were.
Riki left you for a moment to catch your breath, and you barely registered any background noises like the sound of running water in the bathroom. When he returned, he knelt in front of you to press a warm towel between your legs. You flinched slightly, catching Riki's attention.
"You did so well this week, baby," He praised, cleaning you up. "Thank you, angel. You were so good for me..."
You laid limp on your bed as he crawled over you, easing you onto your side. "You're so perfect, angel," he cooed, pulling you close to his chest so that his chin rested on your head. "So amazing, all mine..."
He drew circles on your lower back, careful not to trigger any sensitive nerves.
"I love you so much." You whispered with the last amount of force you had. And you meant it. You meant every single word.
Riki kissed you softly. "I love you, too."
You felt yourself drift off, the only constant being Riki's soft praises and affirmations. And you realized, right then, that there's nothing else you could have wanted more than these moments. Moments of trust, of passion, and of pure bliss.
in which ° a song starts playing and suddenly you cant keep your hands off each other?
warnings ° smut (mdni 18+), threesome, eiffel tower position, lowk perv niki, oral (f&m.rec), backshots, two dihh at the same time, swearing, creampie, multiple rounds, unprotected sex, drunk sex, niki is refered to as riki, lmk if theres more !!
taglist ° @ikeuscape @simjaeyunslut open !!
word count ° 1.4k
🫧claudias whisper ° first part is lowk shit but wtf, this may have been in my drafts for too long, likes and reblogs appreciated and like stay cool twin 🤍
The hum of the city drifted through the open window as the three of them crowded onto the sofa, glasses clinking and laughter spilling out between sips of the the cheap vodka you'd been nursing all night.
You felt the heat of Jungwon’s thigh press against yours and Riki’s elbow brush your shoulder, each contact sending a shiver down your spine.
You could smell the citrus of Riki's cologne mingling with the Victoria's Secret perfume you’d sprayed earlier, and the scent of Jungwon’s skin, warm and slightly musky, made your breath hitch.
Your brown hair fell in loose waves, the freshly dyed strands underneath catching the low light whenever you turned your head. While taking a sip, you tucked a strand behind your ear, the movement only drawing more of the boy's attention to your hair.
Jungwon leaned in close enough that his breath tickled your ear. “You look like you’re about to melt,” he murmured, voice low and commanding.
Riki smirked, his hand sliding down to rest on your hip. “We’ve been waiting for you to finally let go,” he said, his tone edged with arousal.
The music drifted through the air, a slow song with lyrics that made you blush- coughing slightly as the first few lines played out.
“Wow-" you pressed your hand to your chest, trying to stop yourself from choking, "that's really something..."
"Something wrong?" Jungwon mumbles, taking another sip of his drink as his other hand drifted toward your hair as he played with the strands.
"No," you shook your head, cheeks flushed as you breathed heavily, "the song just.... is it just me or is it really hot in here?"
"I think its just you, maybe you should strip off so youre cooler," Riki perked up, smirking as his eyes trailed across your body, eyes dark with arousal.
"Don't be a pervert," you shoved him to the side, "Anyways, what i meant was, the song... it just doesn't make sense how anyone could even do that position. I can't picture it... Like the girl is like-" you muttered as you attempted to horribly show what you meant with your hands, "-and the boy is... you know what, nevermind."
"You dont get it?" Riki laughed, his hand sliding toward your thigh to give it a squeeze, "It's not that hard to understand, pretty."
Jungwon’s grin widened, as he nodded eagerly, “We’ll show you how it works.” He gripped your chin, forcing you to meet his gaze.
Riki’s hand tightened on your thigh, his own a burning sensation, sending heat through your body.
"Ha ha, very funny," you muttered sarcastically before looking between the both of them, "youre not joking are you? This is gonna be a long night."
Jungwon grabbed your hand, pullimg you up and guiding you to stand between them. He turned you so you could face Riki, then pressed his chest against your back, his hands sliding up to cup your chest through the thin fabric if your shirt.
Moving inwards, Jungwon undid the buttons of your shirt, pulling it off as Riki did the same to your skirt- leaving you in only your underwear. Only then did they strip off too, standing bare in the apartment.
Riki stepped in front of you, his eyes locking onto yours as he reached up to cup your chin. "Open up for me," he whispered, thumb tracing the edge of your bottom lip as he leaned in close.
You obeyed, opening your nouth for him to kiss you- his tongue dancing with yours as spit dripped down their chins.
All the while Jungwon kept playing with your tits, toying with your nipples as he sucked on the skin of your shoulders and neck.
Breaking the kiss for a breath, Riki whispered against your ear, “Now its time for the fun part."
He guided your head down, fingers gripping the base of his cock, pulling you by the hair towards the thick head.
You stretched your mouth open as wide as you could, taking the length of Riki’s cock deep, feeling the hot skin slide over your tongue as you began to suck, your cheeks hollowing with each eager bob. Riki moaned low, his hips thrusting slightly as he fucked your mouth, his grip on your hair tightening almost painfully.
Meanwhile, Jungwon positioned himself behind you, his cock slick with precum as he rubbed it against your entrance. He didn’t waste time, pushing in with a firm, relentless thrust that filled you completely.
You moaned around Riki’s cock, the vibration sending a shudder through him. Jungwon set a brutal pace, his hips snapping forward, each thrust driving you harder over the edge. The room filled with the wet sounds of sucking, the slap of skin on skin, and their ragged breathing.
“Fuck, you’re so tight,” Jungwon grunted, his voice thick with heat. “Take it all, baby.” He leaned forward, his chest pressing against your back, his mouth finding the nape of your neck, biting and sucking hard enough to leave a mark.
Riki, feeling your throat spasm around him, pulled your head back just enough to look into your eyes. “Look at me while you choke on my cock, angel," he commanded, his thumb rubbing circles on your cheekbone, the blue highlights in his hair catching in the light. You obeyed, your gaze locked onto his, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes.
The intensity built, a coil tightening low in your belly. Jungwon’s thrusts grew more frabtic, his breath hot against your ear. “I’m gonna fill you up,” he growled, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. Riki’s own rhythm faltered as he felt the familiar swell at the base of his cock, his balls tightening.
With a guttural groan, Jungwon came first, his cum spilling deep inside you, hot and thick, lushing you so far over the edge that you came too, liquid spilling around his heavy cock.
You screamed around Riki, the sound muffled, waves of pleasure making your vision blur and your thighs shake.
Riki followed seconds later, his release thick and heavy as he filled your mouth, his cum spilling over your tongue, some dripping down your chin.
You swallowed obediently, the salty taste mixing with the lingering heat of Jungwon’s load still pulsing inside you.
Both men eased back, their chests heaving, sweat glistening on their skin. Riki brushed a stray strand of your hair away from your face, his thumb tracing the shadowy line of your jaw with a quiet tenderness. “You took it so well,” he murmured, voice softer now.
He leaned in slowly, pulling you up and capturing your lips in a gentle kiss, his tongue exploring yours as his hands roamed over your breasts. You moaned into his mouth, the remains of your orgasm still humming through your nerves.
When they finally broke apart, breathing hard, you felt a fresh surge of desire coil tighter than before. You glanced at Jungwon, then at Riki, seeing the same hungry fire reflected in their eyes. “I…" you sighed, dropping back onto the sofa behind you.
"Thats okay, take your time, sweet," Jungwon dropped to his knees in front of you, pressing kisses along your calf and upwards.
You reached down, gripping his chin in your hand as you brushed your thumb against his cheek. Pulling him up, you pressed a sweet kiss to his lips, their tongues moving against each other sloppily.
Riki sat between your legs on the floor, pressung kisses on your thighs, slowly easing upwards until his timgue was buried in your pussy. "So wet for me, my love," he muttered agaisnt your cunt before pushing his tongue inside again.
You whimped into Jungwon's mouth, one hand pushing Riki's head down while the other held Jungwon's hand- squeezing tightly as the pressure built up.
The coil snapped in your lower belly as hot spurts of cum spilled out of you and onto Riki's tongue- who lalped at it furiously.
Riki’s hips stuttered in the air, before ropes of his own cum shot onto the carpet below them.
Riki’s breath hitched, his hips stuttering as he neared release. “Fuck…" he gasped, pulling back to breathe.
"That... was something..." you whispered, panting in the low light of the room.
Riki stood up, attempting to sit beside them, but instead collapsed on top of them, sweat dripping from his body. The music was a low murmur in the background. Jungwon rested his forehead against yours, his breath ragged. “You’re fucking incredible,” he whispered, his voice hoarse from the intensity.
Riki, still catching his breath, trailed his fingers along the red streaks in your hair, his touch possessive. “Again?” he asked, a sly smile dancing across his feautures.
You, eyes half‑lidded, heart pounding, could only nod, the aftermath of the last few rounds spinning through your head as Jungwon pushed his hand between your thighs.
𝄢 it’s not just a wedding night. it’s the night you finally learn what it means to be worshipped, consumed, and completely owned.
pairing: dionysus!yang jungwon x fem reader.
content warnings: greek mythology lore, divine power imbalance, public intimacy/exposure, group teasing & touching, voyeurism, oral sex (f receiving), hand job, face fucking, unprotected sex, creampie, marking, possessiveness, extreme worship, pleasure as devotion, explicit filth & crude detail, soft but intense obsession, all characters are fictional.
note: i genuinely don't like this THAT much but let me empty my drafts real quick.
You were the daughter of Pasiphae and King Minos, born into a palace thick with old curses and heavy shadows. For years you’d been betrothed to Theseus—cold, distant, always looking past you as if you were nothing more than a prize he’d won, something to lock away and forget. With him, you were always second‑guessing yourself, shrinking into corners, desperate for a scrap of affection he never bothered to give.
But then came Jungwon. Dionysus. The god of madness, ecstasy, wine and wild, unbridled pleasure. He had swept into your life like a storm of perfume and fire, and from the very first moment his dark eyes had locked onto yours, you knew: he did not see you as an afterthought. He saw you. Every part of you—your softness, your hunger, the things you’d never dared to say aloud. He promised you the world, and more than that, he promised you safety. With him, you did not have to shrink. You did not have to be good. You just had to be his. And it almost felt foreign — to be accepted simply because of who you are. With no need to prove your worth to someone who takes you for granted. It was scary but you wanted this. You deserved to get your happy ending especially after enduring an almost loveless marriage with a man who cast you aside.
Tonight was your wedding night. The air was thick with jasmine and the sweet, heady scent of fermenting grapes, warm and heavy against your skin. You knew he had something planned—he’d teased you all day, whispering that he had a surprise fit only for his wife —and your belly twisted with equal parts nerves and excitement. You slipped away from the feast, your heart hammering, and followed the winding path toward his private enchanted garden.
When you pushed through the archway draped in ivy, your breath caught. It was a paradise untamed: glowing fireflies drifted through the dark, ancient trees dripped with ripe fruit, and the ground was carpeted in soft, sweet‑smelling grass. But what made your knees go weak was the crowd waiting there—dozens of satyrs, their bodies half‑man half‑goat, eyes burning with wild, greedy heat, and maenads with hair loose and wild, their skin glistening with wine and sweat. They turned as one to look at you, and you felt your cheeks burn, but you did not run. Because at the very center of it all, bathed in golden light, was him.
Jungwon stood tall and devastatingly beautiful, his pale blonde hair shining under the moonlight, eyes dark and heavy, burning right through you. He wore nothing but a crown of tangled vines and ivy, skin glowing warm and golden, every line of his body perfect and strong. He smiled, slow and wicked, and held out a hand, beckoning you closer.
You walked toward him, the crowd parting for you like you were royalty—because you were now. When you stood before him, he stepped even nearer, his body pressing close, one hand sliding low on your waist to pull you flush against him, his other tilting your chin up so you had no choice but to meet his gaze.
“You came,” he murmured, voice low and rich, vibrating deep in your bones, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. “I knew you would. You belong right here, don’t you? Right where everyone can see exactly who you belong to.”
Your breath hitched, your hands resting flat on his firm chest, feeling the steady, strong beat of his heart under your palms. “I’m yours, Jungwon. Always.”
He chuckled, dark and pleased, and let his hand slide down further, past your waist, to squeeze your ass hard enough to make you gasp. “Good. Then show them. Show everyone exactly how well you worship your god.”
He stepped back just enough to give you space, eyes never leaving yours, heavy with lust and pride. You didn’t hesitate. You sank slowly to your knees right there on the soft grass, in front of every single pair of eyes watching you, your dress pooling around you. You looked up at him, and your gaze dropped to what you’d been craving all night: his cock, thick and heavy, already half hard, resting above full, heavy balls, skin smooth and warm, veins already starting to throb.
You reached up, wrapping your hand around him, and he hissed, head tipping back slightly, fingers tangling tight in your hair. “That’s it… take it. Make it yours.”
You leaned in, first running your tongue slow and flat up the length of him, from the base all the way to the tip, tasting the faint, salty sweetness of him, before you wrapped your lips tight around the head and sucked hard. You moaned around him, the vibration making him curse, and you began to bob your head, taking him deeper and deeper every time, your other hand cupping and squeezing his heavy balls, rolling them gently in your palm.
“Fuck—just like that,” he groaned, his grip in your hair tightening, forcing you to take him further, until your nose brushed the soft hair at his base and you could barely breathe. “You take it so well… greedy little thing, swallowing every inch of me like you were made for it.”
You worked him faster, harder, your tongue swirling constantly around the sensitive head, licking every vein, every ridge, until you felt him start to throb violently in your mouth, his hips beginning to jerk shallowly. You didn’t pull away—you sucked harder, hollowing your cheeks, eager for everything he’d give you.
“Gonna fill that pretty mouth up,” he warned, voice rough and broken, and seconds later he was spilling. Hot, thick, sweet cum flooded your mouth, endless amounts of it, pouring down your throat, coating your tongue, so much it leaked out the corners of your lips and dripped down your chin onto your chest. He held you firmly in place, not letting you pull back for even a second, forcing you to swallow every drop, spurt after spurt, until he was completely spent, his cock still twitching against your tongue.
When he finally let you go, you pulled back, gasping for air, mouth messy and wet, eyes glazed over. He looked down at you like you were the most precious, perfect thing in existence, and he bent to help you stand, wiping the mess from your face with his thumb, before licking it clean off his own fingers.
“Beautiful,” he whispered against your lips, then pulled you toward the grand throne woven from ivy and roots, draped in soft leopard fur. A panther curled at his feet, watching with golden eyes, as he sat and pulled you down onto his lap. He tilted his head, looking over your simple purple dress, his expression darkening with hunger.
“Too many clothes,” he said simply, and you laughed softly, leaning back to drag the fabric all the way down. You let the fabric slide off your shoulders and pool around your ankles, leaving you in nothing but thin lace. His gaze dropped lower, and you bit your lip, reaching behind you to unclasp your bra. Your breasts spilled out, heavy and soft, nipples hard and sensitive, and you heard low, hungry sounds ripple through the crowd. You bent to slide your panties down your legs, kicking them away, completely bare now, skin hot and prickling under every gaze, your pussy already glistening wet and dripping for him.
He ran his hands over every inch of you, rough and possessive, squeezing your breasts, pinching your nipples, sliding down to part your folds and run his fingers through your slick, making you arch and whimper. “So wet… already ready for anything I give you, aren’t you?”
“Always,” you breathed, rolling your hips against his hand.
He smirked, and nodded toward a tall, broad satyr waiting nearby, his own cock hard and bobbing. "Go on then. Let him make you feel good first. I want to watch you come undone before I even touch you."
To say you were shocked was the least. You didn't think that this would be the outcome but you didn’t mind at all. You didn’t argue. You lay back on the soft grass at the foot of the throne, spreading your legs wide, eyes locked on Jungwon the whole time. The satyr knelt between your thighs, his big rough hands grabbing your hips and pulling you closer, before he buried his face in your pussy. He didn’t hold back—he licked and slurped and sucked like he was starving, dragging his tongue hard up your slit, circling your clit fast and sharp, pushing it deep inside you to lap up every drop.
You cried out, high and whiny, your voice breaking into little shaky sobs, “Ah—oh god, yes—please—don’t stop—feels so good—!” You writhed, thighs shaking around his head, hands fisting tight into the grass, your back arching clean off the ground as pleasure crashed over you again and again, every lick making you louder, more desperate, whining his name over and over like a prayer. He sucked your clit hard into his mouth, pulling and flicking it fast, and you were already teetering right on the edge, breath coming in short, gasping little cries.
Just as you were about to fall apart, another figure knelt beside you—one of the wild maenads, her hands warm and firm as she slid between your legs too, pushing two fingers deep inside your dripping pussy, curling them hard against that soft spot inside while her other hand pinched and twisted your sensitive nipples, rolling them until you were keening, tears pricking your eyes. “Mmm—too much—I’m gonna cum—please—let me cum—!” You babbled, hips bucking wildly, every touch winding you tighter and tighter, right on the very brink of shattering, your whole body trembling, every nerve screaming for release.
But before you could tip over, Jungwon’s voice cut through everything, sharp and commanding, “Enough.”
The satyr and maenad pulled back instantly, bowing low, lips glistening with your slick. “Come here, YN. Now.”
You crawled to him, still dizzy and over‑sensitive, your skin buzzing, pussy throbbing and dripping, and straddled his waist, feeling his thick, hard cock pressing hot and heavy against your belly, pre‑cum glistening on the tip. He gripped your hips tight, fingers digging firm marks into your soft flesh, lifting you up easily, and lowered you down slowly, impaling you on his length in one smooth, deep push, stretching you wide, filling you so completely you felt like he was everywhere at once, splitting you open perfectly.
You gasped loud, nails digging deep into his shoulders, head thrown back, “Ah—Jungwon—so big—feels like you’re splitting me apart—!” You started to move, rolling your hips slow and deep, taking him all the way down to the base, lifting up almost all the way before sinking back down hard, grinding down so you felt every vein, every ridge dragging inside you.
He watched you, eyes dark and drunk on you, his hands never leaving your waist, guiding your rhythm, bouncing you up and down exactly how he wanted, fast and rough, making you take every inch over and over. His hands roamed over your body, squeezing your breasts, pinching your nipples hard enough to make you yelp, slapping your ass hard enough to leave pink, stinging prints.
“Ride me,” he ordered, his own hips bucking up sharply to meet you, driving even deeper, hitting that perfect spot inside you every single time. “Use my cock however you want. Take everything you need from me—scream for me, let everyone hear how good your god makes you feel.”
You went faster, bouncing hard on him, your breasts bouncing wildly, your moans loud and broken, echoing through the garden, shameless and wet, “Yes—yes—fuck—I’m yours—only yours—feels so perfect—gonna cum—gonna cum for you—!” You whined, voice high and tight, every bounce making your legs shake, pleasure coiling so tight in your belly you thought you might burst.
You came then, harder than you ever had before, your walls clamping down tight around him, milking him for everything he was worth, crying out his name over and over, your whole body locking up, shaking through every wave. He roared, holding you locked right down on him, not letting you move an inch, as he spilled inside you, flooding you so full his thick, warm cum leaked out around his cock and ran down your thighs, dripping onto his skin. He didn’t stop right away, pumping slow and deep, pushing every drop as far inside you as he could get it, making sure you carried every part of him.
When he finally let you slow down, he dragged you back against his chest, wrapping his arms tight around you so you couldn’t move, kissing your neck and jaw, his teeth grazing and biting gently at your sensitive skin, marking you as his.
“This is only the beginning,” he promised, low and dark right in your ear, his hand sliding down to cup your pussy, pressing his cum deeper inside you. “Every night, every day—you’re mine to use, mine to pleasure, mine to ruin. And I’m never letting you go.”
𑣲⋆ ⌗ (🚬) You’re the kind of girl who gets peonies for breakfast, so Riki Nishimura would really like to know why you’re buying weed from him.
西村 力 riki nishimura x cheer captain! reader
˗ˏˋ riki as a plug, i promise its not as bad as it sounds, romcom, fluff, crack, profanity, homewrecking but not really, cheating (not really) but not on riki dw, explicit content, smut, oral sex, m receiving, porn with plot, unprotected sex, dom ni-ki, size kink lowk, weed, toxic, mdni !
wc: 20 766
p: d.a.m. - fetty wap ; homewrecker - sombr ; i get lonely - drake ; lowkey - niki (fcking hilarious)
Riki Nishimura was a conformist by all means possible, and even prides himself as a law-abiding citizen to the normalized standards.
He does think some fractions of the government system can totally be tweaked, but he isn’t some reformist that would go out of his way — he actually really likes the stability of society and how it’s structured. He’s comfortable with the status quo.
That includes knowing who to follow on Instagram, who not to approach in the hallway, who to invite in group projects, and who to sit with in lunch. He goes by what makes sense and knows who the hell doesn’t belong in his circle, who rightfully has his phone number, and who can comment on his Instagram posts.
Except when it comes to substances. He’s not a drug addict but he does enjoy good weed.
He did listen during chemistry lectures, which basically means he knows a thing or two about pharmaceutics — at least the important parts like which produce larger surges of dopamine and intense euphoria. So while they get drug orientations every start of the school year and the addition of the entrepreneurial mindset of a businessman his father has passed down to him; Riki’s a fucking a jackpot. He simply believed every structure had blind spots, and if someone was smart enough to notice them, then maybe they deserved to profit a little.
Maybe that made him a hypocrite. He knew that. Sometimes, in the middle of his own judgment, the thought would occur to him that he was not exactly living inside the moral boundaries he pretended to respect.
So with all of these in mind — weed-seller and social scale follower — imagine his surprise seeing a text from you.
You, an A-tier cheer captain with perfect grades and perfect friends and a perfect boyfriend and someone he doubts even has ever touched weed within a 10 feet radius because of how goody-two-shoes and slightly more socially-conformed you are, texted him:
you:
hi
you sell right
The kind of surprise a priest might feel if the Virgin Mary asked to borrow a dildo.
Riki stared at his phone for a full thirty seconds. Not because he was shocked by the question itself — he’d gotten worse, far more incriminating messages from people with nothing to lose – but because of who it was from. Your name sat there, attached to a profile picture he never thought would sit on his chat log. Someone who followed the rules so well she barely seemed to touch the ground and practically flew up the school field with the school banner.
This was not how the structure worked. Nope.
He knew you didn’t look at people like him unless it was to borrow a pen or unwillingly get assigned to a lab partner. You definitely weren’t supposed to be asking him this.
Riki leaned back in his chair and rethought the logistics. He wasn’t paranoid – paranoia implied irrationality. This was risk assessment, you’re high visibility, you’re a liability, you’re a cop in disguise, you’re a prig who’ll ruin his cloak and dagger, you’re holier-than-thou. You’re interesting.
riki:
????
is this a test loll
you:
?
its a question
riki:
u fr????
you:
js tell me if its a no
i have money
riki:
3pm behind the science building
you:
ok thanks
But more than whatever you are, he knows this was stupid. This was the kind of deviation that got people caught and into the most flouting position he’ll ever be, therefore ruining his very wish to stay within a lawful system. It was, unequivocally, a very bad idea.
And yet he finds himself at the back of the building while he reevaluates the measures of bad-ness in the idea. If math really has been on his side along with his really athletic stature, he can run when you pull out as witness to his little dissenter mood. It halts when he sees you rounding the corner in your cheer uniform — ponytail perfect, knee tape slightly crooked, eyes darting like you weren’t sure you belonged back here — he realizes something his knees will give out before he can even try to walk away.
You stop a few feet away from him, awkward, out of place, glowing like a wrong answer circled in red. You stare at him with your arms crossed, hyperaware when his eyes follow the silhouette of your frame like he’s finding a covert surveillance device underneath your pleated skirt.
Riki talks calmly, like this wasn’t insane at all, like he hasn’t been in his head for the past hours: “So,” he starts, hands slipping into the pockets of his hoodie. “What do you need?”
The question should’ve been easy. You’d rehearsed it in your head on the walk here, timed it with your steps, told yourself not to sound like an idiot. But standing this near — near enough to notice the faint, clean smell of cologne and something green and earthy — you blank.
You shift your weight, arms tightening across your chest. “Um. Weed.”
Riki blinks once, and immediately he knows what this is. He studies you the way he did with lab results that didn’t line up with the predictions — or maybe it did exactly, and he can’t believe it was that easy.
“…Okay,” he said. “What kind?”
Your mouth opens. Then closes.
“What kind.” he repeats.
You felt heat crawl up your neck. “Just… normal?” you say, immediately hating yourself. “Like. The kind people use?”
A corner of his mouth twitches before he can stop it. Then he licks the inside of his cheek, shaking his head when he realizes that yeah, his guess is right. “You don’t know what you’re doing.” he says.
You bristle. “So?”
“You don’t even know dosage. Or strain. Or why you want it.” His eyes flick up to yours. “Do you?”
Your confidence wobbles, the polished composure you wore so easily in hallways cracking just a little now. He pulls out a small, neatly labeled bag and holds it between his fingers instead of handing it to you. “This is low THC,” he explains. “Won’t make you freak out. But I need to know what you specifically need so you don’t… panic.”
This was supposed to be transactional, quick, something you could tuck away and forget about. Yet every risky glance you take, he doesn’t look like someone who’d hold anything against you.
Riki sighs, about to put the bag away. “Look, let’s just forget —“
“I just,” you start, then sigh because there’s no cool way to say it. “I don’t know. I had a bad week. I wanted to try something.”
When you finally look up, he’s watching you differently. Not like you’re stupid or embarrassing, though you feel plenty of that on your own. His brows have lifted slightly, the faint amusement in his mouth fading into something quieter as he takes you in properly: your tight grip on your own arms, the way your eyes keep darting away.
And it makes it worse.
You meet his eyes for half a second before looking away with a small huff, embarrassed by the sudden attention.
He puckers his lips slightly, staring at the thing in his hand like he’s thinking. At first, you think he might be deciding if you’re worth the trouble, but then he nods once. “Okay,” he says. “So you’re not becoming a stoner. You’re just trying a new cuisine.”
You blink at him, then laugh under your breath before you can stop yourself.
His mouth twitches, but hides it. He steps closer, just enough that you can see the smoothness of his skin, like he owns expensive skincare. He’s very tall, in a way that surprises you maybe because you’d just never stood this close before.
Really, you never spent time looking at Riki Nishimura. You’ve known the name, because who can ever look past the opulent sound of it, but to know the man behind it didn’t matter. After texting him, you don’t know what you expected either, maybe someone grubbier and smelled like smoke, someone with dry lips from all the ash. You thought he’d smell like one of those hippie guys who sold sketchy shit while wearing the same beanie for three years.
But no, he smells like a familiar perfume your father owns in his fragrance wardrobe.
And his clothes are annoyingly nice, like the hoodie is probably more expensive than it looks and the loose pants are intentional, not lazy.
Also, he’s 6’1.
“This,” he taps the bag lightly, “will help you relax. Body high, mostly. You’ll still be functional. But since it’s your first time, better not fuck around too much.”
He’s still standing in front of you, close enough for you to notice the way his lashes lower when he looks at the bag in his hand, and you feel deeply, horribly stupid for only realizing now that he looks like that.
Your gaze lingers, and he catches it. Riki clears his throat, spine straightening a little. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” you say too fast.
He only hums. You tighten your arms across your chest. “Just give me the thing.”
He finally hands you the bag, and you eye it once you feel its weight in your palm; leafy and green and brown and not you — but it doesn’t look so bad right now. It looks enticing, even, which you won’t try to admit out loud.
“Twenty,” he says, not planning to converse himself with the sudden discount.
You dig into your bag, finding for the vintage pink wallet that screams the contrast of cannabis in your palm right now. “You know,” you say, hesitant but honest, “I don’t know. It’s weird how we’ve never talked before.”
That gets him. He chuckles even if there’s nothing funny about what you said, but there is something humorous about the fact he remembers shit you obviously forgot. He’s quick to question the lack of indifference, because he remembers it well that this is definitely not the first time you two talked.
“We were partners in freshman year,” Riki says.
He watches your face blank in real time, and something about it makes his mouth lift again, but not kindly enough to be mean. More like he expected it and still finds it a little funny that you are proving him right.
“English lit,” he adds. “The mythology presentation.”
For a second, he looks at you like someone who’s always known you, and you look at him like you’re seeing him for the first time. He sees it flash in your eyes, that maybe you remember him more than just some guy who sells weed to irresponsible decision-makers.
“Oh,” you say.
Riki nods once, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Oh.”
Until your phone buzzes to drag you back from this little bubble you’re in – your boyfriend’s name lights up the screen and Riki notices it too.
“Oh,” you say again, clearly out of your own head. “I — sorry.”
Something shifts, like the structure rebuilds and reasserts itself back into proper footing. You pull the bills from your wallet and press them into his hand. “Thanks,” you say. “For, um. The stuff.”
He closes his fist around the money, nods once. “Yeah.”
You hesitate like you might say something else, so you just tuck the bag away and step back. “I’ll go,” you say.
You turn the corner first. Riki exhales only when you’re out of sight, and chews on his bottom lip before hitting the side of his fist against the wall without real effort. He turns the other corner, parting from the rendezvous kept between eng lit and discounts.
The thing is, Riki knows you before whatever you are now. Miss Perfect who buys weed from Mister Lowkey Weed Seller — it’s a whole tangle in his brain in which he can’t exactly comprehend, but while he smokes a joint and music blasts through the speakers from the house party he’s dragged into, your picture’s pinned with red strings.
He’s known you since third grade. You’ve been part of the cheer team before puberty, and since then you’ve accumulated likable girls your age into your circle, then the guys from the football team after. It becomes a whole coupling session when the age came right, which Riki is convinced is just some orgy labeled friendship goals in curated Instagram. He thought you were mean mostly because that’s what someone like you would be — but he does know a thing or two about you, other than the assumption of character. You’ve been in the same group projects against your will, sometimes you’d stand next to each other by the queue lines in the cafeteria, sometimes you’d bump against him in the hallway when you’re chasing time.
Is it weird he kept tabs? Maybe.
He always noticed, obviously, why wouldn’t he? You are not exactly unnoticeable. You’re nicer than your friends, you say sorry when you accidentally bump into someone, you say thanks to the staff, you say good morning to strangers, you’re pretty, you’re talented, you’re smart, you laugh at his jokes, you bought weed from him, you’re pretty, you’re perfect, you’re funny, you’re ridiculously pretty —
Riki takes another puff, too fast and too harsh, earning a rough cough from his throat. Heeseung chuckles, giving him an aggressive pat on the back when he leans his elbows against his knees. “Geez, first time?”
Riki shoves his arm away with a laugh, unsure where this is coming from. Because on top of every other noticeable trait you have, you have a boyfriend. So. Yeah. He knows better than to think about you.
He sinks deeper into someone else’s couch — leather, cracked at the seams — while the bass rattles the walls and bodies blur together in the dim lights. Smoke hangs thick in the air, clinging to his clothes, his hair, his thoughts. He takes another drag, slower this time, lets it sit in his lungs until the noise dulls around the edges.
Across from him, someone’s laughing too loud, then a couple is making out like it’s an Olympic sport. Heeseung steals the joint from his fingers and flicks the ash into an empty cup.
“You look fucked,” Heeseung says.
“I’m not,” Riki replies automatically.
“Mhm.”
Riki pushes himself up from the couch, suddenly restless. He just wants a drink — something cold, something that doesn’t make his head spiral because even the thought of weed pulls him back to this cheerleader. So he goes to the kitchen, instinctively saying half-assed sorry’s to strangers without meaning them.
Until he bumps into someone.
For half a second, he genuinely wonders if the side effects are finally catching up to him, because his head feels several feet away from his eyes and the kitchen lights look more hazy than they should.
But it’s you, he knows that because your kind voice apologizes; the way you always do, the way your friends don’t. Your shoulder knocks into his chest and you’re already stepping back, eyes wide a fraction of a second when you look up. Riki freezes too, unsure what to do with his hands or his feet or where to look without threading too close to the sternum your lowcut top exposes. Up close, under dim kitchen lights instead of school hallways, you look unreal — hair loose, lips parted like you’ve been laughing.
“Riki,” you say, breathless, like his name slipped out before your brain could catch it.
His name on your mouth does something stupid to him.
“Hey,” he says, too softly. He’s just thankful you don’t notice the slight roughness of it.
You smile, small and polite — but there’s something else underneath it now. Recognition that shouldn’t exist, not in the structure where you’re meant to forget that you know; one where he looks up at you from beneath your echelon, now he’s standing close enough that you have to tilt your chin to look up at him.
“I didn’t know you’d be here,” you say.
He huffs a quiet laugh. “I didn’t either.”
You glance past him, toward the other room, toward where your friends probably are — or your boyfriend. Then back at him, polite in a way he’s sure is because you’re you and not because he’s him.
“I don’t usually see you in… parties,” you say.
He puts both hands in his pant pockets, shoulders loose, eyes on yours like the noise around you doesn’t have enough authority to interrupt.
“You don’t usually look,” he says.
It’s not said rudely, just calm, like he’s stating something obvious enough that both of you should stop pretending around it.
Your fingers tighten around your cup. “That’s not true.”
Riki tilts his head, eyes moving over your face. “Yeah?”
You hate how it sounds coming from him, low and slow and almost amused, like he knows you’re lying before you do. You scoff a quiet laugh, eyes looking away because you can’t keep looking at him.
“I mean, I know you exist.” You look back up at him when you say it, bottom lip catching between your teeth before you can stop yourself.
His eyes drop for half a second, then he smirks and looks away, tongue pressing against the inside of his cheek like he’s trying not to say something.
When he looks back, his face is calmer. “Where’s your boyfriend?”
The question is casual enough that it almost sounds harmless. You glance elsewhere instinctively, like you’re going to find him close. “Somewhere.”
“Specific.”
“He’s with his friends.”
Riki just nods, doesn’t wanna push, even though he’s pretty sure you don’t actually know where he is. Leaving is the smarter and normal thing to do. The thing a girl with a boyfriend and a reputation and a phone full of unread messages from her friends would do.
Instead, you stay there. And Riki’s got that tabbed already.
You hesitate, fingers worrying at the rim of your cup. “I, um. I haven’t — used it yet.”
Riki blinks. “The stuff?”
You nod, cheeks warming. “I just… don’t really know how.” It’s weird being this honest with someone you barely know, yet your bones don’t buzz with the prompt demand to pause. It must be the slight slosh, it’s the only real thing to excuse why you’re not pulling away.
For a second, he just looks at you. Then his mouth curves, slow and amused. “You bought weed without knowing how to use it?”
Your face warms, but you try not to look embarrassed. “Okay, well.” You lift your cup a little, like that somehow helps your argument. “You can teach me.”
Riki grimaces immediately, playful but clear. “Sounds like a bad idea.”
You blink. “Wow. Rude." You huff, looking away, but you’re smiling a little because he doesn’t sound scared of you. Or impressed by you. Or desperate to keep you there. He just sounds like he already knows better and hates that he has to be the one saying it.
He sighs, looking away for a second. “Fuck, fine.” his jaw clenches. “But not here.”
You try not to smile and fail almost immediately. You take one step back, still looking at him. “I’ll text you. Maybe later?”
Someone calls your name from the other room and you exhale, dragging back through the fracture. The music spikes and someone bumps into you again, closer this time, and Riki’s hand lifts instinctively, hovering over your waist without touching.
Your eyes flick down, then back up to his. “Nice seeing you,” you say finally, voice softer now.
“Yeah,” he says. “You too.”
You step around him, brushing past just close enough that he catches your scent — which is bad, because now he’ll have to remember that too. When you disappear back into the crowd, Riki stays rooted in place for a beat too long.
He exhales, rubs a hand over his face, and laughs quietly to himself.
He really, really knows better.
Which somehow makes it worse.
Riki glances back to see you’re sitting on the couch now, legs tucked in, your boyfriend’s arm slung easily around your shoulders. He leans in and presses a quick kiss to your cheek, which makes you smile and ease back into him. Riki turns away to open the fridge and grabs the coldest beer he can find. He lifts it and downs it in one go, throat burning at the coldness and bitter taste.
He shouldn’t do this.
He really shouldn’t.
Later, in that strange lull when the party has gotten worse and louder — you text him.
You:
bathroom upstairs
The bathroom is cramped and clean but gross in concept: flickering light, foggy mirror, the smell of cheap air freshener. You’re perched on the edge of the sink when he slips inside and locks the door behind him, eyes bright, a little nervous, because being in a bathroom with you feels worse than any sketchy deal he’s made.
“Okay,” you whisper, like you’re conspiring. “So. Teach me.”
He winces, glancing around. “This is… not ideal.”
You just grin. He laughs despite himself and sets the weed down on the closed toilet lid, grimacing when he starts rolling paper against it. Once he’s done, he holds the roll up to your mouth and he tells you to lick it. You follow through, leaning down and sticking your tongue out to lick the side. He clears his throat, trying not to think about the way you looked doing that, trying not to imagine anything else.
He’s careful, not clinical or a lecture when he instructs, just calm and reassuring like he’s trying to keep you comfortable more than correct. When he hands the final roll to you, your fingers shake a little as you take it.
“Like this?” you ask.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “Slow.”
You cough immediately after trying, sharp and sudden, bending forward with a surprised laugh. “Oh my god — why does it — ”
“Hey,” he says, too fast, stepping closer, hand hovering at your back. “You okay?”
You wave him off, still laughing, eyes watering. “I’m fine, I’m fine.”
He watches you like you might disappear if he looks away. You’re laughing, which isn’t comforting Riki even in the slightest because the last thing he needs is to not be a conformist and end up in jail for accidentally supporting your homicide.
You try again, better this time. You still cough, laugh, cough again, but way more manageable as time goes by.
“Sorry,” you say, breathless.
“Don’t apologize,” he says. “You’re doing fine.”
You keep at it, stubborn in that way of yours, until the coughing eases and something in your shoulders loosens. You lean back against the wall, head tipping gently, eyes half-lidded.
“Oh,” you murmur. “That’s… actually really nice.”
Riki lets out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, a nervous laugh slipping out. He leans back against the wall, hand through his bangs, exposing the skin of his forehead. “Jesus fucking Christ,”
You nod slowly, smiling to yourself. “My brain’s quiet.”
He watches you for a moment: relaxed, unguarded, glowing in this tiny bathroom because you don’t belong here at all, holding a joint Riki himself rolled for you. Really, you never belonged anywhere that tried to put you in a box, and he wasn’t going to make himself an exception to that opening.
He tries thinking about who you really are, beyond what most people would take you as. Though he knows not to fantasize a tale where he saves the damsel from her golden label. He takes you with memory and not assumption: cheer girl, disciplined afternoon drills, academically smart, socially competent, good. But tonight, while you lean against the cracked sink and stand diagonally across him, he sees a side he never thought he’d secretly behold.
Your eyes flick to him. “You’re a good teacher.”
He swallows. “You’re an easy student.”
Riki rolls another one for himself, hands steadier now that you’re settled, and lights it with a quiet flick. The bathroom fills with a softer haze this time, the kind that wraps instead of hits like a downer high school series. He takes a drag, exhales toward the ceiling, letting the room reek with shouldn’ts and endorphine boosters.
You smoke more confidently now, less harsh and rough when you let the smoke run down your throat. Your eyes are a little red, lashes heavier, the sharp edges of you blurred into something warmer and looser, less polished and picture perfect the way your boyfriend would like. Riki thinks — stupidly — that he’s never seen you look better.
You lean your head back against the wall again, staring at the ceiling like it’s just told you a secret. He doesn’t stare, actually. He keeps his eyes narrowed to the broken tile in front of him like he’ll discern the reason it’s cracked (maybe someone opened the door too hard, maybe someone once stood there trying to look normal while his heart acted stupid over a girl, which was especially humiliating when the whole point of being high was to feel less insane). Sometimes he’ll permit himself to glance, but even the very glimpse of your smudged lipstick makes him look away and inhale the fuck outta that weed.
Then, suddenly, with eyes still trained to the dim bathroom light — “I thought you were,” you start, then laugh, a little too loud before clapping a hand over your mouth. “Sorry. I thought you were, like… this weirdo.”
He snorts, shaking his head. “Wow. Honesty hour already?”
“No — ” you groan, waving the joint like you’re conducting an orchestra. “I mean it nicely. You always stayed away from everyone. I figured you were judging us.”
“Us?” he repeats, amused, cocking a brow when he glances at you.
“You know. People like me.” You squint at him, trying to focus. You gesture at yourself ineptly, clearly out of the ordinary intellectual capacity you clench tight, not when rickety makes up for your feet.
He quickly looks away, trying not to smile.
“Loud. Annoying.” you clarify, hand gesturing around.
He tilts his head, considering. “Was I supposed to be friends with people like you?”
You blink, like you’re thinking about what he said and calculating the rationale behind his causes. It was a hit, one that steadies a thought in your brain.
“Is that so bad?”
The question knocks the breath out of him, especially when you look up at him like that, eyes bright and wide. He blinks, and then he laughs, coming out quieter this time, looking away because he can’t keep eye contact with you. “I didn’t think you’d want that.”
“Why not?”
Because there’s a system. Because there’s levels to this shit. Because you have a boyfriend. Because you’re untouchable. Because you’re perfect and he’s whatever this was. Because people like him didn’t get pulled into your orbit unless it was transactional. Like weed exchanges and favors on the toilet.
For now, he shrugs. “Seemed like you already had your people.”
You hum, nodding slowly, then smile. You tap the joint, watching some ash fall to the tiles. “They’re loud.”
He smiles back despite himself. “Yeah. They are.”
The bathroom feels like it’s floating away from the music that pumps loud through the pipes, a constant reminder that there’s more than the stinky bathroom you two share as a secret. It’s risky because it’s merely wood that separates the crypticity of Mary Jane from the Average Joe you two function in individually.
You glance at the joint, then at him. “You’re not weird, by the way.”
“Oh?” he says, eyebrow lifting. He even scoffs, because he (un-admittedly) finds you adorable.
“You’re just… quiet. You keep to yourself, but that doesn’t make you… eccentric.” You grin lopsided, cheeks warm but you ignore that. “You’re nice.”
That one gets him, more than he’d ever admit to anyone. Riki looks over, and for half a second, his gaze slips lower before he forces it back to your face. You’re already looking at him, all soft eyes and honest mouth, like you have no idea what you’re doing to him.
He looks away first, rubbing the side of his jaw like that might help. “You’re high,” he says.
“Maybe,” you confess. “But I mean it.”
He’s been called quiet and nice all his life, but that was never the full truth. He just knew who deserved access to the rest of him, and most people didn’t. It wasn’t personal. He could talk when he wanted to, laugh when something was actually funny, keep a conversation going if he cared enough. He just didn’t feel the need to prove he had thoughts by saying all of them out loud.
Riki takes a drag, exhales slowly, looking over the tiles of the bathroom while he rethinks the decision he’s about to drop. He clears his throat before speaking, “You’re not mean either.”
Your eyes widen a little, gaze recklessly steady at his side profile. “You thought I was?”
“Everyone did,” he says honestly, smiling a little.
You make a face, frowning at him even though he refuses to look at you. “That’s rude.”
He laughs, really laughs this time, head tipping back. When he looks at you again, you’re smiling up at him like you’ve discovered something new and decided to keep it. For a moment, it feels like maybe there was always a version of this where you talked in bathrooms and shared smoke and didn’t belong where people expected you to.
You take another small drag, then suddenly straighten when you decide to take him in. He’s wearing a jacket over his hoodie, simple sweats loose around his hips. Only a few strands of his dark blonde hair graze over his forehead, leading down to the sharp features you only really notice now.
You never thought Riki Nishimura was ugly. Now, you can’t help but think that he’s… kinda hot.
You’re high, you’re just gone. That’s why. It also explains why you nudge closer than you have been before, letting your skirt brush slightly against his pants, thighs grazing slightly against his.
You’re both still smoking — slow now, like the room itself has decided to breathe with you. The bathroom feels even smaller than before, shrinking with every second the music downstairs gets louder but muffled through the wooden door keeping you a secret. Your head feels light, buoyant, like you’re floating a few inches above your body. Maybe it’s the weed. Maybe it’s the half-drinks you’d taken before this. Maybe it’s neither.
He stares at the tile beneath his boot like it holds the secrets of the universe, or like it had the equations for him to understand gravity’s intentions and how it led to him feeling your softness against him.
“Is there something on the floor?” you laugh.
He just huffs, shaking his head because that’s all he can do right now. You’re still leaning back and he’s still standing just a little too close. Your knee brushes his again, accidental but not corrected.
He looks down at you then. The red in your eyes, the crooked smile, the way you’re leaning just a little toward him like gravity’s doing something new. You lean closer because you’re completely zooted and smart-Riki who knows better, leans away and only lets his chest tighten. His eyes drop traitorously down to your lips, and he’s not fast enough to look back up. You notice, of course, which makes you both look away and straighten back on your feet instead of the wall.
Riki clears his throat, smoking the last of his before he rids of it against the sink. “You gotta go?” he asks out of the blue, which makes you frown a little. It wasn’t exactly a statement, but you know when things are implied and telling, so you shove back the nerves and remember that he’s different from you.
You’re not his type of person. He probably likes more chill people who actually know how to roll this shit — not the sheltered ones who’s clueless with THC or terms alike it.
“Yeah. I guess.” you smooth out your clothes even though nothing’s wrong with them.
He realizes what he just did, especially now that you’re not even looking back at him. He tries correcting himself, to backtrack, but the moment you glance back up, he’s silenced. You put your unfinished joint in his hand. “See you.” You say just before unlocking the door, slipping through it, and accidentally slamming it too hard.
Riki reels in from the solitude of the silence, like he’s now just realizing the ruins he broke himself. He sighs in resignation, head falling forward in defeat. “Shit.”
He stares at the thing in his hand, unfinished and yours, half-burnt and still warm.
“Idiot,” he mutters to himself, dragging a hand down his face. He can still feel the ghost of your skirt brushing his leg, the way you didn’t look back because he gave you a reason not to.
But the bathroom still smells like you — sweet perfume tangled with smoke — and the joint is there, remaining as an accusation wrapped in paper. He turns it between his fingers, thumb brushing the spot where your lipstick smudged faintly against the edge.
Riki exhales, then lifts it.
He wraps his lips around it carefully, stupidly aware of the fact that yours were there first. The thought alone makes his chest tighten, heat creeping up his neck and pelvis as he takes a slow drag.
He closes his eyes as he exhales, leaning his head back against the wall, heart thudding too loud for a room this small. For a split second, he imagines you still there — tilted smile, red-rimmed eyes, saying his name like it belongs to you, all while your boyfriend waits in the living room.
He laughs shakily under his breath. It’s so wrong.
After that, you two haven’t really talked for weeks.
That part isn’t weird. You both have lived the majority of your lives settling with the insouciance despite recognition, and one night in a bathroom, smoke and secrets and red eyes, isn’t enough to reroute that kind of muscle memory. Riki tells himself that over and over, like it’s a theorem he’s already proven.
He hasn’t been worried. He still goes to class, still shows up on time, still hands in assignments with some effort. The only difference — although barely worth mentioning — is that he’s been dipping into his stash more often than usual. A little before bed. A little after.
Riki exhales slowly, staring at the ceiling, telling himself — again — that this doesn’t mean anything and it doesn’t have anything to do with the cheer girl he kinda had a moment with in the bathroom.
It’s so fucked, even if you don’t think being his friend is bad, because you’re not meant to be a part of this. He was simply curious that Miss Cheerleader bought weed from him and kinda trusted him way too fast and that wasn’t just some everyday occurrence — that’s the only best psychological explanation why you’re here even when you’re not.
You have a boyfriend. He’s not about to be a homewrecker. Yet it’s not helping.
No talking for weeks, reaching a month even. That says enough. He has to stop.
“Probably about Little Miss Perfect.”
Riki flinches like someone just snapped a rubber band against the back of his neck. He sits up, glaring at Heeseung. “What the fuck,” he blurts. “How do you know that?”
Jake slowly looks up from his laptop, eyes lighting up like he just unlocked a bonus level.
“Oh my god.” Sunghoon’s grin spreads and Heeseung laughs, clapping like he’s won because technically he did, at the mental betting at what keeps Riki Nishimura downing his marijuana greenhouse.
“Ohhh,” Heeseung says, taunting and annoying. “So it is about her.”
Riki blinks. “No.”
“That was the weakest no I’ve ever heard,” Jake says immediately, pointing a finger at Riki. “You’re a guilty man, aren’t you?”
Riki scoffs, scrambling, fingers rubbing against his temple in attempts to cool. “You’re literally insane. Why would it be about her?”
Heeseung shrugs, casual. “I saw you two talking at that party.”
Riki’s stomach drops. “You — what?”
“Relax,” Heeseung says, laughing. “I wasn’t spying. You two just kinda had a freeze frame by the kitchen. Wasn’t so hard to notice.”
Riki opens his mouth, just to close it. Then he runs a hand through his hair with the irritated slant of said illegality stamped in your name. “We were just talking. Nothing happened.” Riki snaps, defensive again, hands up like he’s caught.
Jake squints at him. “Then why are you acting like that?”
Riki looks away. Usually, it’s enough answer to more teasing and mocking, but maybe not this time. Because now, it raises actual questions that regard his very bearing at this monumental association with you — a damn unicorn of a scene snatched out a comedy fantasy movie.
Heeseung asks carefully, “Are you, like, her boy toy or something?”
Riki whips around with the flush of unpredictability and utter shock. “What? No!”
Heeseung grins again, gentler this time. “Okay, not her boy toy. What now?”
Riki exhales, long and slow, falling back supine against the floor with the decency of a man with boundaries and the understanding of someone brilliant to keep himself away. “Nothing. She has a boyfriend. She lives in a different world.”
It’s realistic. He thinks he’ll drag the shit out of his stash to get his mind off this, because Riki Nishimura was a conformist by all means.
You’re where you’re supposed to be.
You laugh at the jokes while dawdling down the hallway with girls you actually consider your friends, your boyfriend’s arm heavy around your shoulders like it belongs there. You learned how to roll your own joints now, practiced with irritated little shrieks until it stopped being embarrassing, until they came out neat and perfect between your fingers. You don’t need him. You don’t need anyone, actually. Independence always looked good and natural on you.
Then Riki walks past with Heeseung and Jay.
Backpacks slung low, shoes dragging lazily against the floor, laughing about something stupid like someone’s terrible quiz score. Riki’s eyes stay forward like always, keeping his business private from everyone. Especially from you.
You don’t acknowledge each other beyond the bare minimum of peripheral awareness of two classmates that happen to be in the same class and two planets in the same orbit. Your boyfriend tightens his arm around you, leaning down to murmur something about lunch plans. You nod, glossed lips wrapped around a lollipop, sugar sweet and cherry-flavored on your tongue. You should be listening, you’re sure you are, until he passes.
Your eyes follow Riki — not openly, just enough to catch the back of his neck, the familiar slope of his shoulders, the same boy who leaned against a bathroom wall while you were high and laughing too much, knees brushing his because the room was small and neither of you moved away.
The lollipop slides down your tongue: all artificial sugar because the substance stays at home in the back of your secret drawer, while some of it just passed you down the hallway.
“I’ll catch up,” you say lightly, lifting your boyfriend’s arm off your shoulders. “I forgot something.”
You slip away before anyone can think too hard about it, weaving through the hallway with your lollipop still between your lips. You keep enough distance to make it look accidental, watching as Heeseung and Jay split off with quick fist bumps and loud voices. Riki keeps walking and pushes open the door to an empty lecture hall before disappearing inside.
You stop outside, remembering that this is probably the part where you’re supposed to turn around. Where the perfect, reasonable version of you remembers her boyfriend, her friends, her place in the hallway. Where the status quo reaches for your wrist and pulls you back into line.
Well, you push the door open.
Riki is near the front row, one hand still on the strap of his bag when he looks up from his seat, legs spread wide, thumbs midway to scroll through his phone. His eyes widen slightly, posture going still like he did not think you’d actually follow him.
For some reason, it thrills you. Because now he’s looking at you.
You pull the lollipop from your mouth, twirling the stick between your fingers as the door clicks shut behind you. “Hey.”
His eyes flick briefly to the door behind you. “You lost?”
This isn’t a bathroom of some random houseparty. There’s no smoke, no music, no excuse, just you, Riki, and an empty lecture hall in the middle of the school day — which means you came here on purpose.
“You should roll a joint for me again,” you say, like it’s so simple. “One of these nights.”
Riki blinks once. Then he huffs out a soft laugh, shaking his head. “What, you haven’t learned since last time?”
You step closer anyway, slow and unhurried, allowed to exist wherever you want. He leans back against his seat, still careful and invisibly (but truly) restless. “I did.” you answer, then you smile small and lazy. “You’re just better at it.”
That gets him (because you’ve been knowing what to say to get him). His eyes lift to you, amused now, something low and unreadable settling there which sets you on fire because you have no idea what he’s thinking, not even a little hint.
“Flattery,” he says, then scoffs.
You hum and step closer, close enough that his knee is almost in front of your thigh. Riki leans back in his seat, one arm loose over the desk beside him, phone forgotten in his lap.
“There’s another party this weekend,” you say. “At McKay’s. You and your friends should go.”
He tilts his head. “Should we?”
“I think so.” You shrug. “Good music, large pad, beer games.”
He chuckles, eyes dropping briefly to the floor before meeting yours again. “And you’ll be there.”
“Probably.”
“And you’ll want me to roll one for you.”
You pull the lollipop from your mouth, tapping it lightly against your lower lip as you think. “If you’re offering.”
“I’m not,” he says, but his mouth twitches.
You lean back against the edge of the desk beside him, copying his ease like you have any right to be comfortable around him. From far away, it would look casual, just two classmates talking before class. Except there’s only you standing between him and the empty rows, him sitting back in his seat, looking up at you with that unreadable expression while you try not to smile too much.
He should probably feel insulted that you only do this when nobody can see — maybe he does, if he still believes in self-respect. It’s just hard to stay offended when you’re looking at him like that.
Riki nods once. “I’ll think about it.”
Satisfied, you push off the table and head for the door. “Cool.”
When the door shuts behind you, he thinks about red eyes and smoke, about how your usual crowd will be there, your boyfriend’s arm around you just before you sneak away to Riki’s.
You’re trouble, which makes Riki smile. ‘Cause he knows damn well he’s going to that party.
-
McKay’s house is already vibrating when Riki gets there with Heeseung, Jake, and Sunghoon — bass rattling the windows, someone yelling about cups, someone else yelling back about something incomprehensible. Riki isn’t a frat boy at all, and he doesn’t really go to parties, but the perfume layered on top of alcohol is basically familiar territory.
“This place is a fire hazard,” Jake mutters, stepping over a discarded heel.
Riki scans the room pretending he doesn’t mean to, observing layouts and people, when really he’s actually looking for one specific designer wardrobe of a person.
He doesn’t see you, but he sees your usual crowd scattered around the room, posing with red cups they barely drink from and laughing a little too loud whenever someone points a camera at them. You’re not there, nor is your boyfriend, and that usually speaks for itself already.
Heeseung nudges him, already mischievous with the smile Riki can’t see. “Little Miss Perfect?”
“Fuck off,” Riki replies, flat.
Jake’s halfway to disbelief when he narrows his eyes at Riki. “You’re already staring.”
“She’s not even here,” the former hisses.
“Looking for her, though.” Sunghoon teases, practically grinning widely.
Riki pushes past them. “I’m getting a drink.”
He doesn’t get a drink. He goes through hallways and in between bodies that nudge abruptly into him, half-assed apologies going through one ear and out the other while he properly finds footing again and again. When he gets to the bathroom and finds it locked, he groans and leans back against the wall. For now, he flicks the light on his own joint and smokes away while he waits — for you, for the bathroom, for anything to make him think going here was worth it at all.
Too many girls brush against him, too many of them apologizing with tilted heads and lashes batting. He has no interest in rewarding the performance, not tonight, not when the party is already crawling under his skin, all bass-heavy music, sticky floors, smoke in the air, perfume clinging to his throat, and people packed so tightly he can’t move without touching someone. It’s too much at once; too loud, too hot, too bright, too dark. Then he sees it, and everything in him goes still.
Your boyfriend has another girl pushed against the bedroom wall.
Riki sees this through the crack of the door, just slightly opened enough for him to see how he moves his hand underneath her skirt really fucking aggressively. They’re kissing too, and it’s not at all sweet or even arousing; it’s just straight out gross. He chokes, coughing so rough and loud and forward he has to lunge himself off the wall and straight through the crowd because his first instinct is you.
Your boyfriend is cheating on you.
What the fuck is happening? Why’s your boyfriend fucking a girl like someone who knows nothing about clits? Now, Riki isn’t an expert about pleasing women but he’s watched porn enough to know that Exhibit A over there was straight-up persecution.
He finally spots you near the kitchen, talking to one of your friends with a cup in your hand. He starts toward you, but someone shoves past from behind, and he bumps lightly into your shoulder. You turn, already halfway to apologizing until you see him, your face already changing before you can stop it.
“You came,” you say, eyes flicking around before coming back to him.
He’s kinda out of breath, from the smoke and from hurrying, but he smiles too. “Yeah.”
While you’re still smiling, Riki clears his throat. It’s casual like he’s asking for a lighter, not like he’s abput to derail your night, ‘cause truth be told, he’s not sure he knows how you’ll react to the information. To be honest, he thinks about how it’s only fair — maybe — because he doubts your boyfriend knows you sneak into bathrooms with another guy. And sure, his hand isn’t performing DJ on your pussy, but the shared secrecy of eye contact with loaded tension is much more intimate than whatever the hell that was.
“Uh,” he says, hand rubbing on his jeans. “Can we talk? Like. Somewhere quieter.”
You blink. Then you nod, already stepping closer so he has to lean down to hear you.
“Bathroom or outside?” you ask, half-teasing.
“Outside,” he says easily.
The night is cold enough to make everything feel quieter, like it’s only the two of you standing under someone’s porch light while music leaks through the walls behind you. It’s strange, because you’re not even friends, not really, but the little space between you feels private in a way Riki doesn’t know what to do with. He exhales slowly, like he’s been holding his breath since the second he walked into the house, then leans back against the railing and looks at you standing across from him.
He tries finding the words first, but the way you’re looking at him tightens his chest faster than his brain can work out. Is this karma for your cheating boyfriend? Is he the instrument God has given you to slam notes back to the guy you’re practically cheating on too?
Then Riki clears his throat, casual as hell. “I saw something inside,” he continues, tone still chill but eyes a little sharper now. “Your boyfriend.”
Your smile falters. “What about him?”
“He’s, uh.” Riki taps ash off the joint. “He was fucking a girl. On a wall.”
You stare at him for a while, and he’s half-expecting you to lash out, on him, on the crowd, on your boyfriend, on something.
Instead, you laugh this small, amused breath that slips out of you before you shrug, like he told you your boyfriend spilled punch on his shirt and not that he had just seen him with another girl.
What the fuck is happening?
It feels a lot like you don’t care and that surprises Riki leading him down a rabbit hole of introspection. He was already expecting you to cry and sob or scream in the party about how much of a dick he is, how you trusted him and gave him everything — all things they do when they find out their boyfriends are cheaters.
No, you just, “Wow.” then huff a laugh. “I’m sorry you had to see that.”
He blinks once, watching you carefully while you regather your thoughts as a woman who’s been said something paltry rather than an admission of an affair. To be honest, Riki doesn’t understand, so now he just stands there and looks stunned. And confused. Very confused, actually.
Riki squints at you like he’s trying to solve a trick question. “That’s it?” he asks. “That’s your reaction?”
You shrug, lifting your cup to your lips for a sip. “I mean. It’s been happening. “We’re just sorta together for our parents. They’re friends so… but that’s a story for another night.”
Oh. He never thought fake relationships were a thing.
That makes sense. How come Riki didn’t know? Was he so out of touch from school gossips hat he genuinely didn’t know that you’re actually not the perfect couple he thought you two were? Is that why Heeseung and Jake and Sunghoon didn’t react so badly? Has this been a thing? Oh my God, Riki’s ecstatic and he hasn’t even finished a joint yet.
He lets out a quick, unguarded sound. “Jesus.”
You lean back against the railing across from him, far too relaxed for a revelation that should have ruined someone’s eyeliner. Riki watches you for a second, waiting for the anger, the hurt, the sharp inhale before you turn and storm back inside. But you just stand there, cup in hand, looking more inconvenienced than heartbroken.
That’s when it hits him, slow and weirdly humiliating, that you might not care about the relationship at all.
“But,” you say lightly, “thanks for telling me.”
He blinks, then shakes his head a little. “Yeah.” His voice comes out slower than usual. “No worries.”
You glance at the joint between his fingers, your eyes lingering a second too long on the veins along his hand. “You always this heroic when you’re high?”
“No,” he says, deadpan. “It’s just who I am.”
You laugh, and despite everything, his mouth twitches. He looks back toward the door, half-expecting your boyfriend to come out and make the night complicated. When no one does, he relaxes, shoulders easing, but not completely.
Because this is new information.
Someone inside screams the chorus to a song, and the night’s way too cold for the silence that buzzes. Riki offers the joint without looking at you, just holds it out between two fingers like it’s nothing.
You hesitate for half a second. But you take it.
“You have a car?” you suddenly ask while you take a puff.
Riki blinks once, then lets out a quiet laugh, dragging his thumb along the bridge of his nose. Right, so this is his life now. He sells you weed one time, and somehow he’s standing outside a party while your boyfriend (?) cheats inside and you look mildly bored about it.
It’s stupid. It’s also the most interesting thing that’s happened to him in months.
So he just sighs and slumps back a little. “Yeah. I do.”
“Let’s go,” you say, completely not a question, flicking the finished joint on the pavement and trampling it beneath your heel. “I wanna smoke.”
He lets you trail after him through the side yard like this is already something you do, like he isn’t silently praying no one sees you following him away from the party. Gravel crunches under your shoes, the bass growing duller behind you as you cross the street toward his Supra, parked sleek and dark under the streetlamp. Riki unlocks it without looking back, rounds the hood, and opens the passenger door for you like it’s nothing.
You notice. You just don’t say anything.
Inside, the car actually smells clean and like coffee, for someone you’ve assumed is mad about marijuana and sorts alike (well, again, he’s proven how neat he is just for smelling so fucking good). He slides into the driver’s seat and just sits there for a second before turning the engine on, heater clicking low.
The silence settles, but it doesn’t feel awkward, which Riki finds suspicious. Maybe it’s because you’re not acting like the version of you he’s used to, all neat edges and perfect timing. Now your heels are on the floor of his car, your hair is loose around your face, and you’re curled into the passenger seat of a Supra you’ve never sat in before like your body decided to trust him before your brain could argue. He clears his throat, trying to get rid of the warmth at the back of his neck, but you only glance at him like you don’t notice. The hem of your skirt rides up consequently, and he tries his hardest not to look.
“Thanks. For caring.”
He shrugs, one hand resting loose on the steering wheel. “Didn’t feel right not to tell you.”
“You didn’t have to.”
“Yeah,” he says quietly. “I know.”
The radio flicks on — some pop song bleeding through the speakers. He then pulls out pre-rolled joints from his pockets, which he sheepishly apologizes for hygiene and, well, it’s a bit delated, although you just smile and take one. He lights yours up and you two stay there, settled in his warm seats, dissolving the chill with cannabis down your system like two people who doesn’t give a shit about the system and fucking power dynamics and popularity status.
Again, weird. Hanging out in his car like you’re old buddies who smoke in free time on the usual.
If he told himself a month ago that he would be smoking weed with the team cheer captain, he would have laughed his ass off about inhaling too much narcotics that totally screwed mental frameworks. Yet now, he’s stealing a few glances at you beside him, getting high off his greens, and he doesn’t feel completely off-center about it. It’s the weed obviously, but he feels steady. It’s charged because you’re not talking but your thoughts are everywhere, and even if you protrude the profile of indifference — he knows you care. Then again, what does he know about you, right? You are the odd in the equation, the alternative hypothesis that proves the difference in variables, and talks about the impact on the situation.
Now, conformist Riki Nishimura, who has spent his whole life respecting the ladder, is starting to wonder what happens if he climbs high enough to stand beside someone like you.
He stares through the windshield the second before he speaks. “You’re not what people think you are.”
You blink, caught off guard as you turn to him. “Is that good or bad?”
He huffs. “Depends who’s thinking it.”
You smile a little, your eyes moving over him before you can pretend they didn’t. Riki isn’t brawny in that loud, gym-mirror way, but he’s taller than he should be, broader than he looks from a distance, and unfairly very put together. His throat moves when he breathes in, and you catch yourself watching it for one embarrassing second too long.
You chew on your bottom lip. “And what do you think?”
Riki shifts in his seat, hand fidgeting against the wheel like he’s weighing how honest he’s allowed to be. “I think you’re quieter than your reputation.”
You study him now — the calm posture, the way he never overdoes anything, the way his voice stays even like he’s learned not to tip his hand.
He glances at you, then back ahead. “Makes it easier.”
You look at him for a second too long. “Easier for who?”
“You tell me.”
The car feels smaller and the windows are fogged enough that the streetlamp outside is just a blur of light now, like you’ve been sealed off from everything else. Away from the reality that boxes you two into something that makes sense rather than accepts.
You laugh once, but it comes out softer than planned. “You always psychoanalyze girls in your car?”
“No.”
“Just me?”
His mouth twitches. “You asked.”
You turn your head toward the window, trying to keep your face normal. “You don’t know me that well.”
“I know.”
Riki finally turns to you, one hand still resting loose on the steering wheel. His eyes are a little low, a little unreadable, but not careless — that might be the problem.
“I’m not saying I do,” he says. “I’m saying people don’t either.”
Your fingers fidget with the joint, rolling it carefully between them even though you’re barely paying attention to it anymore. The tip glows faintly, forgotten for a second, and Riki reaches over without thinking to tap the ash into the tray before it can fall on your skirt.
You look down at his hand, then back at him when he hands it to you.
“Don’t you think that’s weird?” you ask. “Like, what kind of girl is cheer captain and smokes weed? Who gets into a fake relationship because of her parents? Doesn’t that sound kind of fucked?”
He looks at you for a moment.
Then he leans back, eyes returning to the windshield. “I sell weed.”
He says it from the driver’s seat of a spotless car that smells like coffee and cologne. It’s stupidly funny, actually, the whole contrast of him that kinda looks like you.
You laugh before you can stop yourself. “That’s different.”
“How?” he snickers.
You open your mouth, then close it again because you don’t actually have a good answer. “I don’t know,” you admit, laughing a little. “It just is.”
He hums like he expected that. Then he glances at you before back through the windshield. “I don’t think you’re weird,” His eyes flick over your face. “I think you’re bored.”
Obviously, that makes you furrow your brows. Obviously, you let him continue speaking.
“Of your boyfriend. Your friends. Your parents already knowing what you’re going to do.” His mouth twitches faintly. “Probably bored at being good at the same shit every day.”
You should probably deny it. It surprises you that you don’t, even though you’ve sworn hatred towards men that think they can assume your personality because of one little circumstance.
“That’s why you’re here, right?” Riki’s eyes drop to your hand, then back to your face.
Your throat tightens.
“With me,” he adds.
He doesn’t smile like he won, he just sits there with one hand loose on the wheel, like he already knows the answer and is kind enough not to make you say it.
The air between you feels worse, like the moment before a storm cracks open into his car, and electrocutes you with a spark you’ve never experienced in your life. Which is eccentric considering you’re not the type of girl who’d be in Riki’s car instead of a party dominated by your friends, getting high off shit that would make your parents pass out.
You scoff and look away, shaking your head like the whole thing is ridiculous. “You talk like you know everything.”
“I just guessed one fucking thing.”
You roll the joint between your fingers again, slower now. “Maybe I just wanted to try something.”
“With me?”
Your eyes cut to him, and you see there’s a slight curve to his mouth, like he heard the shape of your answer before you even made it.
You huff. “You’re so annoying.”
Neither of you moves. Just suspended there, breathing the same warm air, the song on the radio dissolving into background noise, the world narrowed down to inches and intent and maybe weak will and strong urges. The tension’s palpable, solid enough that you could feel it grow between your thighs.
You’re probably one more joint away from being zooted, and Riki knows this of course, which is why he keeps his eyes narrowed across him and not the woman who’s audibly shifting in her seat.
He’s high too — faster than usual — and it makes the moment stretch in this you know kind because he’s thinking bad. He keeps his gaze trained somewhere between the fogged windshield and the blur of your reflection in it, like it’s the only thing keeping him at bay.
For the record — you’re both twenty, obviously adults, even if the world still insists on calling you kids. Which is also the very age people let you experience the paradox of being too grown and too immature for anything consistent, so the underestimation you endure as an adult, smart woman, cheerleader, and a kinda-child — wow you’re in deep detestation for that system.
So you take control of things you can handle.
You’re a conformist, no doubt. Except in areas you loathe men’s freedom in yet expect restraint for women. So… in diminutive ways, you indulge. Like weed. Like running council. Like wearing short skirts. Like Riki Nishimura.
You glance at him sideways, voice light, almost bored. Almost. “So,” you say, like you’re asking about his major or what song’s playing on the radio. “I will ask you something kind of personal.”
Riki exhales a quiet laugh. “You’re already in my car smoking my weed. I think the line’s gone.”
You smile, satisfied, then tilt your head back against the seat.
“Are you a virgin?”
The question hangs there. Unembellished and very dangerous in its simplicity. Also, of course, bold, which makes Riki actually freeze — a half-second pause where even his breathing stutters. Then he scoffs, shaking his head like he can’t believe you just dropped that between the heater hum and the low bass leaking from the house.
He blames the weed, though part of him wishes it isn’t from that.
“You always ask things like that?”
“I’m curious,” you say easily. “And a little high.” you gesture with your thumb and forefinger.
He rubs the back of his neck, eyes flicking to you now despite himself. “Why?” he asks. “Does it change your opinion of me?”
You meet his gaze, unblinking. “I don’t know yet. That’s why I asked.”
He huffs a soft laugh. He admits to embarrassment, even if it doesn’t cover his entire skin with flush and heat, he’s never found himself in this position. But honestly, nothing from the past few weeks has ever been something he prepared for — which he has you to blame, of course.
“Yeah.” he licks the corner of his lips, refusing to meet your eyes while he taps the steering wheel. “I am.”
Your eyebrows lift, impressed but not shocked. “Huh.”
Riki looks over. “Huh?” he mocks.
You bite back a smile and turn toward the window, but the reflection gives you away. “I just didn’t expect that.”
He scoffs, looking back at the windshield. “Why?”
“I don’t know.” You shrug, still smiling a little. “You sell weed. And you drive this car.”
“And?”
“And you look like that.”
For one second, Riki’s fingers still on the steering wheel, and he learns to shut up. He lets out a quiet laugh after, but it sounds different this time, lower and almost embarrassed. “You’re so fucking high,”
That makes him quiet, makes him adjust on his seat. He’s touched a woman before, but no one’s ever sat on his dick, nor has he ever been in anyone. So maybe he’s half a virgin, maybe he’s just a sore loser. He watches you as you move, as you turn in the seat, knees pressing into the leather, facing him fully now. The space changes instantly, the air recalibrating around your movement and maybe even pushing you further toward him.
Riki stiffens — just suddenly very aware, and perhaps a little scared. “Uh,” he says, brows knitting. “What are you doing?”
You tilt your head, resting your hands casually on the seat, perfectly balanced. “Bored, like you said,” you say. “And my boyfriend’s cheating on me. Again.”
He swallows. His gaze drops, then snaps back up to your face, like he’s trying very hard to stay respectful and failing in slow motion because you’re especially gorgeous tonight. “That’s… not a great combo,” he says.
“Not really,” you agree.
You lean in just enough for him to feel it — not touch, not yet. Just close enough that he can smell your gloss, the faint sweetness still clinging to you, and the cannabis that if he warrants himself the scary concept, is his mark on you.
“At least you don’t think I’m boring.”
Riki exhales, a real one this time, like he’s surrendering to the moment instead of fighting it because what can a simple guy like him do, right? His eyes flick to your mouth again — longer now — and when he looks back up, there’s a decision there, from someone who’s tired of conforming.
You close the distance then, slow enough that he could pull away if he wanted to. When he doesn’t, your lips meet in a kiss that’s brief and soft at first. Riki’s hand lifts instinctively, stopping just short of your waist, hovering there like he’s giving you the choice.
When you kiss again, you’re pressing harder, with the very intent to steal the air from his lungs. So that is what happens, you inhale and climb over the console and close your knees around his waist and he’s breathing shakily against your mouth, fighting for the oxygen he’s willingly giving away.
Your cunt presses against the zipper of his jeans, and when you roll, he pulls away like he’s burnt.
“W-wait — this isn’t — we can’t do this.” He shakes his head insistently, looking down your joined thighs while he regains composure.
You frown. “Why not?”
He looks back up at you, eyes wide and glossy from the taste of your cherry gloss and his greens in your mouth. He looks like he can’t handle this. You’re high, he’s high, this isn’t a good idea. You’re perfect, he’s not, this isn’t a good idea. You’re pretty and he sells weed, this isn’t a good idea.
“Because you have a boyfriend.” he says weakly.
You smile, fingers brushing into the hair at his nape. “Not really.”
He stares at you before he laughs, quiet and disbelieving, like the whole situation is so stupid he has no choice but to let it be funny for half a second. You’re in his lap, his car is fogged, your party is across the street, and apparently your boyfriend is more of a family arrangement than an actual person you care about.
“This is so fucked,” he mutters.
Still, he kisses you anyway. His hand finally settles at your waist, firm enough to make your breath catch. His fingers press into your flesh just before he pulls you closer and his hips thrusts up underneath you.
His bulge presses hard against your clothed cunt, and a small whimper slips out his mouth. Your thighs practically clench around him, your core tightening as you rub yourself on him. Beneath the jeans secured around his hips, the start of his v-line peeks, in which you softly graze with your thumb.
“F-fuck,” he whispers, resigned while he lets his head fall back against the headrest.
When you kiss him again this time, it’s slow and languid and licking into his mouth, and your hips start rolling against his while he unconsciously bucks into you. You gasp at the feeling of his growing erection despite the jeans, and you can’t help but feel rushed because it’s been way too long.
His body’s hot and he doesn’t understand why he can’t even talk properly. “Are you okay?” you ask, kissing his cheek. He just nods.
“This is so wrong,” Riki says softly and raspy.
You just smile and kiss him again, feeling how sloppy he’s starting to become when your tongues meet. You set the pace, careful with how you bite and suck, more of a learning curve with what you like best rather than devouring. Riki realizes this and slows down too, relaxing underneath your thighs while his cock remains bulging against you. Your soft fingers slither at the back of his hair, tugging and caressing, while he finds the courage to sneak his tongue into your mouth.
When you pull to breathe, he’s practically panting. “You can touch me.” you whisper.
His gaze practically flicks up to look up at you, silently asking for clarification. You don’t use words, you instead take his wrists and start dragging his hands from your waist to underneath your shirt. His breath hitches at the feeling of your soft skin against his, watching intently as you guide his hands further beneath your cotton top, until his fingers slightly grazes the soft swell of the underside of your breasts.
“Shit.” Riki mutters, his breath unstable when you let go. He looks for your eyes, asking for instructions, except you just smile and lean in to kiss him again with your hands on his jaw.
So he takes it upon himself to move by his own. His fingers grazes the soft skin, careful and learning, testing the underside swell by gently squeezing. After that, he gains confidence, hands going further up until they touch your nipples.
You gasp, pulling away to breathe when he starts gently pinching them, rolling them against the pads of his fingertips. He plays with them for a little while, watching your reactions when you sigh heavy, when your eyes close, when you lean further against his touch. It’s so good, he doesn’t even notice how painfully hard he is when he can feel just how sensitive your nipples are, when he can feel the weight of your breast as he cups them.
After a while, he finally stops, hands gliding down your ribs instead, thumbs still grazing slightly at the curve. Your kissing eases, reduced to pecks and softness. At rest and caress, you giggle and he chuckles, finally reeling in from the moment at how high he feels.
From your taste, your softness, your clothed pussy still pressing against his hard-on.
“You’re good for a virgin.” you say.
At that, Riki huffs and leans his head back against the rest, caressing your waist while he watches your face. You’re very pretty, even when your lipsticks smudged and you’re clearly teasing him, not touching him at all.
He doesn’t mind. He doesn’t think he’ll mind for a long time. “I’m trying to make decent decisions.”
You tilt your head. “And kissing me is one?”
His jaw tightens a little, but he smiles. “It’s a very bad decision.”
“Mm.” You lean closer, but you don’t kiss him this time. “You stopped.”
“Because I don’t want to be your rebound,”
The teasing fades just a little. Your fingers, which had been lazily tracing the back of his neck, slow, and now you look at him too, at the way he’s looking at you like something cliche is about to happen now that he’s tasted something better than marijuana.
“You think I’d use you?” you ask.
He shrugs. “I don’t know.”
You study him for a moment. His nose and ears are still pink, which admittedly does something to you. It makes him look shyer somehow, less untouchable, like all that quiet control has slipped just enough for you to see he’s not as unaffected as he wants to seem.
He looks back at you, thumb moving once at your waist. “Let me take you out.”
You stare at him. “You’re asking me on a date right now? While I’m sitting on you?”
His mouth twitches despite himself. “Not my best timing.”
You laugh, soft and surprised, but he doesn’t laugh with you right away. You lean in again, slower and softer, just lips meeting and staying there, but his breath still hitches. You lets it last for a few seconds before you pull back, still close enough that your noses nearly brush.
“Ask me when we’re not high.”
Then he laughs once, quiet and disbelieving, his hand flexing at your waist. “Fine.”
Riki drives you home that night and you arrive at around 3 am, friends completely unaware of where you are or who you’re with — but you don’t care, even when your phone’s blown out of weird proportion. You laugh when he insists on walking you to your front porch, just to make sure you don’t slip and fall and he wouldn’t lose his favorite weed customer.
“You’re ridiculous, Riki Nishimura.” you shove at his arm weakly.
“And you,” he leans down enough that his nose nudges yours. “are so pretty.”
You laugh harder, admittedly a little flustered the way you never have been before. He tells you to eat something real when you head in, and you mock him for it but he just smiles and nods, agrees with the idea he is so, very stupid and funny for you.
Riki thinks the universe is testing him. Because ever since last night, every single thing reminds him of you.
The cherry gloss taste still ghosting his mouth when he wakes up, the faint perfume lingering on his hoodie, even the stupid heater smell in the car feels different now, like the seats remember the way you climbed over the console and kissed him until his dick ached for you.
“Dude,” Jake says, throwing his duffel bag. “You look like shit.”
Riki drags a hand through his hair. “Thanks.”
Jake doesn’t push it, which Riki appreciates for about three seconds before he sees where the cheer team is practicing. On the other side of the gym court, you’re standing with your friends, ponytail tied high, hands on your hips while you go over counts as the captain. You’re not doing anything special, occasionally laughing at something one of the girls beside you says, but Riki still feels his attention pull toward you like it has no discipline left.
He looks away first.
PE is already starting by the time he reaches their side of the court. He pulls his sleeveless shirt down properly and rolls his shoulders once, mostly because he needs something to do with his body. His hair keeps falling near his eyes, and he can feel sweat gathering at the back of his neck before class has even properly started.
He tells himself not to look. But then he looks.
You’re already looking too.
It only lasts a second. Your eyes meet his, then drop briefly to his arms before you turn back to your friends like nothing happened. Riki presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek and looks at the ball in his hands, suddenly way too aware of himself.
Jake notices, but all he does is glance between the two of you. “Since when do you know her like that?”
Riki bounces the ball once. “I don’t.”
Jake gives him a look. Riki doesn’t look back. “Not like that.”
“Okay.”
The drill starts, and for a while, it’s just run, catch, dribble, pass, move. Riki focuses on the court, on the PE teacher’s whistle, on the ball against his palms. It works for half the time, until your voice cuts across the space, counting with the rest of the cheer team, and he misses a pass by half a second.
“Pay attention,” Jake says, not even laughing.
“I am.”
“You’re really not.”
Later, when the class breaks for water, Riki walks toward the drinking fountain and finds you there already, refilling your bottle. Your friends are a few steps away, talking among themselves, close enough to notice if either of you makes it obvious, far enough that neither of you has to pretend not to see each other.
He stands behind you to wait for his turn, and from afar, it doesn't look scandalous. You take your time refilling your bottle, eyes forward, one hand steadying the plastic under the stream. He keeps his gaze on the wall in front of you, jaw working once, because he knows exactly what you're doing when you lean a little farther than necessary and let the silence stretch.
Your skirt shifts when you bend, showing the backside of your thighs and the slight swell of your ass, and he sighs through his nose like he's deeply disappointed in both of you. Then he looks away completely.
You bite back a smile.
When the bottle finally fills, you straighten and cap it slowly, still not moving right away. He doesn't meet your eyes when you step aside, he just moves in, bends toward the fountain, and presses one hand against the edge for balance.
Then it's your turn to look away. But you don't, not even shamelessly. Because you’re the girl who got things her way and never got scared of the repercussions.
His sleeveless shirt pulls against his shoulders when he leans down, arm tense from holding himself there, the veins along his bicep showing under the gym lights. Water hits his mouth, and you watch the way his hair falls near his eyes, the way his throat moves when he swallows. It's stupid, actually, how normal he's being and how much worse that makes it.
Riki finishes drinking, straightens, and wipes the water from his chin with the back of his hand. Only then does he look at you.
You're still staring. And for a second, neither of you says anything.
His expression barely changes, but something in his eyes does, like he caught you and decided not to make it easy. "What?"
You blink, then lift your bottle a little. "You took forever."
He looks at you, calm, unreadable, except for the faint color rising at the tips of his ears and the slight lift on the corner of his mouth. "You're one to talk."
Your friends laugh at something behind you, and the sound snaps the moment thinner, not enough to break it, but enough to remind you both where you are. You glance over your shoulder, then back at him, only to find he's still watching you. Not obviously, just enough to show that he knows exactly what that night did to you, and worse, exactly what this day is doing too.
And that he’s enjoying the view.
You tuck your bottle against your chest and step back. "Try not to miss another pass."
His mouth curves. "Then don't distract me."
The second he says it, your smile gets bigger, like a shared inside joke between you two now. Then you turn back to your team, and he stays by the fountain for one extra second, pretending the afternoon heat is the reason he can't stop feeling warm. In the locker room, he pretends it’s celibacy that’s making his cock hard again, and not the picture of you bending in front of him, the fat of your ass presenting itself to him so adorably.
In the cafeteria, while pages turn and keyboards clack for an upcoming test for biology, you try your best to stay focused the way you can on the usual. Riki was right about you — you were smarter than what people thought, and the merit beside your name is shocking to a whole lot when it’s pasted on the board.
You think you’re no longer smart. Not when you’re staring at the open reviewer in front of you, color coded with little sticky tabs but you’re still distracted.
You grab your coffee and drink, just to try if that could help with your lost concentration. Something about protein synthesis and cell division. Something about how Riki’s hands looked wrapped around the steering wheel that one night while he called you weird and interesting in the same breath.
This is so inconvenient.
“Babe.”
Your boyfriend slides into the empty chair beside you like he owns the furniture, sunglasses pushed up on his head even though the cafeteria lighting could barely offend a bitch. His hand settles automatically on your thigh beneath the table, casual and familiar, and you almost flinch.
“You disappeared last night,” he says casually.
You lean back in your chair. “I told you I left.”
“Yeah, but where?”
You think briefly about Riki’s car parked under the streetlamp — fogged windows, heated air, cherry gloss smeared on his mouth, plump lips smirking in restraint, hands squeezing you in the right place, keeping you in place.
“I just went home,” you reply smoothly.
Your boyfriend hums, clearly unconvinced, but also has about three seconds of emotional stamina left for the topic, so he lets it go and steals one of your fries instead. “My parents want dinner with you this weekend.” he says instead.
He continues talking about it but you’re staring at the flashcards and reviewers in front of you, imagining what your parents would say if Riki would’ve showed up to a family dinner instead. Maybe he’d appear in different clothes, a white button-up just to sit there and attempt to look polite in ways he isn’t with you — which makes your heart jump a little.
Dinner drags on for three excruciating hours.
Three whole hours of crystal glasses and polished silverware and your boyfriend’s parents discussing investment portfolios. The restaurant is one of those stupidly expensive places where portions are microscopic and every waiter looks vaguely judgmental — you don’t complain, you’re rather very grateful for his parents (sometimes).
You sat there in a pretty dress your mother picked out. Your boyfriend talks over you twice when you try contributing to the conversation, his mother asks about your grades before asking how cheerleading is going, like academics and aesthetics are the only two things remotely interesting about you. At some point, your boyfriend likes another girl’s Instagram story right beside you at the table and everything about the night is just bad.
You just feel tired, especially on the way home.
Tired in the way performances always leave you feeling like you’ve spent hours acting inside a role you got stuck with years ago — because it mostly worked in your favor, until that one time you decided to jump out of your comfort zone and try weed. It’s the worst thing you have done, but it’s the only thing that made you feel good.
Your heels click quietly against the marble floors when you enter your house and you make it halfway upstairs before the pressure behind your eyes finally cracks. Obviously, you don’t sob out of sadness, just frustrated tears slipping down your cheeks while you struggle with the zipper of your dress. “Fuck,” you mutter.
Your makeup’s ruined now; mascara faintly smudged beneath your eyes, lipstick mostly gone except for traces still staining your mouth.
Before you can think too hard about it — which is kind of bad — you open Riki’s contact, and your fingers move faster than your dignity can intervene.
you:
he actually sucks so bad
like genuinely i think talking to drywall has more nuance
You exhale through your nose and laugh weakly at yourself because obviously Riki probably has better things to do than babysit you after 9PM, not when you’re just another weed customer and smoking buddy he had. You toss your phone onto the bed and sit in silence for a second, still in your dress, earrings discarded somewhere.
You try not to think about anything for the minutes you’ve spent staring at the ceiling: not about Riki, or your dumb boyfriend, or your (im)perfect life, or the way Riki kissed you, or the way he looked at you, or the way he thought about you.
Because that's the part that bothers you most. Not the kiss itself, not even the fact that you wanted it, but the way he seemed to actually think about you before touching you. Like you weren't just pretty or convenient or someone people liked because you made sense beside them. Riki looked at you like he was trying to understand you, and somehow that felt more intimate than anything you've ever had.
And maybe that makes you painfully average.
Maybe you’re not special at all, maybe you’re just another girl in the long, embarrassing history of girls who developed feelings for the first boy who looked at them like they were a person. Congratulations, really. Very original and groundbreaking, for being part of the emotionally confused teenage girls.
You turn onto your side and press your face into your pillow, immediately hating yourself for how dramatic that feels.
Until something taps three times against your window.
Your brows furrow immediately because your bedroom is on the second floor and nobody normally knocks on windows like some suburban horror movie, you don’t even try to look because of what could be there. For a second, you genuinely think you’re hallucinating from emotional exhaustion and expensive restaurant food and maybe (you did not do prior research) the possibility of the long term hallucinations of marijuana.
Then it happens again. Three deliberate taps.
You sit up slowly from the edge of your bed, the strap of your dress slipping off one shoulder while your heels remain abandoned somewhere near the door. When you turn to the window, your heart practically falls from your chest when you see Riki standing outside like a fucking delinquent moron. He’s standing on the roof of the first floor near your window, hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, while one hand steadies himself against the frame.
You burst out laughing while fumbling with the lock of your window. Riki’s entire expression softens the second he hears you laugh and that does something unhealthy to him.
Because he drove for twenty minutes thinking about you crying over some guy who doesn’t even look at you properly, wondering if climbing a house at this hour officially qualifies as insanity (he’s never done that before, and it doesn’t sound so conformist right now either). Riki’s usually good at self-restraint, at risk assessment, at understanding what makes sense and what doesn’t.
For the record, this doesn’t make sense. Yet here he is anyway.
“Hi.”
You stare at him in disbelief once you finally open your window. “What the fuck are you doing?” you whisper-yell.
“You sounded sad.”
“Is that supposed to be an answer?”
“What?” he says defensively while climbing inside carefully. “You said your boyfriend sucks. That sounded shitty.”
The second he lands properly inside your room, he looks at you before anything else. He’s used to seeing you fixed with perfect hair, perfect smile, perfect posture, like you just stepped out of a university brochure about good conduct and that the school cheer spirit is something one definitely needs for personal development.
This version of you feels familiar, and traitorously and selfishly, he thinks it’s for him.
Your dress is wrinkled now, your jewelry sits slightly crooked against your skin, your makeup’s smudged enough to expose the eyebags underneath, and your hair’s started falling from whatever expensive style you wore to dinner.
Riki swallows once before he can stop himself. “You were crying?”
Immediately, you look away, a bit embarrassed when you realize what you look like. “Don’t make it weird.”
“I’m not making it weird,” he says quickly, hands lifting instinctively. “I just.”
He cuts himself off because he suddenly realizes he has no idea how to navigate this. Girls usually don’t text him while being miserable and summon him to their bedroom windows like some modern romance movie directed by a bad romcom enthusiast. Nothing is romcom-y about this.
So instead, awkwardly, he holds the backyard vegetation toward you.
“I got you these.”
Flowers. They aren’t roses and lilies, especially not the peonies your boyfriend orders because it looks better in pictures. They’re not anything arranged like the bouquets your boyfriend’s family sends during competitions and birthdays and events where impression matters. They usually screamed ‘I have money’ so I had my manager fix these for you.
Riki brought you wildflowers, which are tiny white, yellow, and purple ones bundled unevenly together like he picked them himself on the side of the road and decided, yeah, these ones are perfect. They’re crooked and asymmetrical and a little pathetic, and it weirdly looks a lot like you.
You take them carefully, looking down at the tiny flowers bundled together with what suspiciously resembles a broccoli rubber band.
“Oh my God,” you laugh quietly. “These are so ugly.”
He looks offended immediately. “Okay, first of all, fuck you.”
You laugh, open and loud. “They’re literally weeds.”
“I mean. Matches us, no?” he argues.
You’re still smiling when you bring them closer to inspect, and he notices your eyes when you admire them because he notices everything when it comes to you now, apparently.
“He made you cry?” he asks quieter this time.
You look up at him, flowers resting against your chest while you slump a little. “Not exactly.”
He raises his brows. “That means yes.”
You sigh, gaze dropping to the petals between your fingers. “He’s just…” You shake your head slowly. “I don’t know. I guess I’m really sick of it.”
Riki stays quiet — not because he doesn’t have thoughts, but because he has too many.
The thing is, he understands that social hierarchy is basically one giant theater production and he’s spent his entire life studying how to survive inside it correctly — he’s admitted to live in it quite comfortably. Which people to talk to, which ones to avoid, what behavior keeps life stable and uncomplicated, who not to sell weed to.
You were supposed to be part of that stable world, the part that he shouldn’t have had any associations with. Instead, you’re now standing barefoot in front of him holding ugly flowers with watery eyes while confiding in him like he’s become something safe. Now he’s giving a girl weeds for flowers, while his own cannabis has become untouched for quite a while now.
You narrow your eyes up at him suddenly, a teasing smile on your lips. “You could’ve used the front door.”
“And say what?” he snorts. “‘Good evening, your daughter texted me so I’m here to comfort her?”
You laugh again and Jesus Christ, he thinks he’d probably climb ten more roofs if it meant hearing that sound a second time.
Which is not good at all.
He looks around your room now, and he finds that is not in the dramatic movie sense where he’s overwhelmed by femininity and candles or whatever bullshit directors think teenage girls do in bedrooms. It’s just your space and that feels undeniably you in a way he’s never gotten access to before — never thought he would, actually. There’s a stack of annotated reviewers on your desk beside skincare products, then a half-folded cheer uniform hangs over your chair. Your bookshelf is organized by color at first glance, but he notices that some books are stuffed sideways and doubled-up like gave up halfway through organizing.
You’re contradiction after contradiction. Which feels fitting considering Riki’s currently inside the bedroom of a girl he once categorized under absolutely not my problem.
This is exactly why social structures exist. To prevent situations like this where a guy who sells weed ends up standing in the bedroom of a girl who looks expensive enough to kill him.
You set the flowers carefully on your vanity like they’re not random plants held together by produce rubber. Riki watches how gentle your hands are, watches the way your dress slips slightly higher on your thigh when you move.
You step closer to him after, eyes peeking through your lashes, and he starts to feel drunk from your perfume. “You really came all the way here because I was sad?” you ask softly.
Riki opens his mouth automatically with something sarcastic prepared because that’s safer, because joking is easier than admitting the truth. But then he looks at you looking at him like he’s become something important frighteningly fast.
Honesty slips out before he can stop it. “Yeah.”
Your eyes soften in a way that completely wrecks him, because nobody’s ever looked at him like this before — like he did something meaningful instead of useful.
You step even closer now until there’s barely space between you. “You’re really bad at being casual,” you murmur.
He huffs a laugh. “You climbed into my lap the first time we kissed.”
“That was different.”
“How?”
“I was high.”
“And what’s your excuse now?”
Your lips twitch and his gaze drops there instinctively.
Big mistake, because now he’s thinking about kissing you again and suddenly being in your bedroom at midnight feels significantly more dangerous than it did when he drove here. Riki clears his throat and looks away first. Usually he’s good at eye contact, good at keeping composure, good at staying levelheaded even when situations become complicated, because he knows emotional regulation keeps things orderly, predictable, and safe.
You are none of those things anymore.
Standing this close to you feels like someone slowly dismantling every sensible thought process he’s ever had and replacing it with bad decisions and pretty girls in wrinkled dresses.
Riki swallows, eyes still not fully on yours. “Do you know what you’re gonna do?”
You sigh, shoulders dropping a little as you look away. “I don’t know.”
Riki nods, though he doesn’t look surprised. “Well,” he says quietly, “you aren’t happy.”
The honesty in his voice catches you off guard, because it isn’t dramatic or possessive or demanding — it’s actually the complete opposite. He says things carefully. Your boyfriend never talks to you carefully.
You study Riki for a second — the slight flush across his cheeks, the hoodie sleeves pushed to his elbows, the fact he literally climbed your house because you sounded sad over text.
Clearly, he’s lost the plot somewhere. He might find it in your room, but why would it be there?
You look at the boy who notices everything about you, who reads you better than anyone ever did. And maybe that’s pathetic, but after a long time of performance and image, you can’t quite find irrationality when something finally sees you so clearly.
You don’t even realize you’re crying again until his expression changes. The tears just spill over quietly, slipping down your cheeks before you can catch them, and for a second, you don’t understand why his eyes drop there with so much concern because you aren’t sad, nor overwhelmingly happy.
His hand lifts and his fingers touch your cheek lightly and carefully. His thumb brushes beneath your eye, catching the tear before it reaches your jaw. Then the other hand comes up too, steadying your face with a gentleness that makes your throat tighten worse than the crying did. You stare up at him while he wipes your face like it’s something important, his hands warm, his touch steady even though his breathing isn’t. He just keeps his palms against your cheeks, thumbs soft under your eyes, focused on you.
Riki’s thumb slows beneath your eye, his gaze moving over your face with something almost pained. “You’re too pretty to cry over him,” he says quietly.
Your hand lifts before you can think better of it, fingers wrapping gently around his wrist to keep him there. His skin is warm beneath your palm, and for a second, his whole body seems to still when you touch him. You look up at him because he’s so tall this close, broad enough to block out half your room, and he’s holding your face like you might bruise if he moves wrong.
“I’m not crying over him,” you say, and your voice comes out quieter, “I think I’m crying because I want someone else.”
His hand stays against your cheek, but his thumb stops moving entirely. He has no immediate answer right now, no dry comment waiting in the back of his throat, no clever way to make the moment smaller than it feels. He just looks at you, like he heard you perfectly and still needs another second for it to reach the rest of him.
He shifts closer, but only slightly, careful enough that you notice the restraint. “Are you sure?”
You let out a tiny, breathless laugh. “Yes.”
Then your gaze drops from his eyes, not because you’re embarrassed exactly, but because looking at him straight on feels like standing too close to something bright. Your eyes settle on his chest instead, on the front of his hoodie rising and falling with a breath he’s clearly trying to control. His hands move from your cheeks, careful and slow, until his palms settle just beneath your jaw while his fingers slip behind your ears, curling gently at the back of your neck.
For a second, you think he’s going to kiss you.
Actually, you know he is. You can feel it in the way his breathing changes, in the way his eyes drop to your mouth and stay there this time, no pretending it was an accident. He’s close enough that you can smell his cologne and whatever terrible decision-making brought him to your window.
Then something in you panics — not because you don’t want him to.
That’s the problem. You want him so much it feels insulting to every sensible part of your life (even though you’ve made many irrational choices that have shamed them anyway). You want him in your room, in your space, in the middle of all the pretty, curated pieces of yourself nobody else gets to see messy. You want him, and it would be so easy to lean up and let that be the answer. But there is still one stupid, technical, irritating thing standing between you and that, so you pull back a little.
He freezes immediately, hands dropping like he thinks he did something wrong. “What?”
“I need to do something.”
His brows pull together. “Right now?”
You turn away before you can lose your nerve, moving toward your bed where your phone is half-buried in the sheets. Your hands are unsteady when you pick it up, which is annoying because you are not the kind of girl who fumbles — you are the kind of girl who answers essay questions with proper structure, corrects formations instinctively, and pretends she’s fine so convincingly that people believe it until it becomes inconvenient not to.
Calling your boyfriend while Riki Nishimura stands in your bedroom after midnight is, admittedly, not your most elegant moment, but there’s a kind of clarity to it too.
He stays behind you, quiet, watching as you scroll to the contact you have ignored for most of the night. His name on your screen looks strange now.
The call rings twice.
Riki moves closer, though not touching you yet, just behind your shoulder, close enough that you can feel the heat of him. It makes focusing much harder, which is extremely inconsiderate for someone who climbed into your room to be supportive.
Your boyfriend answers with your name, voice already irritated. “It’s late. I’m busy.”
You close your eyes for half a second. “I’m just letting you know. We’re done.”
There is a pause. “What?”
You swallow, your grip tightening around the phone. “I’m breaking up with you.”
Behind you, Riki goes very still. Your boyfriend lets out a humorless laugh. “Are you serious right now?”
“Yes.”
“After everything? After tonight, you’re just gonna call me and say that?”
You stare at the wall in front of you. It’s absurd, actually, how little the anger reaches you. Maybe you should be shaking or crying harder or preparing a speech that starts with all the ways he hurt you — instead, you feel strangely calm.
He starts talking again, louder this time, something about your parents, his parents, how you’re overreacting, how you both agreed, how you don’t get to act innocent either. Until Riki’s hand appears beside you, and he takes the phone from your hand.
Your eyes widen. “Riki.”
He looks at the screen, hears your boyfriend still talking, then tosses the phone onto the bed, where it lands face-up against the sheets, the call still running, your boyfriend’s voice now small and furious through the speaker.
“What are you doing?” you whisper.
His eyes stay on yours. “You already broke up with him.”
On the bed, your ex says your name again, sharp and confused, but neither of you are looking at the phone.
Riki lifts one hand, not touching your face yet, just brushing his knuckles lightly near your jaw like he’s giving you one last chance to move away.
That is all he needs before he kisses you. It is not rushed, not messy from panic, just a little harsh from jealousy. But it’s slow enough to make your knees feel unreliable, steady enough that your whole body seems to understand before your brain does. You grab the front of his hoodie and he exhales against your mouth, the sound going straight through you. His hand settles at the side of your neck, thumb brushing under your jaw while his other hand finds your waist, careful but sure.
The phone is still there, your boyfriend is still talking. It should ruin the moment, but it doesn’t. If anything, it makes the whole thing feel worse in the way your heart is pounding too hard, in the way Riki keeps kissing you like he’s trying not to prove a point and failing anyway, in the way you know this is a terrible way to end a relationship and still cannot bring yourself to care.
Riki pulls back just enough to breathe, forehead almost touching yours. “He talks a lot,” he says quietly.
You laugh before you can stop yourself, and he kisses you before you can even finish a thought he physically cannot hear another word about your boyfriend tonight, earning a gasp from your mouth. It’s soft at first, his mouth catching yours that makes you go still for half a second, surprised, and then your hand tightens around his wrist as you kiss him back. He exhales through his nose, quiet and shaky, and his fingers press a little more firmly into your nape, not pulling you in too hard, just holding you.
You make this soft startled sound against his lips and he swears it nearly kills him on impact. When he pulls back just enough to breathe, his forehead bumps lightly against yours.
“I don’t wanna talk about him anymore,” he says quietly.
His voice comes out rougher than before. You stare at him for a second, and your lips twitch.
“Okay,” you whisper.
He kisses you again almost immediately, and this time you kiss him back just as fast, your chests pressing against one another until you can feel the rapid beat of his heart through his hoodie. His hands find your waist, the weight of them warm and steady through the thin fabric of your dress, like he’s grounding you and keeping himself grounded too.
You tilt your head up to meet him properly, rising slightly onto your toes without meaning to, and he bends down into you like the movement pulls something out of him. His fingers press carefully at your sides, thumbs shifting once against your waist. The kiss deepens then, your hand sliding up the front of his hoodie until you’re holding onto him too.
Riki exhales against your mouth, almost shaky, and his grip tightens for one second before he loosens it again, like he’s reminding himself to be careful.
Without so much as a few words, your gaze meets his. But that’s not enough for him, not when he needs to hear that you want this too. The zipper you struggled with earlier starts undoing when his hand finds the back, before he leans in just enough for his voice to drop between you.
"Words, baby," he whispers.
He isn't teasing now. His voice is low, but careful, like he needs to hear you say it before he lets himself want anything more.
You swallow, fingers tightening lightly in his hoodie. "I want you."
Riki watches your face for a second, and when he sees the true genuineness and want in your eyes, he lets himself have it. He dips down to your height, capturing your lips in a kiss again, before fully pulling the zipper down to the small of your back. With barely any effort, the dress slides off your body and pools around your feet on the floor.
Too busy getting drunk on his plump lips, you don’t even notice his hands roaming over your skin, his fingertips memorizing the arch of your spine, before gliding up to the curve of your ribcage. You don’t notice how close he really is until his fingers find the underside part of your breasts. You pull away with a gasp, seeing him smile coyly when you finally realize you’re naked in front of him, and how he’s massaging your mounds in his hands.
He lets his thumbs brush your hardened nipples, watching your face scrunch and melt with fluster. He holds you so well, heat rushing all over your skin with the way he studies your body, eyes carefully taking in every detail about you. He continues stroking your nipples and massaging your breasts when he bends down again, kissing the corner of your lips before trailing over to your jaw. He presses open mouthed kisses on your pulse next, sucking and biting to leave love bites there.
You moan, all breathy and heavy, and his cock twitches in his sweats. For a man that’s been so cautious with you, he can’t help but fight the urge to pound into you recklessly right now.
“On the bed,” he prompts softly, taking a step forward.
You obey with no fight, pathetically stepping backward until you sit back on the soft mattress. You adjust a little to get on your knees, eyes finding his through your lashes again. He’s looking at you with half-open lids, hand already reaching up to the back of your head, fingers tangling with your hair. He likes you like this, on your knees and your face so fucking close to his bulge, he can practically see it.
And because he has been so kind to you, you want to recompense for all of it. Your fingers hook at the hem of his sweatpants, keeping your gaze steady on his face to watch the way he reacts when he realizes what you’re about to do. You drag his pants down, enough for it to slip down his legs.
His cock bulges in his briefs, begging to be set free. You cup it gently and he lets out a low moan, deeper than his usual, and when you look up, he’s just watching you. You lean in, only to lick a stripe from the bottom to top — his grip on your hair tightens, and you feel him pull you closer. Since you both don’t hold any godly kind of willpower, you waste no time lowering the fabric.
Riki’s stupidly long cock springs forward once you remove his briefs, and everything about it just makes sense. It isn’t excessively thick in girth, but it’s length makes you wonder if it can even fit at all. It’s pale at the base and turns pink towards the tip, the slit lathered with pre all over the head, all for you.
You bite your lip, not being able to help the thrilled grin on your face, eyes bright at the sight of it. He clears his throat, caressing the back of your head gently. “You good?”
You snicker, reaching up to wrap your hand around the base. He chokes out a gasp, stilling completely yet his hips buck forward. He watches you handle him so delicately, even the way you start pumping his dick, watching the way pre-cum leaks out the tip. You lean forward, tongue flat against the head, tasting him.
“O-oh, s-shit —” his breathing becomes heavy, arm flexing involuntarily as he keeps rubbing the back of your head.
You giggle, tilting your head a little to press soft pecks all over his length. “Watch me, sweet boy. Okay?”
You’re a fucking tease. That’s all he manages to come up with before his brain completely blanks out when you tilt forward and let your mouth close around the head of his dick. You start to suckle on it, tongue playing with the slit a little. Then you push forward, enough the tip touches the back of your throat and your cheeks hollow around his length.
And he’s still too fucking long.
You start choking a little, tears touching your waterline. You stroke the part you can’t reach, and he can’t help but smirk arrogantly.
Heavy breaths turns into deep groans, trying to keep his sounds to himself but the way you look as your head bobs on his dick, practically choking as you suck on it, and his hand flexing a tight grip on your hair — this has got to be better than any fucking narcotic ever. He bets morphine won’t ever feel this good. “Y-you’re fucking sublime, baby,”
You retract your mouth, going back to suckle on the tip, before taking him all back down your throat. His hips jerk forward, you can tell just how gentle he’s trying to be even when he’s losing all control.
And it’s too good, because twenty years of chastity has started to reach him faster than the way you rub him. He feels his abdomen tighten, and fuck does his balls feel tense. So as any illogical, preposterous, unsound idiot ever, he pulls you away from his cock. He holds you by your hair, slowing you down as you stare up at him, eyes wide and confused, lips wet from your saliva and his fluids.
“What the fuck?” you mutter, catching your breaths.
Riki licks his bottom lip, and you can see every restraint holding him back from breaking you. The tips of his ears are red, and his eyes, once so tender and meticulous, looks down at you like he just can’t wait to fuck you senseless. They’re sharper than they ever have been, and once since this night began, you’re scared.
“Easy,” he drawls, hand withdrawing from you completely. He takes a step back, just enough to admire the way you look, panting and on your knees, breasts exposed and perky. Then with a small smirk, he pinches the edge of his hoodie. “You always this impatient?”
He slides the hoodie over his arms, the cloth revealing flesh that practically glow from your vanity lights. His chest and shoulder width is broad and wide, flat in that boyish way you love, expanding to the chiseled arms. You can feel yourself salivating at the muscles, at his taut abs, delicate grooves that trace down to a sharp v-line. Even his obliques and traps are so defined.
“Get on your back.” he rasps, and you don’t let yourself react before lying down, head against your soft pillows. He kneels in between your legs, eyes trailing over your body. He hooks his fingers over the elastic of your panties, just before he slowly pulls them off you, slow enough to make you embarrassed.
“Riki,” you murmur sheepishly, but he ignores you, keeping his eyes narrowed to the way your cunt glistens, your own fluids leaking out of you. She’s perfect, and his already frustrated cock twitches.
Blonde hair sticks to his forehead, and his eyes are dark when your gaze meets again. He hovers over you, caging you against the bed before he leans in, kissing you again. Your lips part for him, breaths mingling, getting hot and heavy as his hand finds your ass. He squeezes the fat there, fingers digging into your skin. “You’re making it hard to think, pretty girl.”
You manage a giggle, though it quickly turns to soft moans when he kisses your jaw and presses his cock against your cunt.
“Riki, please,” you can see how swollen his cock has gotten.
“I don’t know if I can be gentle,” he breathes, his arms tensing as he keeps himself up. He strokes himself a bit, just before he aligns the tip with your aching hole.
Your brain has gone hazy, not being able to process anything other than the way he kisses your neck when the head of his cock pushes through your folds, and immediately your arms come to his back, nails digging into his muscles. He tenses too, giving a sharp exhale when his length slides past the tight muscle and rubs against your gummy walls.
“Fuck,” he groans, burying his face against your neck while your teeth bite down your bottom lip. “G-god, that’s so good,”
His hips closes against your pelvis, while his tip brushes against your cervix so good he’s pretty sure you’re sucking him in. And you feel stuffed, more than you ever have been, by Riki’s long cock. “Good fucking pussy, shit —”
Your legs are open wide for him, pressing flat against the mattress. And that’s enough for him, just to see you so spread beneath him, cunt squeezing him so tight; enough for him to pull back and watch the way your fluids wrap slick around his cock. Your hips wiggle for him, and that’s all he takes before slamming his hips back into you.
Riki’s jaw hangs open, a low moan gushing out him, strained and heavy into your ears.
“R-Riki — f-f-fuck —”
The sounds of squelching pussy and skin slapping echoes throughout your entire room, walls so tight around his cock as you gasp. The pace is set already, quick and fucking drilling into you even though you’ve known him for his care and caution — yet he pounds into you like he doesn’t give a fuck about anything but his pleasure.
“S-s-so good — ugh, Riki — fuck,” you scratch his back muscles, tensing underneath your nails. His pelvis and abs are tight, slamming himself so hard against your cunt like he can’t keep himself apart from you.
He continues groaning, his eyebrows furrowed, eyes half-lidded watching you, completely fucked out while he admires the way your tits bounce every time he rocks his dick deep into your cunt. His lips part to moan your name, and you love how he almost whimpers when you squeeze around him.
Then he stills, though only fast enough before he slides an arm beneath your waist and gathers you closer, like he’s scooping you into him without fully lifting you.
“W-what are you —”
“On your stomach.”
You can only blink and nod, before turning around, suddenly feeling empty when his dick slips from inside you. You settle on your hands and knees, then lie on your chest, face pressed to the soft pillow. “Fuck, my good girl.”
You can’t see him anymore, and you’re not sure with how you feel about it — not until you feel his warm body press against your back, his chest hovering slightly over you. He presses a hand on the back of your thigh, gently adjusting your knee higher, the position immediately spreading your folds more than you would have thought.
“Lift your hips for me, baby,” he breathes, voice low and strained.
You obey, pussy clenching around nothing when he whispers quiet praises as your ass perks up and your folds glisten for him again, slick oozing out from you. You get on your hands a little, just enough to lift yourself and look over your shoulder. Without much of a warning, he pushes his cock back deep inside you again, walls welcoming him with a dirty squelch, your breath catches, then escapes in a quiet gasp.
“There, just like that —” Riki moans, his v-line pressed tight against your ass.
Then he continues, retracting his hips only to slap back inside you. The new positions doing fucking wonders to you, stretching you a whole lot more, his dick fucking you so raw that you can’t help the screams you let out. He presses his hands against your waist, fingers ingrained to lift your ass up and pound into you right after, grip so tight it’s already bruising.
You fuck yourself against him too, slapping back against his hips, cock choking in your tight walls. His eyes are almost rolling back, if not for how obsessed he is watching your ass shake and tits bounce every sloppy stroke, his hand sliding under you to grope your mound. He fondles with it, pinching your nipple and loving the weight of it against his palm.
Sweat’s getting hot and the air’s smells too much of sex, he can feel it when his balls clench and how desperate he’s starting to get.
You look over your shoulder and he meets you halfway, leaning over to capture your lips in a passionate kiss. It’s full of saliva and it’s warm, messy in a way that tells how close you both are.
Then with so little strength (can’t compare to Riki Nishimura, really), your weight falls back to the pillow, face and chest pressed against the softness while your ass stays up. If not for his large hands keeping you up and still, you would’ve fallen over completely.
Your abdomen clenches and pressure builds in there, and he continues rutting into you while you become a puddle of sweat and moans. “R-right there — fuck, Riki — !”
“I-I’m gonna fucking cum, s-shit – I’ll blow a fucking load in you —” his hips drive into your pussy with a new kind of intensity, faster and deeper somehow, his tip hitting your cervix that has you throbbing around him.
“Cum all over me, baby, please —” he whines, face pressed against your shoulder.
You feel hot spurts of him fill you the same time your cunt clenches around him one final time, legs twitching while his hips come to a stutter. Cum settles in your hole, warm and full and sticky and practically seeping out of you. He collapses on top of you, unconsciously maybe, his heavier weight pressing over your body.
Your vision goes white for a bit, then it comes back, only for you to see hair all over your face, stuck with sweat and saliva. He’s still on top of you, but you can feel him carry himself a little, making sure not to crush you right after cumming in you.
Quiet beats stretch out the moment, and you don’t even notice his arm tucking underneath you to massage your tit, a tired laugh leaving your mouth when you do. When you both muster enough strength, he straightens just enough to lift himself off of you, while you manage to get on your hands. By the time you look over your shoulder, he’s already leaning in, his mouth finding yours again, a hand still fondling with your breast.
“Riki,” a small sheepish smile curves on your lips, all while he presses soft pecks against your mouth and jaw.
“Hm?” he hums, tired and spent, clearly having nothing else to do but to kiss you. His breaths are still shallow, eyelids heavy before shutting completely.
You giggle, putting your hand over his on your breast. “Get off me,” you say with a playful grin. “You’re so heavy!”
WIth a quiet groan, he listens. He slides out of you, unplugging you to let your fluids out. Then he lies down, and he hasn’t realized how strained his muscles are until he sinks into the softness of your bed. He relaxes inevitably, while you stay up just to admire him for a bit.
Riki Nishimura is never going to be insecure about his looks, but the way you stare at him with dilated pupils that match his, especially post-sex, he can’t help but grow a bit bashful.
He huffs out a laugh, one hand reaching out to squeeze your waist because you feel so far. "So do you have a no-cuddle policy, or," he murmurs.
You laugh before you can stop yourself because he's so stupidly funny for someone trying to sound serious. Instead of answering, you shake your head and lean more of your weight against one hand, the other resting against his chest as your fingers trace lazy, thoughtless shapes.
He watches you do it for a second, his expression going quiet in that way that makes your stomach turn. Then you glance up at him. "Can you roll one for me?"
He sighs so heavily it almost sounds personal. Before you can even react, his arm hooks around your waist and pulls you down against his chest, firm and immediate, like the idea alone offended him. Your hand lands against his abs to catch yourself, your cheek nearly brushing his shoulder as he keeps you there.
“Throw that shit away,” he says, voice low near your ear. “I swear to God.”
You blink, caught against him. “What?” His arm stays around you, warm and unmoving. “Why?”
Riki looks at you with half-lidded eyes, sleepy and a little strained, like even answering takes effort. “Because,” he murmurs, his grip softening at your waist, “after tonight, I think I found something better.”
Your jaw actually falls open. For one second, all you can do is stare at him, because there’s no way Riki Nishimura just said that to you while looking half-asleep and impossibly calm, like he didn’t just say something that made your entire stomach turn over and tighten all over again.
Then you smack his chest lightly. “Riki.”
He chuckles, low and tired, the sound vibrating against your palm. His arm stays around your waist, keeping you close even when you try to lean back enough to glare at him properly.
“What?” he murmurs, eyes barely opening more. “Use my dick instead, I won’t get mad.”
You smack his chest harder, earning a yelp from him. “Riki!”
He laughs under his breath, but before you can pull your hand back, his fingers wrap around your wrist. His eyes open a little more as he looks at you, still tired, still amused, and then he tugs you.
You land over him, knees sinking into the mattress on either side of his hips as his arm settles around your waist to steady you. For a second, neither of you moves. Your hand stays pressed to his chest, his heartbeat is faster than he's pretending. "Careful," he murmurs, like he wasn't the one who pulled you.
"You're so annoying," you whisper again, but it comes out softer this time, a quiet breath as you lean down to him. You're close enough now that your noses brush, close enough to feel his smile fade against your mouth.
Riki's gaze drops to your lips, then back to your eyes. Your fingers stay flat against the broad hardness of his chest while his hand stays warm at your waist, slowly smoothing over the curve of your ass.
“Ride me?” he whispers against your lips.
You sigh, rolling your eyes while your mouth curves to a grin, back straightening. You act like you think about it, only for your exposed cunt to start grinding against his cock — which, obviously, because he is a very simple man, erects again.
A simple man such as he, all he knows is that he is yours.
—𝑶𝑹 𝑾𝑯𝑬𝑵 you walk into a tattoo shop drunk just to prove a point, and walk out with the best thing to ever happen to you. Except he’s hiding something. And between the secrets and your stalker classmate closing in, you get it twisted before you get it right.
playlist… hanging out to dry — florence road // vampire — dominic fike // addicted — lovelace // fallen star — the neighbourhood // real people — hozier // nothing’s gonna hurt you baby — cigarettes after sex
pepa speaks!! hii so this is my first time writing a fic and I’ve been working on this for like a longgg time and decided to post bc I’m a bit nervous LOL uhm so yeah there will be a part 2 btw and also my taglist is open! pls enjoy and I’d really appreciate likes and reblogs 🤭💐
The thing about a girls’ night with Ria was that it always ended somewhere it wasn’t supposed to. The club had been Hana’s idea. The fourth round of shots had been Soo’s.
The part where all four of you ended up on the pavement at eleven-forty-five, heels in hand, looking at a tattoo shop with a red light glowing in the window like it was personally inviting you in — that had been Ria. “We’re going in,” she said.
“We are not going in,” Soo said.
“It says open.” Ria pointed at the sign. Studio 13. Like that settled it.
“It’s almost midnight.”
“They put the sign out.”
“Ria—” But you were already looking at the door and thinking why not, which was the alcohol talking, and also you were cold and your feet hurt and the red light looked warm from out here on the pavement. “I want a piercing,” you said.
Ria grabbed your hand. “She wants a piercing.” Soo looked at the sky. Hana was already moving toward the door.
The club outfit had been Ria’s fault entirely. The top was small — that was the only word for it, small and black and doing everything a top could reasonably be asked to do. The skirt wasn’t much better. You’d spent the whole night at the club feeling like the main character, which was the intended effect, and the cold air outside had done nothing to make you feel less exposed.
You pushed the door open and the warmth hit you first. Then the smell — ink, clean soap, something faintly chemical underneath it. Black walls covered in flash art. Low red lighting that made the whole place feel like a deliberate secret. Something slow playing from speakers you couldn’t locate.
Two guys inside. One in the back with his head down over a drawing tablet. One at the front counter. The one at the front counter looked up.
He was tall even on the stool, long legs stretched out in front of him, forearms resting on the desk like he owned the surface and everything past it. Full sleeve on his left arm. Silver rings on most of his fingers. Dark hair pushed back slightly. One earring. The kind of face that got you in trouble if you looked at it for too long — sharp jaw, dark eyes, a mouth that was currently sitting in the very early stages of a smirk.
He took in all four of you in about two seconds. Then his eyes found you and the smirk finished forming. “We’re open,” he said. “Barely.”
Ria and Hana peeled off toward the flash wall immediately. Soo planted herself near the door with her arms folded. Which left you walking up to the front counter alone, bare legs, tiny skirt, heels clicking on the concrete floor.
You watched him watch you walk over. He didn’t pretend he wasn’t watching. Didn’t do the polite thing where you glance away and back. He just watched, easy and unhurried, the way someone looks at something they find genuinely worth looking at, and when you got to the counter and leaned on it his eyes moved — slowly, and with complete lack of apology — from your face down to your chest and back up again. Held eye contact like nothing had happened. You’d been looked at before. This was different. This was a man who had decided he wasn’t going to pretend. “Hi,” you said.
“Hi.” His voice was low. Even. The smirk hadn’t moved. “Can I help you?”
“I want a piercing.”
“Yeah?” He leaned back on the stool, arms folding across his chest, the sleeve shifting with the movement. His rings caught the red light. “What are you thinking?”
“Tragus.” You reached up and tapped the outer ridge of your ear, which meant your arm lifted and your top shifted and you watched his eyes drop again, briefly, before they came back to yours like he wasn’t the least bit embarrassed about it. “I’ve been putting it off. I’m in a decisive mood.”
“Decisive,” he said.
“Very.”
“I can see that.” He said it like it meant something else. Then: “How much have you had tonight?”
“Enough to be excellent company.”
He looked at you. Really looked — quiet and thorough, taking in your face, the flush across your chest, the way you were leaning on his counter in that top — and then his tongue pressed briefly against his cheek like he was trying not to smile properly. “Can’t pierce you with alcohol in your system, baby.”
Baby. Like he’d been calling you that for years. Like it was already established. “That’s a rule?” you said.
“That’s the rule.”
You leaned further onto the counter, closing some of the distance between you. His eyes went exactly where you expected them to go and stayed there for a beat longer than was professional before dragging back up. His expression didn’t change. He was completely comfortable with being caught, which was — honestly — impressive. “What if I promised to be very good?” you said.
“I’m sure you would be.” His voice was smooth, unhurried. “Still no.”
“What if—”
“You can come back tomorrow,” he said. “Sober. I’ll pierce your tragus.” A pause, his eyes dropping once more, quick and deliberate, before landing back on yours. “Or whatever else you want.”
The air between you did something. “That sounds like more than a professional offer,” you said.
“I’m a professional.” The smirk was fully settled now. “The offer’s professional. What you do with it is up to you.”
You held his gaze. He held yours back without any effort at all, completely at ease, like this was just how Tuesday night went for him. It was annoying. It was also working. “I don’t know where this place is sober,” you said.
He was already reaching under the counter. He slid a card across the desk with two fingers — didn’t look down to do it, kept his eyes on you the whole time. STUDIO 13. NISHIMURA RIKI. PIERCING.
You picked it up. “Your personal card,” you said.
“Goes straight to me.”
“Bold.”
“Efficient,” he said.
You looked at the card. Then at him. “I’m Y/N.” His eyes went down again — unhurried, completely unapologetic, a slow look that started at your face and made its way south before coming back up — and then he said, “Y/N,” like he was just trying the name out. Like he’d be using it again. “You gonna remember that?” you said.
“Yeah,” he said simply. “I’m going to remember that.”
The way he said it made it about more than your name. Behind you, Ria made a noise she covered poorly with a fake cough. You didn’t turn around. “Come back sober,” Riki said. “I’ll take care of you.”
“You keep saying that.”
“Because I’m going to do it.” He picked his phone back up, easy as anything, like the conversation was filed away now and he was done performing — except the smirk stayed. “Get home safe, Y/N.” Dismissed. Warmly, cockily, with complete confidence that you’d be back.
You picked up the card, slid it into your bag, and let Soo steer you to the door because your own legs had made a decision to co-operate with his energy and you weren’t going to give him the satisfaction.
Outside Ria grabbed your arm with both hands. “Y/N. The way he looked at you—”
“Ria.”
“He looked at your tits like—”
“Ria.” Hana was fanning herself. Even Soo was quiet, which was its own verdict. The Uber was three minutes away and you looked at your phone and felt your face doing something warm that you were crediting entirely to the alcohol.
Inside, Heeseung finally looked up from his drawing tablet. He’d watched the whole thing. Ten feet away. Nobody had noticed. He looked at Riki.
Riki had his phone in his hand but he was looking at the door — at the space where you’d just been standing in that top, leaning on his counter, letting him look — with an expression Heeseung couldn’t quite name. Something had landed and settled behind his eyes.
“Who was that?” Heeseung said.
Riki looked down at his phone. “Some hot girl.”
“Some hot girl,” Heeseung repeated.
“Wanted a tragus piercing.”
“Uh huh.” Heeseung looked at the counter. At the space where Riki’s personal card had been sitting ten minutes ago, now somewhere in your bag on the way home. “You give clients your personal card often?”
Riki said nothing. Heeseung looked back at his tablet. “Right,” he said quietly, and said nothing else.
Three weeks later you were standing outside Studio 13 again and this time you were completely, annoyingly sober. “I don’t know why I’m here,” you said.
“Because Riki said come back sober and you kept his card for three weeks,” Ria said, pushing the door open.
“I kept it by accident.”
“In your purse.”
“That’s where cards go.”
“You don’t keep any other cards in your purse, Y/N. I’ve seen your purse. It’s a graveyard of receipts and one lip liner.” You followed her inside because the alternative was standing on the pavement arguing with her and you’d already lost this argument six times on the way over.
Ria had a tattoo appointment. That was the reason you were here. You were just here for moral support. You were going to sit in a chair and look at your phone and not think about the guy who had looked at you like that and said I’ll take care of you with complete sincerity and a smirk that should have been annoying.
The door swung shut behind you. Same as before — black walls, flash art, red light, the slow dark playlist. A different energy in the daytime though, busier, more lived-in. Jay was at the side counter doing something with ink caps, talking loudly to no one in particular. Jake was sweeping near the back. Heeseung was visible through the half-open door of the back room, head down, working.
No one at the front desk. You relaxed slightly. Ria was already at the counter, checking in for her appointment, and you drifted toward the flash wall and started looking at the art because it was genuinely good and also because you needed something to do with your eyes.
You heard the door from the back open. Heard footsteps. Heard someone say, “Riki, someone’s here—” You turned around because you were a person with normal human reflexes and not because your body had already clocked the name.
Riki came through the back door with a pair of gloves half-on, looking down at the appointment book, and then he looked up.
He saw Ria first. Then his eyes moved — one smooth, unhurried slide — and found you standing by the flash wall in your jeans and your jacket looking like someone who was absolutely only here for moral support. “Hey,” he said.
“Hi,” you said. There was a pause that lasted slightly too long for two people who didn’t know each other.
“You came back,” he said.
“Ria has an appointment.”
“Right.” He looked at you. “And you’re just here for Ria.”
“Correct.”
“Nothing to do with the card.”
“I forgot I even had it.”
“Uh huh.” He pulled the second glove on, still looking at you, and the smirk had settled into something warmer now — less performance, more genuinely pleased. “How’s the tragus feeling? Still decisive?”
Ria made a sound from the counter that she turned into a cough. You didn’t look at her. “I’m considering my options,” you said.
“Good answer.” He turned to Ria, professional now, easy switch. “Ria, yeah? Heeseung’s got you, he’s just finishing up. Five minutes.”
“Perfect,” Ria said, and then immediately looked at you with an expression that meant she was storing everything and you would be debriefed extensively later.
Riki came around the counter. Didn’t go back to the desk — came and stood near the flash wall, close enough to talk, far enough to be plausibly looking at the art. “You look different,” he said.
“I’m sober.”
“That’s probably it.” His eyes did the thing — a brief, easy drop and return, taking in the jacket, the jeans, the way you were standing — and then he was looking at your face again like that was just how he operated. Open about it. Unbothered. “Still good though.”
“You’re very confident,” you said.
“I’m accurate,” he said. You looked at Riki. He looked back. This close you could see the bar through his tongue properly — silver, subtle when his mouth was closed, noticeable when he talked — and the ring in his ear and the way his rings shifted when he crossed his arms.
“So,” he said. “You actually want the piercing or did you come all the way here just to tell me you forgot my card existed?”
“I could still want the piercing.”
“You could.” He tilted his head slightly. “Do you?”
You held out for three more seconds. Then: “Yeah.”
His smile did the thing again — the slow, settled version, the one that looked like satisfaction and something warmer underneath it. “On the house,” he said.
“You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.” He was already moving back toward the piercing station, unhurried, like it was decided. “Come on.”
The piercing chair was in a partitioned section near the back — semi-private, its own mirror, a tray of tools laid out with the kind of precision that told you he took this seriously. He snapped a fresh pair of gloves on and gestured to the chair and you sat down and tried to look like you were not thinking about the last time you’d been in this general vicinity, considerably less sober, telling him he had criminally pretty eyes. You were thinking about it.
He adjusted the chair height without asking, tilted the light, and then stepped in close to look at your ear. His fingers were gentle when they touched the outer ridge — thumb pressing lightly to test the cartilage, professional and careful — and he was close enough that you could smell whatever he was wearing, something dark and clean. “Tragus is a good choice,” he said, still examining your ear. “Suits you.”
“You can tell that from my ear?”
“I can tell from your face.” He stepped back, reached for the marking pen. “You’ve got good bone structure. Something small here draws attention without being loud.” He met your eyes in the mirror. “You’re already loud enough.”
“I’m going to take that as a compliment.”
“It was one.” He marked the spot with the pen — quick, precise — and then held up a small mirror so you could check the placement. His hand was steady. Everything about him was steady, which was both reassuring and slightly irritating. “Good?” he said.
“Good.”
He put the mirror down. Reached for the needle. And then paused, looking at you in the main mirror with an expression that was more direct than the smirk — more level. “You nervous?” he said.
“No.”
“Your jaw is doing something.”
“My jaw is fine.”
“Y/N.”
“I’m a little nervous,” you said. “About the needle. Not about—” You stopped.
“Not about?” he said.
You looked at him in the mirror. He looked back. The smirk was quiet right now, just his face, just the question sitting there. “The needle,” you said. “I said what I said.”
He let it go. Looked back at your ear, positioned his hands. “Breathe in,” he said. You breathed in. “Out.”
You breathed out and he moved — quick and precise and over before you’d finished processing it. A sharp bite of pressure, brief, clean, and then his hands were already switching out the needle for the jewellery, smooth and practiced. “Done,” he said.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.” He stepped back to let you see in the mirror. Small flat-back stud, exactly where the mark had been, sitting perfectly. “What do you think?”
You looked at it. Turned your head slightly. It was — actually exactly right, the placement, the size, the way it sat. “I think you’re good at your job,” you said.
“I know.” But he said it lightly, without the edge, and when you looked at him in the mirror he was looking at the piercing with something that read like quiet pride. Like he actually cared that it was right.
He peeled his gloves off. Started going through aftercare — saline spray, what to avoid, how long to leave it — and you listened and watched his hands and thought about how he’d looked at you when you walked in. That slow, settled smile. You came back. Like he’d known you would. “Any questions?” he said.
“No.”
“Good.” He handed you the small aftercare card. His fingers brushed yours when he passed it over and he didn’t move his hand immediately, just let the contact sit there for a second before stepping back. “You should come back in four weeks so I can check it.”
“Is that standard?”
“For you it is.”
You looked up at him. He was close still, leaning against the counter beside the chair, arms crossed, completely at ease with the proximity and what he was saying and the way he was looking at you. “That’s a very smooth way to make a follow-up appointment,” you said.
“I’m a smooth guy.”
“You’re a cocky guy.”
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.” He smiled properly. “Four weeks, Y/N. I’ll be here.” From the main floor, very clearly, you heard Jay say to Jake in a voice that carried: “Twenty says she’s back in two.”
Heeseung appeared in the doorway of his room as you were walking back out to wait for Ria. He looked at you. Then at Riki, who was cleaning up the station behind you. He said nothing.
When you were out of earshot, he leaned in the doorway and looked at Riki with a level expression. Riki didn’t look up. “Don’t.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were going to.”
Heeseung was quiet for a moment. “She coming back?”
Riki stacked the packaged jewellery back in the tray. “Four weeks.”
Heeseung looked at the ceiling. Looked back down. “Right,” he said, and went back into his room.
Riki looked up once — just once — at where you’d gone back to sit with Ria, talking and laughing, your hand coming up to touch the new piercing gently like you were checking it was real. He looked back down at the tray. Picked up his phone. Set it down again. Four weeks was a long time.
You were back in two weeks. You told yourself you had a legitimate reason. The piercing felt slightly tender on one side and the aftercare card said to come back if anything felt off and this was a medical concern, essentially, and had nothing to do with anything else. Ria, when you told her this, said “uh huh” in the exact same tone Riki had used and you’d hung up on her.
You pushed the door to Studio 13 open at four on a Thursday afternoon.
Jay was at the front counter this time. He looked up, recognized you, and his whole face did something delighted. “Y/N,” he said, like you were a returning champion.
“Hey.” You unwound your scarf. “Is Riki—”
“In the back.” Jay was already leaning back in his chair, tilting toward the hallway. “Riki.”
“I could have just—”
“RIKI. Your girl’s here.”
From the back, a pause. Then footsteps. Riki appeared in the doorway with a black coffee in one hand and his phone in the other and when he saw you something moved across his face — quick, controlled — before it settled into the usual. “Two weeks,” he said.
“I know.”
“I said four.”
“The piercing felt off.”
He looked at you. You looked back. He took a slow sip of his coffee. “Come here,” he said. Back in the piercing section again. The chair, the mirror, the tray. He set his coffee down on the counter and snapped gloves on and tilted your chin to the side with two fingers, turning your head so the light hit the piercing properly.
He was quiet while he looked. Close, the way he’d been last time, close enough that you were aware of exactly how tall he was and exactly how little space existed between you. “Looks fine,” he said.
“It felt tender.”
“New cartilage piercing. It’s going to feel tender.” He turned your head a fraction more, examining the entry and exit points. “You sleeping on it?”
“Sometimes.”
“Don’t.” His thumb pressed gently just below the piercing, checking the tissue. “You’re not rotating it, are you?”
“The card said not to.”
“People do it anyway.”
“I follow instructions.” He made a sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. His fingers were still at your jaw, light but there, and in the mirror you could see him looking at the piercing with that focused, careful expression he got when he was working — like the rest of him went quiet and it was just this, just the task, just making sure it was right.
“It’s fine,” he said again, quieter this time. “A little irritated but nothing bad. You’re cleaning it?”
“Twice a day.”
“Good girl.” He said it the same way he said everything — even, unbothered — and went right back to examining the piercing like he hadn’t just said it, like it was nothing, like your entire nervous system hadn’t just done something embarrassing.
He stepped back. Pulled one glove off. In the mirror you watched him look at you — your face this time, not the piercing — and the focused work expression shifted back into something more personal. His eyes moved down briefly, back up. Unhurried. Unapologetic. “You didn’t just come for the piercing check,” he said.
It wasn’t a question. “I was in the area,” you said.
“Y/N.”
“I was.”
“Okay.” He pulled the second glove off, dropped them both in the bin. Leaned against the counter beside the chair with his arms crossed, looking at you with that steady, patient expression. Like he had all the time in the world and was fully prepared to wait you out.
The rings on his fingers caught the light. The bar through his tongue was visible when he spoke and sometimes when he didn’t, a small flash of silver that your eyes kept going back to without your permission. “Can I ask you something?” you said.
“Go ahead.”
You nodded toward his mouth. “Does it affect anything? The tongue piercing.”
The corner of his mouth pulled up. He knew exactly what you were asking and you both knew you both knew it. “Depends what you mean by anything,” he said.
“Talking,” you said. “Eating.”
“No,” he said. “It doesn’t affect talking or eating.”
The way he said it made the implication sit in the room like a third person. “And what about—” you started.
“Yes,” he said simply. You looked at him. He looked back at you, completely relaxed, the smirk at about thirty percent, like he was letting you sit in the answer rather than pushing it.
“That was going to be a different question…” you said.
“Was it?” It wasn’t.
You looked away first, which you were counting as a tactical retreat rather than losing, and he made that almost-laugh sound again and pushed off the counter. “Come out front,” he said. “I’ll get you the saline to take home.”
Jay was now pretending to organize a drawer he had clearly already organized when you came back out. Jake had appeared from somewhere and was leaning on the wall near the door with his phone out. The effort to look casual was extraordinary.
Riki went behind the counter, got the saline, slid it across to you.“Stop sleeping on it,” he said.
“I’ll try.”
“Don’t try. Just don’t do it.”
“You’re bossy,” you said.
“I’m thorough.” He leaned on the counter. His forearms were right there, the sleeve on full display this close — you’d been trying not to look at it properly but it was a lot of work. Intricate blackwork, something that looked botanical near his wrist, darker geometry climbing toward his elbow. “Like the sleeve?” he said.
You looked up. He’d caught you. “It’s good work,” you said.
“Heeseung did most of it.”
“Heeseung tattooed you?”
“First one when I started here.” Something shifted slightly in his face — not closed off, just more considered. “Kind of a thing between us.”
You wanted to ask what kind of thing. Something in how he’d said it made you not push. “You do your own piercings?” you said instead.
He tilted his head so you could see the earring. “This one.”
“Doesn’t that hurt more when it’s yourself?”
“Yeah.”
“And you did it anyway.”
“I do most things anyway,” he said. He said it lightly but there was something under it, something matter-of-fact about pain being a variable he’d simply accounted for. You looked at him for a second longer than you meant to. “Four weeks,” he said, quieter now, just to you. “Come back in four weeks and I’ll check it properly. And if you’re in the area before that—” he held your gaze — “you know where we are.”
“Very smooth,” you said.
“You keep saying that.”
“You keep proving it.” He smiled. The real one — not the smirk, not the performance, the actual smile that did something to his whole face. You’d only seen it once before, the night you came in drunk when he laughed at something Ria said, and it was worse up close and sober.
You picked up the saline. Shouldered your bag. “Thanks for checking it,” you said.
“Anytime.”
You were halfway to the door when Jay said, loudly, to no one: “Two weeks. Called it.”
“Jay,” Riki said, flat.
“I’m just saying—”
“Jay.” You pushed the door open and let it close on whatever Jay said next. On the pavement you breathed in cold air and stood there for a second. I do most things anyway. You thought about that the whole way home.
You texted Ria that night.
you: the piercing was fine btw. just irritated.
Ria: sure
you: it was a legitimate medical concern
Ria: how did he look
you: that’s not relevant
Ria: how did he LOOK
You stared at your phone. Put it face down. Picked it up again.
you: good. he looked good. go to sleep.
Ria: 😭😭😭 Y/N YOU ARE SO DOWN BAD
You put your phone on the charger and lay on your back in the dark and stared at the ceiling. The bar through his tongue caught the light when he talked. Yes, he’d said. Like it was nothing. Like he said it every day. You put a pillow over your face.
Across the city, Studio 13 was closing up. Heeseung was cashing out. Jake was wiping down surfaces. Jay was retelling the afternoon to Sunghoon, who had come in for his evening shift and was listening with the specific expression of someone enjoying information they could use later.
Riki was at the piercing station. Cleaning the tray. Doing the same task he’d done a hundred times. “She came back in two weeks,” Jay said.
“I heard,” Sunghoon said.
“I called it.”
“You did call it.”
“Riki,” Jay said. “You owe me twenty.”
“I don’t owe you anything,” Riki said. “We didn’t make a bet.”
“Spiritually we did.” Riki said nothing. Put the tray away.
“She’s coming back in four weeks,” Jay told Sunghoon.
“Or two,” Sunghoon said.
“Or two,” Jay agreed.
“Both of you,” Riki said, without heat, “can shut up.”
They did not shut up. He let them talk and went back to the tray and thought about the way you’d looked at his mouth when you asked about the piercing. The way your eyes had gone somewhere specific and come back and you’d tried to cover it with a different question.
He’d watched the answer land. Had watched you process it and look away and call it a tactical retreat when it wasn’t. He was good at reading people. He’d had to be, for a long time, for reasons that had nothing to do with tattoo shops or piercing chairs.
You were going to come back before four weeks. He put the tray away and picked up his coffee and didn’t say any of that out loud.
You were back in ten days. You didn’t have a reason this time. You’d run out of reasons. You showed up at three on a Wednesday with two coffees and the vague awareness that something had shifted from I’m in the area to something you didn’t have a word for yet. Jay opened the door before you reached it. “She’s got coffee,” he announced into the shop.
“Jay—”
“Is one of those for me?” He was already holding the door open, looking at the cups in your hand with genuine hope.
“No.”
“Y/N.”
“I brought two.”
“There are multiple people here who drink coffee.”
“There are two coffees,” you said. “Do the math.”
Jay looked wounded. You walked past him into the shop and he let the door close and called after you: “I’m telling Riki you were mean to me.”
“Please do.” Riki was at the front counter. Actually at the counter this time, not coming through from the back, sitting on the stool with his forearms on the desk and his phone in his hand. He looked up when you came in and his eyes went straight to the cups. Then to your face. Then he smiled — not the smirk, not the performance, just a real and immediate thing that he didn’t seem to think about first. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey.” You put one of the coffees on the counter in front of him. “I didn’t know how you take it.”
He looked at the cup. Looked at you. “Black is fine,” he said.
“Lucky guess.”
“Is it?” He picked it up. His fingers overlapped yours on the cup for a second before you let go — brief, probably accidental, neither of you addressed it. He took a sip. Put it down. “Ten days.”
“I know.”
“Getting closer to two weeks, not further.”
“I’ve been busy,” you said. “This was the first chance I had to—”
“Y/N.”
“What?”
“You don’t need a reason,” he said simply. You looked at him. He looked back, completely even, like he’d just said something neutral about the weather. “Sit down.”
That was how it started. Not with anything dramatic. Just you sitting on the other side of the counter on a Wednesday afternoon with a coffee while Riki worked through his admin, and the conversation that happened around it — easy and unhurried, drifting from one thing to another, the kind of talk that didn’t feel like it was going anywhere because it didn’t need to.
You learned things without asking for them. That he’d been at Studio 13 for two years. That he and Jay had met here. That he had opinions about piercing placement that were borderline philosophical and he’d share them unprompted if you let him.
He learned things back. That you were in your final year. That Ria had been your best friend since you were sixteen. That you had three other piercings already and had done two of them yourself, which made him look up from his phone with an expression that was equal parts impressed and horrified. “You did your own helix,” he said.
“With a kit.”
“A kit.”
“People do it.”
“People also do a lot of things I have to fix,” he said, and leaned across the counter to look at your ear without asking. His fingers found the helix piercing, examining it with the same careful focus he brought to everything, and you sat very still. “It’s crooked,” he said.
“I know.”
“I can fix it.”
“I know.”
He was still looking at your ear, close, his thumb light against the cartilage. “Why haven’t you?”
“I kept meaning to.” You paused. “And then I found Studio 13 and I figured I’d—”
You stopped. He pulled back just enough to look at your face. His expression said he’d heard the end of the sentence even though you hadn’t said it. “Figured you’d what?” he said.
“Come here eventually,” you said. “For things.”
The smirk appeared. “For things.”
“Piercings.”
“Right.” He stepped back, let you breathe, picked his coffee back up. “I’ll fix it whenever you want.”
“Add it to my tab.”
“You don’t have a tab. Everything I do to you is on the house.” He said it completely straight and then looked at his phone, leaving you to sit in the everything I do to you by yourself.
Jay appeared from the back at that exact moment, looked at you both, looked at the counter between you, and went directly back the way he came without saying anything, which was somehow more powerful than if he had.
Hana came with you the following Wednesday. She had been angling to see the shop since Ria had described it in approximately four hundred texts and the second she walked in she stopped in the middle of the floor and looked around with wide eyes. “Oh,” she said. “Oh this place is cool.”
Jake, who was at the side counter, looked up. Hana looked at Jake. Jake looked at Hana. You filed that away.
Riki was with a client in the piercing section — you could see him through the partition, gloved up, talking the client through something in that low steady voice. You hadn’t told him you were coming. You weren’t sure why, except that you’d wanted to know what it felt like to walk in and see him before he saw you. It felt like something, as it turned out.
He was focused on his client, head tilted, hands precise. He’d pushed his sleeves up and the full length of the tattoo was visible now — blackwork that climbed from his wrist to somewhere past his elbow, detailed and dark. He was saying something that made the client laugh. Patient and calm and completely in his element.
You stood there and looked at him for maybe four seconds too long.
“Y/N,” Hana said quietly beside you.
“What.”
“You’ve got a face on.”
“I don’t have a face.”
“You’ve got a very specific face.” She looked at Riki. Looked at you. “Oh you are done.”
“I’m looking at the flash art,” you said, and turned to look at the flash art.
Jay materialized at your shoulder. “She does this every time,” he told Hana, like you weren’t standing right there. “Comes in, looks at him, then looks at the wall.”
“I can hear you,” you said.
“I know.” Jay smiled. “Coffee?”
Riki’s client left at half past three. He came through from the partition still pulling his gloves off and stopped when he saw you and Hana at the counter with Jay. The gloves came off slower. “You didn’t text,” he said to you.
“Spontaneous visit.”
“Hm.” He dropped the gloves, came around to the main counter. His eyes moved to Hana briefly, assessing, friendly. “Friend?”
“Hana,” you said. “She wanted to see the shop.”
“Welcome.” He said it to Hana and then his attention came back to you in that way it always did — like you were the fixed point and everything else was peripheral. “How’s the piercing?”
“Fine. Good.”
“You sleeping on it?”
“Mostly not.”
“Y/N.”
“Mostly not. I’m a side sleeper, it’s a process.”
He leaned on the counter. His coffee was cold by now but he picked it up anyway. “I’ll fix the helix today if you want. While you’re here.”
“Yeah?”
“Chair’s free.” Hana’s elbow found your ribs with surgical precision. You ignored it.
“Okay,” you said.
The helix took ten minutes. Precise, careful, the same focused quiet he brought every time. Afterwards he checked the tragus — habit, he said, like that was a normal thing, like of course he was checking it — and you sat in the chair and let him and looked at his face in the mirror while he was looking at your ear.
Up close like this you could see things you couldn’t from the other side of a counter. The small scar through his left eyebrow, barely visible. The way his jaw set when he was concentrating. The rings on his fingers — he took them off for client work and put them back on after, and watching him slide them back on was a thing you were apparently noticing now.
He caught you in the mirror. Didn’t call you out. Just held your gaze for a second and then looked back at the piercing, and the corner of his mouth moved slightly. “Good,” he said. “Helix looks better. You’ll need to re-do the aftercare cycle.”
“I know.”
“You actually know or you’re saying you know?”
“Riki.”
“I’ll write it down.”
“I literally work a piercing counter in my memory called things Riki has told me,” you said.
He went still for a half second. Then: “Yeah?”
“You’re very thorough,” you said. “It sticks.”
He looked at you in the mirror. Steady, quiet, something behind his eyes that was more than the usual easy confidence — something that had weight to it. “Good,” he said, quieter.
He stepped back. Started cleaning up. Normal, routine, the way he always moved through the shop like everything was exactly where it was supposed to be. “Same time next week?” he said. It wasn’t really a question.
“Sure,” you said.
In the main shop, Hana was sitting on the counter watching Jake explain the difference between traditional and neo-traditional tattooing with the energy of someone who had found religion. Jay was watching this with profound satisfaction. When you came back out Hana looked at you and then at Riki behind you and then at you again. “We should go,” you said.
“Should we,” Hana said.
“Yes.”
“Jake was just explaining—”
“Hana.” She got up, reluctantly, and said goodbye to Jake in a way that suggested she was also going to be back before four weeks. Jake watched her go with an expression that Riki clocked and then looked away from like he hadn’t seen it.
At the door you turned back. Riki was at the counter, already on his phone, or pretending to be. “Thanks for the helix,” you said.
“Anytime.” He didn’t look up. “Wednesday?”
“Wednesday,” you said. Jay made a noise. Riki didn’t look at him. You pushed the door open and the cold air hit you and behind you you heard Jay say, quiet and satisfied to no one in particular: “Regular.”
The Wednesday visits became a thing. Not every week, sometimes every ten days, but consistent enough that Jay started having your coffee order ready. Consistent enough that Jake stopped looking surprised when you walked in. Consistent enough that Heeseung, who said little and noticed everything, started nodding at you when you arrived like you’d passed some quiet assessment he’d been running.
Riki never texted first. You did sometimes — nothing significant, a meme about piercings, a question about aftercare that you probably knew the answer to. He always replied. Never with much. But always.
The counter between you was becoming a problem. Not the physical one — the metaphorical one. The distance that was exactly the right size for this isn’t anything yet and felt increasingly inadequate for what was actually happening in the space between you every Wednesday afternoon. He looked at you like you were a decision he’d already made. You were starting to think you had too.
Daniel texted on a Thursday.
Daniel: hey, haven’t seen you around much. you ok?
You stared at it. You and Daniel had two seminars together and a loose group chat and approximately nothing else, and this was the third text this week.
you: yeah all good, just busy
Daniel: we should get coffee sometime
you: I’m pretty slammed rn, sorry
You thought nothing of it. You mentioned it to Riki the following Wednesday — offhand, in the middle of a conversation about something else, not thinking. “This guy in my seminar keeps texting,” you said. “It’s starting to get annoying.”
Riki was writing something on the appointment book. His pen slowed.“What guy?” he said.
“Daniel. We’re in the same module. He keeps asking for coffee.” Riki’s pen stopped. You looked up. His face was the same — neutral, easy — but something had shifted underneath it. Something had gone very still in the specific way of a thing that was actively being held still.
“You said no?” he said.
“Obviously. I’m not interested.”
A pause. He looked back at the appointment book. Wrote something. “Good,” he said.
Just that. Good. You looked at him for a second. “Riki.”
“Hm.”
“Are you—”
“Helix check,” he said, and stood up from the stool. You let him redirect you. Sat in the chair. Let him check the helix he’d fixed two weeks ago and didn’t need to check again. His hands were as steady as they always were. His voice was as even.
But when you looked at him in the mirror his jaw was set in a way it wasn’t usually and his eyes, when they met yours in the reflection, had something in them that was more than the usual warm certainty. Something that looked a lot like mine with nowhere to go yet. You looked away first. Neither of you said anything about it.
Daniel was waiting outside your seminar on Tuesday. Not accidentally. He was leaning on the wall opposite the door with his phone out, and when you came through he pushed off and fell into step beside you like it was coordinated, like he’d timed it. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey.” You kept walking.
“Good seminar?”
“It was fine.”
“I thought Professor Kim made a good point about the—”
“Daniel.” You stopped. Turned to face him. He was decent looking, objectively — tall, friendly face, the kind of guy who probably did well in situations where persistence read as flattering. “What’s going on?”
He smiled. Easy, practiced. “I was thinking we could grab that coffee.”
“I said I was slammed.”
“You’re not slammed right now.”
“I have somewhere to be.”
“Where?”
You looked at him. “That’s not really—”
“I’ll walk you,” he said. Like that was a reasonable response. Like the answer to I have somewhere to be was I’ll come.
“Daniel.” You kept your voice even. “I appreciate it but I’m not interested. Okay? Not trying to be harsh, just being clear.”
Something moved across his face — not anger, more like recalibration, like he was filing this away as a temporary obstacle. “Maybe just as friends,” he said.
“I’m good. Thanks though.” You walked away. Heard him say something behind you — see you Thursday — and didn’t respond. You texted Ria about it on the bus.
you: the Daniel thing is getting annoying
Ria: what happened?
you: he waited outside my seminar
Ria: ew
you: I told him straight I’m not interested
Ria: good. are you telling riki?
You stared at that.
you: why would I tell riki??
Ria: because you tell riki everything now??
you: I do not tell riki everything
Ria: you told him about your mum’s cat
you: that came up naturally and I’m not telling him, it’s not a big deal
You put your phone in your bag. You didn’t tell him.
Wednesday came and you sat at the counter with your coffee and talked about other things — Hana and Jake’s ongoing situation, which was developing at a glacial pace that was driving Ria insane. A new flash piece Heeseung had drawn that you’d been looking at for twenty minutes when you came in. Whether you should get a second tragus on the other ear. “Yes,” Riki said, without hesitation.
“That’s a very immediate answer.”
“It’s an obvious answer.” He looked at your ears, both sides, that assessing look. “Symmetrical double tragus. Come in next week.”
“Maybe I want to think about it.”
“You don’t need to think about it.”
“Riki.”
“You came in drunk wanting a tragus piercing,” he said. “You knew then. You know now.”
You looked at him. He looked back with the patience of someone who was completely certain and was willing to wait for you to catch up. “Fine,” you said.
He smiled. “Next week,” he said.
The following Tuesday Daniel was outside your seminar again. This time you saw him before he saw you and you changed direction, took the long way to the exit, added seven minutes to your walk. Small, manageable.
On Thursday he was in the coffee queue behind you. “Coincidence,” he said, and smiled at you, and you smiled back tightly and paid for your coffee and left.
On Friday he messaged. Again.
Daniel: hey saw you in the queue yesterday, why’d you leave so fast?
You didn’t reply. And he messaged again on Saturday.
Daniel: did I do something wrong?
You showed it to Ria over the phone that night. She was quiet for a second. “He’s not taking the hint,” she said.
“I didn’t hint. I said directly I wasn’t interested.”
“Then he’s not taking the direct statement.”
“Yeah.”
Another pause. “Tell Riki.”
“Ria—”
“Y/N I’m serious, tell—”
“It’s fine. I can handle it.”
“I know you can handle it, that’s not the—” She stopped. “Just tell him. You know you want to.” You didn’t answer that.
Wednesday came around, you’d been at the counter for forty minutes. Jay had come and gone twice. Jake had shown Hana something on his phone that made her laugh and Riki had looked at that for approximately one second before very deliberately looking elsewhere.
You were mid-sentence about something — your dissertation, probably, you’d been complaining about your dissertation — when the door opened.
Sunghoon came in from his afternoon off, still in his jacket, unwinding his scarf. He was unfairly attractive and moved through the shop like he knew it, dropping his bag behind the counter and immediately coming over to where you were sitting. “Y/N.” He leaned on the counter beside Riki’s stool, friendly, easy. “How’s the tragus?”
“Good.” You touched it briefly. “Riki’s doing the other side next week.”
“Nice. You should let me draw something for you. Little custom piece, just here—” he touched his own collarbone— “would suit you.”
“Yeah?”
“Hundred percent.” He looked at Riki. “Right?” Riki was looking at his phone. “Riki,” Sunghoon said.
“Hm.” He didn’t look up. Sunghoon looked at you with a small what’s his problem expression. You looked back with a I genuinely don’t know expression.
You talked to Sunghoon for twenty more minutes. He was easy to talk to — funny, straightforward, the kind of person who filled a room without trying. He showed you his portfolio on his phone, talked you through a couple of pieces, asked about your university course with actual interest.
Riki stayed on his stool. He wasn’t on his phone. You could tell because you kept looking over and the screen was dark. He was just sitting there in the specific stillness of something being actively held in place, forearms on the desk, jaw set. When Sunghoon went to the back to change into his work clothes you turned to Riki. “What’s wrong with you?” you said.
“Nothing.”
“You’ve said four words in the last twenty minutes.”
“I’ve been busy.”
You looked at the dark phone screen. Looked at him. “Riki.”
“I’m fine.” He finally looked at you. His face was even, controlled, the expression he wore when he was putting effort into the expression. “You want more coffee?”
“No.” You kept your voice low. Jay and Jake were across the room but still. “Talk to me.”
Something moved behind his eyes. For a second you thought he was going to — actually going to, drop whatever this was and say it. His jaw shifted. His eyes moved over your face and then away. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Forget it.”
You looked at him for a long moment. He looked at the counter. You picked up your bag. “I’m going to head,” you said.
He looked up then. Quick, like he hadn’t expected it. “You don’t have to—”
“I have stuff to do.” You stood up. Your voice was even, you’d made sure of it. “I’ll see you next week for the tragus.”
“Y/N—”
“Bye, Riki.” You said goodbye to Jay on the way out. Waved at Jake. Pushed the door open into the cold.
Behind you, through the glass, you heard Jay say something. Heard Riki’s voice, short and clipped. Didn’t hear the words. You walked to the bus stop and stared at the road and felt something hot and frustrated sitting in your chest that you didn’t have a clean name for.
He texted at nine that night.
Riki: I’m sorry about today
You stared at it.
Riki: I get like that sometimes. I don’t like it.
Another one, a minute later.
Riki: It wasn’t about Sunghoon. It wasn’t about you.
Riki: ok it was about Sunghoon.
You sat on your bed with your phone in your hand and read that three times.
you: do you want to tell me what “getting like that” means??
A pause. Longer than his usual response time.
Riki: Not over text. Wednesday?
you: yeah
you: Riki, Sunghoon was just being friendly
Riki: I know. I know that. It doesn’t always
The message cut off. Like he’d deleted the end of it and sent what was left.
Riki: Wednesday. I’ll explain.
Riki: night Y/N
You got there at three. Jay handed you your coffee without being asked and then found somewhere else to be, which meant Riki had said something to him beforehand, which meant he’d been thinking about this. Riki was at the counter. He looked up when you came in and the usual ease wasn’t fully there — not gone, just quieter, like he’d dialed something back. “Hey,” he said.
“Hey.” You sat down. Wrapped both hands around the coffee. “So.”
“So.” He exhaled. Looked at the counter for a second, then at you. “I get possessive.” He said it straight. No build up, no softening — just put it on the counter between you like something he’d decided you should see.
“Okay,” you said.
“I don’t like it,” he said. “It’s not — I’m not trying to make it your problem. I know Sunghoon wasn’t doing anything. I know you weren’t doing anything. It just—” He stopped. His jaw shifted. “It sits wrong. Someone else in your space. Being the thing making you laugh.”
You looked at him. His eyes were on the counter, which was unusual — Riki who held eye contact through everything. “Has it always been like that?” you said.
“Yeah.” Simple. “Better than it used to be.”
“What was it like before?”
He looked up. “Worse.” A pause. “I dealt with it badly. I’m not—” He stopped again. “I’m not like that anymore. I don’t act on it. But I feel it and sometimes it makes me go quiet and disappear into my own head and that’s not fair to you.”
You sat with that. “Why are you telling me this?” you said.
He held your gaze. “Because you asked.”
“People don’t always answer when you ask.”
“I know.” Something in his face. “You should know what you’re—” He stopped himself again, and you heard the end of that sentence clearly even without the words. What you’re getting into. What I am.
“Riki,” you said. “If Sunghoon had been doing something—” You held his eyes. “Or anyone. I’d handle it. That’s not— I’m not someone who needs protecting from other people’s attention.”
“I know that.”
“But I’m also not—” You paused. Chose the words. “I’m not interested in other people’s attention. Okay? That’s just—” You shrugged. “That’s just where I’m at.”
The silence that followed had weight to it. Riki looked at you. Really looked — the way he did sometimes, like he was reading something underneath the surface of what you’d said, like he was checking if you meant it.You meant it. “Okay,” he said quietly.
“Okay,” you said.
He exhaled. Something in his shoulders dropped slightly — barely visible, but there. “Tragus,” he said.
“Tragus,” you agreed. He stood up from the stool. And as he passed behind the counter his hand came down briefly on yours where it rested on the surface — just for a second, just his fingers over your knuckles, warm and solid — and then he was moving through to the piercing section and the moment was gone.
You sat there for a second. Then you followed him. Across the room Jay looked at Heeseung in the doorway of his office. Heeseung looked back. Neither of them said anything.
It happened on a Friday. Not a Wednesday. Not planned. You’d come in with Hana at five because she’d finally committed to a small piece on her ankle and wanted moral support, and by the time Jake was finishing up the linework the shop had emptied out — Sunghoon’s last client gone, Jay heading out with his jacket half on, Heeseung locking his office with his keys already in his hand. “You good to close?” Heeseung said to Riki.
“Yeah.” Riki was wiping down the front counter. “Go.” Heeseung looked at you. Brief, unreadable. Looked back at Riki. Said nothing and left. Jay pointed finger guns at you on his way out. You ignored him.
Jake finished Hana’s piece at half past six. She sat up and looked at it in the mirror with the expression of someone who had just made a very good decision, and then she looked at you and at Riki and made a different kind of decision entirely. “I’ll get a cab,” she said.
“I’ll come,” you said.
“You don’t have to.” Serene. Innocent. Absolutely deliberate. “I’m fine on my own.”
“Hana—”
“I’ll text you when I’m home.” She hugged you, said goodbye to Jake, said goodbye to Riki with a smile that communicated volumes, and then she was gone and Jake was heading out behind her and the door swung shut and the shop was quiet.
Just you and Riki. He was at the front counter. You were near the piercing section. The red light was low and the playlist had shifted to something slower, something with bass underneath it, and the flash art on the walls looked different when there was no one else here — more intimate, like the shop had exhaled. “You can head,” Riki said. He wasn’t looking at you. Wiping the counter, routine.
“I know,” you said.
You didn’t move. He stopped wiping. The silence lasted four seconds. You counted. Then he looked up. The expression on his face wasn’t the smirk. Wasn’t the work focus. It was something stripped back — something that had been running underneath everything for weeks and was apparently done waiting. “Y/N,” he said. Low.
“Yeah,” you said. Like you were answering a question he hadn’t asked yet.
He put the cloth down. He came around the counter and crossed the floor and he didn’t stop until he was right in front of you, close enough that you had to tilt your chin up slightly, and his hand came up to your jaw — not grabbing, just his fingers along the side of your face, tilting you toward him — and he looked at you for one more second like he was making absolutely sure.
Whatever he saw made his mind up. He kissed you and it was nothing like the slow build you’d been expecting — it was immediate, certain, his mouth on yours like he’d been thinking about it for weeks because he had been, and you got your hands into his shirt and kissed him back and the sound he made low in his throat did something catastrophic to your ability to think.
His hands moved — jaw, then your waist, pulling you in until there was no space left between you — and you felt the rings on his fingers through the fabric of your top and his body was solid and warm and there, fully there, nothing held back.
You bit his lower lip without planning to. He pulled back half an inch. His eyes were dark, his breathing had changed, and he looked at you with an expression that rearranged something in your chest. “Do that again,” he said quietly, “and we’re not stopping.”
“Good,” you said. And you did it again. He walked you back until your shoulders hit the wall beside the piercing partition — not rough, controlled, one hand flat against the wall beside your head and the other at your waist, and he kissed you deeper this time, slower, like he had you exactly where he wanted and wasn’t in any rush now that he did.
His tongue — god, his tongue, the bar was there and present and you felt it and made a sound into his mouth that you would have been embarrassed about if his hand hadn’t tightened on your waist the second you did it. “There it is,” he said against your mouth.
“Shut up,” you breathed.
“You’ve been thinking about it.” Not a question. His lips moved to your jaw, your neck, unhurried. “Since I told you.”
“Riki—”
“Yes,” he said, quoting you back to yourself, and you felt him smile against your throat.
“You’re so—”
“I know.” He pulled back to look at you. His hair was slightly wrecked, his eyes were very dark, and he looked at you with the kind of focus he usually reserved for his work — total, precise, like you were something he intended to get exactly right. “Tell me what you want.”
“I want you to stop talking,” you said.
“No you don’t.” He was right. You didn’t.
“I want—” You stopped. His thumb had found the hem of your top, tracing the skin at your waist, barely moving, just there. Your brain was doing something unhelpful. “I want you to keep going.”
“Keep going,” he repeated. Like he was logging it. “That’s not very specific.”
“Riki.”
“I want to hear you say it.” His voice had dropped, lower than usual, and there was something in it — not a demand exactly, more like an invitation with weight behind it, like he already knew and wanted you to catch up. “Tell me.”
You looked at him. He looked back, steady, patient, his thumb still tracing that small arc at your waist.
“I’ve wanted you for weeks,” you said. “You know that.”
“I know.” He leaned in, his mouth at your ear. “I wanted to hear you say it.” His hands moved — both of them, finding the hem of your top, sliding underneath to your bare waist, warm palms spreading across your skin — and you exhaled shakily and his mouth came back to yours and the patience dissolved.
Somewhere on the walk from the counter to the wall you got his shirt off and you put your hands on his chest and then his stomach and then lower and found the waistband of his jeans and his breath caught — actually caught, an involuntary thing, the first crack in the steady control — and you looked up at him.
His jaw was tight. His eyes were dark and fixed on your face. “Keep going,” he said. His own words back. Low and rough. You undid his jeans. Your hand found him and he was — there was a Jacob’s ladder — you stopped. He watched your face process it.
“Riki,” you said.
“Yeah.” His voice was rough now, the evenness wearing thin at the edges.
“When were you going to—”
“When it came up.”
“It’s come up.”
“It has,” he agreed, and something in his expression was almost amused except he was too far gone for amused, too focused, his hands gripping your waist with more pressure than before. “Still want to keep going?”
You looked at him. “Are you serious right now.”
He laughed — real, brief, surprised out of him — and then his forehead dropped to yours and you felt him exhale and then his mouth was on yours again and the laughing was done. Your jacket off your shoulders and it hit the floor and his mouth was on your throat before it landed — open, hot, his tongue against your pulse point and the piercing bar cool against your skin and you made a sound that echoed off the black walls. “Riki—”
“I know.” His hands were at the hem of your top, shoving it up, impatient in a way that cracked the usual control wide open. “Off.”
You got it off and his hands were on your tits and his mouth came back to yours.
He walked you back into the wall beside the piercing partition — not slow, not careful, just direct — and pinned you there with his body and his hands were everywhere and yours were too and it was nothing like the slow careful thing you’d half imagined. It was desperate. Both of you. Weeks of it.
“You have no idea,” he said against your jaw, your throat, lower, his mouth on your collarbone, “how long I’ve—” He stopped. His teeth grazed your skin. “Fuck.”
“Tell me,” you breathed.
“Since you walked in here in that dress,” he said into your skin. “Since you leaned on my counter and looked at me like that. I’ve been—” His hands found your jeans, the button, the zip. “Since then.” He shoved your jeans down your hips and you kicked them off and his hand pushed between your thighs and found your pussy through the thin fabric still there and pressed and your hips rolled forward hard.
“There,” he said. Low, rough, satisfied. “There you are.” His fingers moved — slow, deliberate, feeling the heat of you through the fabric — and he looked at your face while he did it. Watching. Taking everything. “Soaked already,” he said. “Were you like this the whole time?”
“Don’t—” you started.
“You were.” He pushed the fabric aside and his fingers touched your folds directly and you choked on a breath. The rings were cold, the contrast of it shocking and good and — “Riki—”
“Good girl,” he said quietly. Like it meant something. Like you’d done something right just by responding to him. His fingers moved through your folds and found your clit and you grabbed his shoulders and held on. “So wet. So fucking — look at you.”
“Please—”
“Please what.” His fingers kept moving, unhurried despite everything, despite the fact that you could feel how much he wanted this — felt it against your hip, hard, his own breathing gone ragged at the edges. “Say it.”
“I need—”
“Say it, Y/N.”
“I need you to fuck me,” you said. “Now, Riki, please—” He made a sound low in his throat and his fingers disappeared and he was shoving his own jeans down, just enough, barely, one hand braced on the wall beside your head — and then he looked at you, dark eyes and wrecked hair and jaw set hard.
“Here?” he said. Rough. “Right here?”
“Yes—”
His hand found your pussy again, two fingers pushing inside, testing, and you made an embarrassing sound and he groaned at the feel of you — “fuck you’re—” — and then his fingers were gone and he was there, the head of his cock at your entrance, and you hooked your leg over his hip. He pushed in. Both of you went still. His forehead dropped to yours. Your nails were in his shoulders. The Jacob’s ladder — you felt every single one and your mouth fell open and you heard him exhale shakily above you. “Riki—”
“I know.” His voice was barely there. “I know, just — fuck — just give me a second—”
“Don’t stop,” you said. “Don’t stop, keep—”
He moved. There was nothing controlled about it. That was the thing — Riki who was steady and certain and always in possession of himself — gone. Completely. He fucked you against the wall with his jeans half down and yours on the floor and his rings cold against your thigh where he’d hooked your leg higher and the bar of his tongue in his teeth when he looked at you and it was overwhelming, the closeness of it, the sound of it in the empty shop.
“Good,” he said, rough and low, his hips rolling into you, setting a pace that had your head dropping back against the wall. “Good girl, just like — yeah, just like that—”
“More—”
“Yeah?” He shifted his angle and you cried out and he did it again, deliberate, watching your face. “There?”
“Yes — yes, don’t stop—”
“I’ve got you.” His mouth found your throat. “I’ve got you, you’re doing so — fuck, Y/N, you feel—” He broke off. His rhythm stuttered and recovered. “You feel so good. So fucking good.”
The praise landed somewhere it had no business landing, warm and devastating, and your hips were moving to meet him and your clit was grinding against him with every thrust and you were already… “Riki I’m going to—”
“Do it,” he said immediately. “Cum for me. Come on.” His hand moved between you and his thumb found your clit and pressed and you shattered — your whole body going taut, his name in your mouth, your nails breaking skin on his shoulders — and he fucked you through it, relentless, not letting up—
“That’s it,” he said against your ear, rough and wrecked. “That’s it, good girl, god you’re—” He followed you over the edge not long after — his rhythm breaking, his breath gone, his forehead hard against the wall beside your head — and the sound he made when he came was low and helpless and you felt it everywhere.
There was silence that followed apart from the playlist over the shop speakers. The red light under the door still illuminated. Both of you still against the wall like butter of you planned to move soon, his weight partly on you and partly on his arm and neither of you in any hurry to fix that.
Your leg slid down from his hip. He pulled back enough to look at your face. His hair was completely wrecked. His mouth was slightly swollen. He looked at you with an expression that had nothing performed in it — just open, just him, something that hadn’t had a name all this time and still didn’t quite yet. “Hi,” he said.
You laughed. Surprised out of you, real. He smiled — the real one, the one that changed his whole face — and pressed it briefly into your hair.
You found the back room couch eventually. His shirt on your shoulders. The rings back on his fingers because he’d put them on out of habit and then looked at his own hands like he hadn’t noticed himself doing it. You lay on your back. He sat with his back against the couch, forearm on his knee, looking at the floor. “So,” you said.
“So,” he said.
“What happens now?” you said.
He was quiet for a moment. “What do you want?”
You thought about the card in your bag. The Wednesdays. The way he’d looked at you across the counter every single time like you were a decision he’d already made. “I don’t know yet,” you said. Honest.
“Okay,” he said. Easy. No pressure in it. His hand found yours in the dark. Didn’t make anything of it. Just held on. You stayed on the couch until the playlist rolled over twice. At some point the I don’t know yet became irrelevant because his mouth found your throat again and his hands were back under his shirt on your skin and the question got buried under something more immediate.
You left at nine. He walked you to the door. Held it open, leaned in the frame. The cold air hit you and you turned back. He looked wrecked and unbothered about it. Shirt on, jeans done up, rings on every finger. Hair a disaster. Looking at you with that expression — the settled one, the certain one. “Wednesday,” he said. You nodded.
Neither of you said anything about what it was. That was the agreement, unspoken, the way most things between you and Riki were unspoken. You came in on Wednesdays. Sometimes other days. Sometimes he texted at ten at night — nothing explicit, just you up or studio’s empty — and you went, and nobody named what that meant. It worked. Mostly.
The sex was — there wasn’t a word for it that didn’t sound inadequate. Compulsive was close. Inevitable was closer. Like once the wall had come down neither of you had any interest in rebuilding it, like your bodies had been having a conversation for months and were now just speaking plainly.
He learned you fast. Faster than anyone had. What made you gasp versus what made you come apart completely. The difference between what you asked for and what you actually wanted. He paid attention the way he paid attention to everything — totally, precisely — and used it with a focus that should have been illegal.
You learned him too. That the control was real but thin in the right circumstances. That his jaw set right before it cracked. That he made sounds he didn’t seem to know he was making. That he said your name differently when he was close — shorter, sharper, like he didn’t have room for the full shape of it. That he always, always pulled you back when you tried to move away after. Not possessive. Just — unwilling to let the warmth go yet. You were trying very hard not to think about what that meant.
Three weeks after the first time, on a Tuesday night, you were in the back room of Studio 13 with Riki’s shirt on the floor and your jeans somewhere near the door and his mouth on your throat and his hand between your thighs and the playlist coming through the walls and everything was fine, everything was exactly what it was, unnamed and manageable —
And then he said I’ve got you in that low rough voice right against your ear and something in your chest did a thing it wasn’t supposed to do. You filed it away. Dealt with it later. Later didn’t come because he did something with his tongue that made later completely irrelevant.
Wednesday afternoon. Counter. Coffee. Normal. Easy. The same as it had always been except for the part where it wasn’t because now you knew exactly what his hands felt like and what sounds he made and what his face looked like when the composure cracked and sitting on the other side of a counter from him in the middle of the afternoon was — a different experience than it used to be.
He was telling you something about a client — complicated custom piece, back and forth for weeks on the design — and you were listening and also watching his hands move when he talked, the rings catching the light, and thinking about those hands on your waist last night and… “Y/N.”
You looked up. He was looking at you with the quiet knowing expression. “I was listening,” you said.
“You weren’t.”
“I was. Custom piece. Back and forth on the design. Client keeps changing their mind.”
He tilted his head slightly. The corner of his mouth. “What were you thinking about?”
“The flash art.”
“Hm.” He leaned on the counter. His forearms right there, the sleeve on full display, and he looked at you with that unhurried certainty. “You were looking at my hands.”
“I was looking at your rings.”
“Y/N.”
“They’re interesting rings.”
He held your gaze for a long moment. Then he looked down at his hands, turned them over slowly, looked back up at you with an expression that was doing something to your ability to function. “Come back tonight,” he said.
“I was here last night.”
“I know.”
“And the night before.”
“I know.” He didn’t look remotely apologetic. “Come back tonight.”
You looked at him. “We should probably — this probably shouldn’t be—”
“Probably,” he agreed, like the word meant nothing.
“Riki.”
“Tonight, Y/N.”
You looked at your coffee. At him. At the rings on his hands that you had been thinking about and were now not admitting to thinking about. “Fine,” you said.
He picked up his own coffee. Satisfied. Like there had never been any other outcome. From across the shop Jay said nothing. He had learned, over the past three weeks, that saying things got him absolutely nowhere and had adapted accordingly. He simply made eye contact with Sunghoon across the room and they had an entire conversation without words.
That night after Studio 13 closed, which had become its own specific thing — the red light, the quiet, the shop breathing differently when it was empty. Riki had barely locked the front door before you were crossing the floor toward him and his expression when he turned around and saw you moving like that— “Hi,” he said.
“Hi.” You reached him. Your hands went to his chest, his jaw, pulling him down, and he came without resistance, his hands finding your waist immediately, already knowing where to go.
He kissed you slow this time. Deliberately slow, like he was making a point, like the urgency of the last few weeks had shifted into something that wanted to take its time. That was somehow worse. “Riki,” you said against his mouth.
“Hm.”
“Stop going slow.”
“No.” He kissed your jaw. Your throat. Slow and deliberate, his hands sliding under your top to your bare waist. “I spent all afternoon thinking about this.”
“So did I, that’s why—”
“That’s why we’re taking our time.” His mouth at your collarbone. “I want to—” A pause. His lips against your skin. “I want to take you apart properly. Not fast.”
Your hands tightened in his hair. “That’s not fair,” you said.
“No,” he agreed, and kept going. He got your top off and looked at you in the low light the way he always did — that slow, unapologetic assessment that moved over you like you were worth looking at carefully — and then his mouth found your tits and your head fell back.
His tongue. The bar of it, cool and present, circling your nipple, and you made a sound and his hands tightened on your waist. “Good girl,” he said against your skin. “Just like that.”
“Riki—”
“I’ve got you.” He moved to the other side, same slow attention, his hands holding your waist like you might float away. “I’ve got you, just — yeah, just feel it.” You were going to lose your mind. Your hands found his shirt and he let you get it off and then he was walking you back to the couch in the back room and laying you down and looking at you from above with dark eyes and that expression — the open one, the one that had no performance in it.
He got your jeans off slow. His hands running down your thighs as he pulled them, his mouth following, pressing to your hip, the inside of your knee, and by the time he got back up to your folds you were already soaked. “Riki, please—”
“Please what.” His breath against your inner thigh. Close, not close enough.
“Please—”
“Tell me what you want.” His lips brushed your folds, barely, just the suggestion of pressure. “Tell me.”
“Your mouth,” you said. “Please, your mouth—” He gave it to you. The bar of his tongue against your clit and you grabbed the back of the couch and held on. He ate your pussy like he had nowhere else to be — thorough, focused, the same attention he gave everything — and the sounds he made against you, low and hungry, like he was getting something from it—
“God—” your hips rolled and his hands held them down, firm, keep still, and the loss of control of that made it worse in the best way. “Riki I’m — don’t stop, don’t—”
“Not stopping,” he said against your clit. “Cum for me. Come on.”
You did. He worked you through it until you were pulling at his hair telling him too much, too much and he pressed one last kiss to your inner thigh and came back up your body and looked at your face with an expression that was — satisfied wasn’t the right word. Reverent was closer, which was a thing you were absolutely not processing right now. “Good girl,” he said quietly.
“Stop calling me that,” you said, breathless.
“No,” he said simply, and kissed you.
When he finally pushed inside you both exhaled like something had been solved. Slow, this time. Deep. His forehead against yours, his arms bracketing you, his rings cool against the side of your face where his hand was. “Okay?” he said.
“Yeah.” Your voice wasn’t working right. “Yeah, keep — please keep going.”
He moved. Slow, deep rolls of his hips that had you feeling every ridge of the ladder on every stroke and your mouth kept falling open and he watched it happen. “You feel it,” he said. Low, not a question.
“Yes—”
“Good.” His hips rolled deeper and you gasped. “That’s good, you’re so — fuck, Y/N—” His composure was fraying at the edges, the rhythm getting less controlled. “You take me so well. Every time. Like you were—” He stopped himself.
You looked up at him. His jaw was set, his eyes dark, something moving behind them that he’d just pulled back from saying. “Like I was what,” you said.
He looked at you. For a second — just a second — something was right there on his face, unguarded, something that went past the physical and landed somewhere neither of you had named yet. He kissed you instead of answering.
You let him. Filed it away. Pulled him closer and let the question dissolve into the drag and heat of him moving inside you and his mouth on yours and his hand sliding between you to find your clit— “Riki—”
“I know,” he said. “I know, come on, cum for me again, you can—”
“I can’t—”
“You can.” His thumb on your clit, his cock deep, his voice at your ear. “You can, good girl, come on, let me feel you—” You came with his name in your mouth and your whole body shaking and he followed you with his face pressed into your throat and the sound he made was low and broken and yours.
After his thumb moving slow at your hip. The ceiling. The playlist. You were thinking about like you were— and what came after it. You were thinking about I’ve got you and how he said it every time, always, like a reflex, like something that came from somewhere deeper than the moment.
You were thinking about the fact that you knew what his laugh sounded like — the real one, the surprised one — and that you’d been collecting these things without meaning to and the collection was getting heavy. “Riki,” you said.
“Hm.”
“What are we doing.”
Silence. His thumb stopped moving. Then, carefully: “What do you want to be doing.”
You stared at the ceiling. “I don’t know. That’s why I’m asking.”
He was quiet for a long moment. You could feel him thinking — that specific quality of his silences, weighted, considering. “I’m not good at this part,” he said.
“What part.”
“The—” A pause. “Saying things.”
“You say things to me all the time.”
“Not these things.”
You turned your head to look at him. He was looking at the ceiling, jaw slightly tight, the expression of someone navigating something carefully. “What things,” you said quietly.
He turned his head. Your faces close in the dim light. His eyes moved over yours. “I don’t want you going anywhere,” he said. Finally. Quietly. “That’s — that’s what I’ve got right now.”
It wasn’t everything. You both knew it wasn’t everything. But it was Riki, who didn’t say things, saying a thing, and it landed with the weight of something much larger behind it.“Okay,” you said.
“Okay,” he said. His thumb started moving again. You looked back at the ceiling. The unnamed thing stayed unnamed. But it was there, in the room with you, and you both knew it.
The thing about not naming something was that it didn’t stop it from being a thing. It just meant you had no language for it when it started to matter. Four weeks into whatever this was, Ria staged an intervention.
Not a dramatic one — she didn’t have people over or make a presentation, she just showed up at your flat on a Saturday morning with coffee and pastries and sat across from you at your kitchen table with the expression of someone who had been patient for a very long time and was cashing that in now. “Talk,” she said.
“About what.”
“Y/N.”
“I don’t know what you want me to say, Ria.”
“I want you to say what’s happening with Riki.”
You picked up your coffee. “We’re—”
“If you say friends I’m leaving and taking the pastries.”
You put your coffee down. “It’s complicated.”
“Is it? Or is it simple and you’re making it complicated because you’re scared?”
You looked at her. She looked back with the patience of someone who had known you for six years and had seen every version of your avoidance. “We haven’t put a name on it,” you said.
“Why not.”
“Because—” You stopped. Because he’d said I don’t want you going anywhere and you’d said okay and neither of you had pushed past that. Because every Wednesday and every late night felt like building something and neither of you would say what you were building. “It’s working the way it is.”
“Is it.”
“Yes.”
“You like him.”
“Obviously.”
“Like like him.”
“Ria—”
“Y/N.” She leaned forward. “You went back to that shop every week for two months before anything happened. You know his coffee order, his schedule, what makes him laugh. You’ve met his friends. He checks your piercings as an excuse to be close to you.” She paused. “That’s not complicated. That’s you being terrified.”
You stared at the table. “He’s not easy to read,” you said. Finally.
“He gave you his personal card the night he met you,” Ria said. “Heeseung told me he’d never done that before.”
“When did you talk to Heeseung?”
“Jake texts me sometimes.”
“Jake texts you.”
“That’s not the point.” She pushed a pastry toward you. “The point is that boy is absolutely gone for you and you both keep dancing around it and it’s making everyone at Studio 13 insane, apparently.”
“Everyone?”
“Jay’s exact words were if they don’t sort it out soon I’m locking them in the back room.”
You put your face in your hands. “I don’t know how to do this with him,” you said, muffled. “He doesn’t say things. I don’t push. We just—”
“So say something first,” Ria said simply. “You’re not someone who waits, Y/N. That’s not you. You’re doing it because you’re scared he won’t say it back.” You lifted your face. Said nothing. She was right and you both knew it.
You didn’t say anything that Wednesday. You came close — sitting at the counter, coffee in hand, Riki talking about something, his rings on the desk, his eyes finding yours every few sentences the way they always did — and the words were right there, and you looked at his face, and you thought about Ria’s voice saying terrified, and you said nothing. He looked at you at one point like he knew something was moving behind your eyes. “What,” he said.
“Nothing.” You smiled. “Keep going.” He held your gaze for a second. Let it go.
The following Saturday Sunghoon texted you. Not unusual — you’d exchanged numbers for shop-related things, flash piece ideas, scheduling. He was easy to talk to, straightforward, the kind of person whose texts read exactly like his voice.
Sunghoon: hey, you said you were thinking about a collarbone piece right
you: yeah still thinking
Sunghoon: I drew something. wanna see
He sent a photo. Small, delicate, blackwork — something botanical, two thin stems crossing, minimal and precise. It was exactly your taste and you had no idea how he’d known that.
you: sunghoon this is gorgeous
Sunghoon: right? come in monday, I’ll show you the full size version. riki’s off monday so it’ll be quiet
you: sounds good, see you then
You didn’t think anything of it. Sunghoon was your friend. He’d drawn something for you. You were going to look at it. You didn’t mention it to Riki because there was nothing to mention.
Monday the shop was quieter without Riki in it, which was a thing you noticed and filed away as information you didn’t love having. Sunghoon had the drawing laid out on the counter when you arrived — full size, done properly on transfer paper, and it was even better than the photo. You stood over it with him pointing out the details, his hand close to yours on the paper, talking through placement and sizing and whether to add a third stem.
Jay was pretending to do something at the other counter.bHeeseung was in his office with the door open. “Here,” Sunghoon said, and pressed the transfer paper lightly to your collarbone to show you the placement. His hand steadied it against your skin, professional, and you looked in the mirror and thought yes, that was exactly right. Your phone lit up on the counter.
Riki: you at the shop?
You looked at it. Jay looked at it. Sunghoon didn’t see it.
you: yeah, sunghoon drew something for me. just looking at placement
The three dots appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Riki: k
One letter.
Riki: looks good?
you: really good actually. he’s talented
The dots again. Then nothing. No reply. You put your phone down. Sunghoon was still talking about the third stem. You looked at the transfer in the mirror and tried to pay attention and felt something uneasy settle in your chest.
Riki was at the counter when you arrived Wednesday. You knew within ten seconds that something was wrong. Not visibly wrong — he looked the same, said hey the same, had your coffee ready the same. But his eyes when they met yours were flatter than usual. The warmth was there but dimmed, like something had been turned down. You sat. Picked up your coffee. “How was your day off?” you said.
“Fine.” He was looking at his phone.
“Did you do anything?”
“Not much.” Jay appeared from the back, clocked the atmosphere in approximately two seconds, and disappeared again.
You watched Riki scroll his phone. His jaw was set. Not dramatically — just tight, controlled, the way it got when he was holding something still. “Riki,” you said.
“Hm.”
“Look at me.” He looked up. The flat quality was more visible face to face. Something was moving behind his eyes that he was keeping on a very short leash. “What’s wrong?” you said.
“Nothing.”
“You’ve said twelve words since I got here.”
“I’ve been busy.”
You looked at him. He looked back, and you could see the effort of it — the effort of sitting in whatever this was and keeping it even. “Is this about Monday?” you said.
Something shifted in his jaw. “No.”
“Riki.”
“It’s not about Monday.”
“So it is about Monday.”
He put his phone down. Flat on the counter. He looked at you with an expression that was very controlled and also not controlled at all if you knew what to look for, and you knew what to look for now. “You went in on my day off,” he said.
“Sunghoon drew something for me. I told you.”
“I know what you told me.”
“Then what—”
“His hands were on you.” Quiet. Final. Like he’d been sitting on it for two days and it had compacted into something very small and very dense.
You stared at him. “He was showing me placement. For a tattoo. That’s his job.”
“I know that.”
“Then—”
“I know that, Y/N.” His voice was still even but something was pushing at the edges of it. “I know it doesn’t mean anything. I know Sunghoon wasn’t — I know.” He looked at the counter. “It doesn’t stop it feeling—” He stopped.
“Feeling what,” you said. He was quiet for a long moment.
“Wrong,” he said. “It feels wrong. Someone else’s hands on you feels wrong and I don’t know how to make that—” He stopped again. His thumb pressed against the counter. “I’m trying to be rational about it.”
“You went quiet for two days,” you said.
“I know.”
“That’s not — Riki, you can’t just go quiet every time something—”
“I know.” He looked up. His eyes were direct now, no flatness, just the real thing underneath — something frustrated and raw and tired of itself. “I know it’s not fair. I’m telling you I know that. I just—” A breath. “I don’t know how to feel it and not do that. I’m working on it.”
You looked at him for a long moment. “You went quiet instead of talking to me,” you said.
“Yes.”
“And you’re telling me now because I pushed.”
“Yes.” He held your gaze. “I would have told you. I just needed to — I needed it to be smaller before I could say it without it being—” He gestured vaguely. “A lot.”
“Is it smaller now?”
“Somewhat.”
You picked up your coffee. Looked at it. Put it down. “You know that there’s nothing—” you started.
“I know.” Immediately. “Y/N, I know. This isn’t about you. This isn’t about Sunghoon. It’s mine, it’s a me thing, and I’m not trying to make it your problem.”
“It becomes my problem when you disappear.”
“I know.” His jaw shifted. “I’m sorry.”
You looked at him. He looked back, steady, the thing behind his eyes open now in the way it only got when he’d pushed past the control on purpose — when he was giving you something deliberately. “Don’t disappear,” you said. “Whatever it is — just say it. To me. Not in your head for two days.”
“Okay,” he said. His hand moved across the counter and covered yours briefly — the rings cool, the weight of his palm familiar. “Okay, Y/N.”
The touch lasted a few seconds. He didn’t make anything of it. Just let it be there and then pulled back. From the back room, completely audibly, Jay said to someone: “finally.”
“Jay,” Riki said flatly.
“I’m just saying—”
“Jay.”
That night, late. He was in your flat, his idea — he’d texted at nine, not you up or studio’s empty but just your name, which was new. He was on your couch with his legs stretched out and his head back and his eyes on your ceiling and you were beside him close enough to feel the warmth of him and neither of you had moved toward the other yet. Just sitting. Existing in the same space. “Can I ask you something?” you said.
“Yeah.”
“The possessiveness.” You kept your voice even. “Where does it come from.”
A pause. He was quiet long enough that you thought he might not answer. “Control,” he said finally. “Or — fear of losing it. Things I care about.” His thumb moved against his own knee. “I spent a long time in situations where things got taken. People I — things I couldn’t protect.” He stopped. “I don’t talk about it.”
“You don’t have to.”
“I know.” A pause. “I want to. I just — not yet.”
Not yet. Not never. Not it’s not your business. Not yet meant there was a timeline. Meant he was thinking about it. Meant you were someone he was moving toward telling.
You leaned your head against his shoulder. He went still for a second — surprised, you thought, by the smallness of it, the casualness — and then his head dropped against yours and you felt him exhale. “The collarbone piece,” he said eventually. “Let me do it.”
You lifted your head. Looked at him. “You do tattoos?”
“Heeseung taught me. I’m not on the books for it but—” He met your eyes. “I want to do it. If you want.”
Sunghoon’s drawing. Riki’s hands. “Yeah,” you said. “Okay.”
Something settled in his face. Quiet and satisfied in a way that had nothing to do with the smirk. “Okay,” he said.
You put your head back on his shoulder. His arm moved — slow, like he was checking it was allowed — and settled around you. The unnamed thing pressed closer. Neither of you named it. But his arm tightened slightly and you let it, and that was something too.
The collarbone piece took two sessions. Riki had been clear about that upfront — small piece, delicate linework, he wanted to do it right and doing it right meant not rushing. You’d sat in the chair in the back room of Studio 13 on a quiet Tuesday morning with his hands on your collarbone and his face close and his full attention on the work and tried very hard to be normal about it. You were not normal about it. “Stop tensing,” he said, without looking up.
“I’m not tensing.”
“Your shoulder is up by your ear.” You lowered your shoulder. He glanced up briefly — dark eyes, the focus in them softening for just a second when they met yours — and then back down. “First line’s the worst,” he said. “Then you’ll settle.”
“I’ve been tattooed before.”
“Not by me.” He said it simply. Like it was just a fact. Which it was. But the way he said it landed like something more — like not by me was its own category, its own distinct experience, and he was right, as it turned out, because when the needle touched your collarbone the small shock of it dissolved almost immediately into the warmth of his hands steadying you and his voice saying good, just like that, breathe — and you settled.
You watched his face while he worked. This version of him — the work version, focused and quiet and completely present — was one of your favorites. All the usual energy went inward. The smirk was gone, the easy confidence was still there but different, channeled into precision. He moved the machine in small careful arcs and his free hand was always on you, always steadying, always aware of exactly how much pressure to use. “You’re staring,” he said.
“You said that to me once before.”
“You were staring then too.”
“Maybe I just have a specific staring problem.”
The corner of his mouth moved. He didn’t look up. “Maybe you do.”
He kissed you after the session. Not immediately — he’d finished, stepped back, examined the work with that quiet critical eye, declared it good. You’d looked in the mirror and felt something warm move through your chest at the sight of it — the two stems, thin and precise, sitting exactly right on your collarbone. “It’s perfect,” you said.
“I know.” He was already at the sink, washing his hands, and you could hear the smile in it even without seeing his face. You got up from the chair. Crossed the small space between you. And when he turned around you were right there and his expression shifted — from satisfied work-focus to something more personal, more immediate — and you put your hand on his jaw and kissed him.
He kissed you back with his damp hands at your waist, careful not to touch the fresh tattoo, and it was slow and unhurried and tasted like coffee and something that was just him and when you pulled back his eyes stayed closed for a second. Opened. Looked at you. “Hi,” he said quietly.
“Hi,” you said. His thumb moved at your waist. The rings. The warmth of his palms through your shirt.
“Come back Thursday for the second session,” he said.
“I know, you told me.”
“Just making sure.” He kissed you again before you could respond — quick, soft, his mouth on yours for just a moment — and then stepped back and handed you the aftercare sheet and was professional again, mostly, except for the way his eyes followed you to the door.
Thursday’s second session was longer. More detail, more shading on the stems, a small shadow that made the whole thing lift off the skin. You sat in the chair and he worked and you talked — properly talked, the way you did at the counter but quieter, more contained, just the two of you in the partitioned space.
He told you about growing up. Small things — not the things he kept locked, but around the edges of them. A younger brother. Moving schools twice. Being good at things with his hands from early on, carving things, taking things apart to see how they worked. “Is that why the piercing?” you said.
“Partly.” He shifted the machine slightly. “Partly because it’s — immediate. You do it right and you see it right away. No waiting to find out.”
“You like knowing things work.”
He glanced up. “Yeah.”
“Control thing.”
A pause. “Yeah,” he said again, quieter. You let that sit. Didn’t push.
“Tell me something else,” he said, after a moment. Deflecting but not — more like redirecting, like he wanted the conversation to keep going just in a different direction.
So you told him things. About your course, your family, the flat you’d moved into two years ago that still didn’t feel completely yours. The way Ria had been your anchor through everything since you were sixteen. How you’d wanted to study abroad and hadn’t and sometimes still thought about it. “Why didn’t you?” he said.
“Felt like running away from something.”
“Were you?”
You thought about it. “Probably.”
He looked up. His eyes on yours, level. “What were you running from.”
“Someone,” you said. “It doesn’t matter now.”
He held your gaze for a moment. You watched something move through his expression — something careful, something that might have been jealousy at its very distant edges but was mostly just — paying attention. Storing it. Like everything you gave him went somewhere it would be kept.
“Their loss,” he said. Simply. Looked back down. You looked at the top of his head and felt the unnamed thing press against your ribs from the inside.
He finished the piece in two hours. You both looked at it in the mirror — his chin near your shoulder, your reflection side by side — and neither of you said anything for a moment. “Well,” you said.
“Yeah,” he said. It was exactly right. Better than right. The kind of thing that looked like it had always been there, like your skin had been waiting for it.
You turned. He was right there, closer than you’d clocked, and you put both hands on his chest and looked up at him and he looked down at you and the moment expanded slightly. “Thank you,” you said.
“Don’t thank me.”
“Riki—”
“It was for me as much as you,” he said. Quiet. Direct. No smirk in it. “I wanted to put something on you. That’s—” He stopped. His jaw shifted. “That’s a me thing. Don’t thank me for it.”
You looked at him. He looked back, steady, and the naked quality of what he’d just said sat between you — I wanted to put something on you — and neither of you moved for a second.
Then you kissed him. Slow, deliberate, your hands spreading on his chest. He made a low sound and his arms came around you — gentle because of the fresh tattoo, careful, his hands at your back instead of your waist — and he kissed you back like he had time, like he wanted to use it.
When you broke apart he kept his forehead against yours. “Stay,” he said. Low. “Tonight. Just—” A pause. “Just stay.”
“Okay,” you said. You ate takeout on the floor of the back room because the couch was small and the floor had more space and Riki sat with his back against the couch and you sat between his legs with your back against his chest and it was so domestically comfortable that it was almost alarming.
He ate with one arm around you. His chin occasionally dropping to your shoulder to look at whatever you were showing him on your phone. His thumb making that small absent arc at your hip that he did when he wasn’t thinking about it.
“Ria thinks we need to define this,” you said, at some point. His arm didn’t tighten. Didn’t loosen. He was quiet for a moment.
“What do you think?” he said.
“I think Ria is right about most things.”
“Hm.” His thumb kept moving. “What would you define it as.”
You turned your head slightly. His face was close — close enough to see the detail of the scar through his eyebrow, the silver of his earring, the way he was looking at you with that careful open expression he only had when there was no one else around. “I don’t know,” you said. “What would you.”
“Mine,” he said. Quiet. Simple. Like it was the most obvious answer.
Your heart did something inconvenient. “That’s very you,” you said.
“Is it wrong?”
You turned back to face forward. His arm around you. The takeout. The red light. “No,” you said. “It’s not wrong.”
You felt him exhale against the back of your head. Slow, like something had released. His lips pressed briefly to your hair. Not a kiss exactly — too soft, too absent, more like a thing he did without deciding to.
You stayed on the floor until midnight. Talked about nothing important. Everything slightly important. He told you Jake was obviously falling for Hana and was handling it terribly, which you already knew, and you told him Ria had started texting Jake directly to speed the process along, which he did not know and which made him laugh — the real one, sudden, surprised. You stored it.
“I should go,” you said eventually. You had a nine AM seminar and the responsible thing—
“Yeah,” he said. Made no move to untangle himself from around you.
“Riki.”
“Five minutes.”
“You said that twenty minutes ago.”
“Five more minutes.” You leaned back into him and gave him the five minutes. He pressed his mouth to the side of your head again — that soft, absent thing, lips in your hair — and you closed your eyes and thought about mine and the way he’d said it like it was just the truth.
When you finally stood up he walked you to the door the way he always did. Unlocked it. Held it open. You turned back. He kissed you in the doorway — unhurried, thorough, one hand cupping your jaw and the other flat against the doorframe — and you kissed him back and it went on longer than a goodbye kiss needed to, longer than was practical, until he pulled back and looked at you with dark eyes and slightly wrecked composure.
“Wednesday,” he said. His thumb traced your jaw once before dropping.
“Wednesday,” you said. You made it to the end of the street. You looked back. He was still in the doorway, leaning on the frame, watching you go. When he saw you look he didn’t pretend he hadn’t been watching. Just held your gaze across the dark street. You turned back around and smiled at the pavement the whole way to the bus stop.
Heeseung had told everyone to come to his flat for dinner on Saturday — no occasion, just food, just all of them in the same place — and you’d arrived with Ria who had told you she’d been waiting for this invitation for weeks, which meant Jake had told her about it before Riki had told you, which meant something.
Heeseung’s flat was calm and dark-walled like the shop, art everywhere, music at a volume that allowed conversation. Jay was already there and immediately pulled Ria into an argument about something. Jake appeared from the kitchen and the way his face changed when he saw Ria was something you were going to tell Riki about later.
Riki was on the couch. He looked up when you came in and the smile that happened was immediate and unguarded — no performance, no build up, just his face doing the thing it did when you appeared, the thing you didn’t think he knew it did. He moved over without being asked. You sat beside him. Close. His arm went across the back of the couch behind you — not around you, but there, present, the rings near your shoulder.
Sunghoon arrived twenty minutes later and dropped onto the armchair across from you and looked at you both with an expression of great satisfaction. “You two sorted?” he said.
“Sunghoon,” Riki said.
“What? Last month you were—“ He stopped. “I’m just asking—”
“We’re sorted,” you said. Sunghoon grinned. Riki’s arm moved from the back of the couch to actually around your shoulders, like Sunghoon asking had given him permission to stop pretending he wasn’t doing it.
Dinner was loud and easy and everyone talked over everyone and Jay told a story about a client that got more elaborate every time he told it and Ria fit in like she’d always been there and Heeseung sat at the head of the table and said little and watched everything with quiet satisfaction.
After dinner you ended up back on the couch. Riki beside you, your legs across his, his hand resting on your ankle. The conversation had split across the room — Jay and Sunghoon, Ria and Jake in what looked like an increasingly interesting exchange, Heeseung in the kitchen. “You good?” Riki said quietly, just to you.
“Yeah.” You looked at the room. “This is nice.”
“They like you.”
“Jay likes everyone.”
“Heeseung doesn’t,” he said. Simple. “He likes you.”
You looked at him. “How can you tell?”
“He invited you.” He said it like it was obvious. “He doesn’t do this for everyone. He did it because—” A pause. His hand moved slightly on your ankle. “Because you’re—” He stopped.
“Because I’m what,” you said softly.
He looked at you. The room was noisy around you but it felt like it had contracted to just this, just his face and yours and the thing he was about to say. “Important,” he said. Quiet. “Because you’re important.”
Your heart did the inconvenient thing again, harder this time. “Riki,” you said.
“Yeah.”
“That word—”
“I know what word I used.” You looked at him. He looked back, steady, not taking it back, not softening it. Just — sitting in it, the way he sat in most things, patient and certain.
Across the room Jay said something loud and everyone laughed and the moment breathed. Riki’s hand moved from your ankle to your calf. Warm. Present. “Stay tonight,” he said. Low enough that it was only for you. “Not at the shop. Mine.”
His. His flat, which you hadn’t been to, which was a different thing than the back room couch. A different kind of staying. “Yeah,” you said.
He nodded. Looked back at the room. But his hand stayed on your leg and his shoulder was warm against yours and you sat in the important and let it settle into something that felt permanent.
Later, when most people had gone and Ria was helping Heeseung with something in the kitchen and it was just you and Riki by the door putting your jacket on he turned you by the shoulders. Kissed you slowly, his hands on your face, thumbs at your jaw. The kind of kiss that had no agenda, no direction, just wanted to exist. When he pulled back he looked at you for a long moment.
The word boyfriend was right there in the room. Neither of you said it. But his hand found yours and held it, and he didn’t let go the whole way to his flat, and somewhere in the space between mine and important and his fingers between yours on a dark street — the unnamed thing finally had a shape. You just hadn’t said it out loud yet.
His flat was on the third floor of a building that had seen better decades, the kind of place that was held together by good bones and someone who actually cared about the space inside it. You didn’t know what you’d expected.
More of the shop, maybe — dark walls, flash art, the deliberate aesthetic. And there was some of that. Dark furniture, a few framed pieces on the walls, one large canvas above the couch that was either very expensive or done by someone he knew and you suspected the latter. But it was also — lived in, in a specific way. Books stacked in an order that made sense only to him. A record player in the corner with a small collection beside it. The kitchen clean in the way of someone who cooked properly and cleaned as they went.
It was a home. Actually a home. That surprised you and you didn’t know why it surprised you and then you thought about what he’d said — I spent a long time in situations where things got taken — and understood it. He’d built this. Deliberately. Piece by piece. “Stop analyzing it,” he said from the kitchen.
“I’m not analyzing it.”
“You have your analyzing face on.”
“I don’t have an analyzing face.”
He appeared in the kitchen doorway with two glasses of water and looked at you standing in his living room in your jacket still on and raised an eyebrow. “Take your jacket off,” he said. “You’re staying.” You took your jacket off.
You fell asleep on his couch. Not intentionally — you’d been talking, the record player on low, and somewhere between one subject and the next the warmth of him beside you and the late hour pulled you under. You were aware of it happening distantly, the conversation getting slower, your eyes getting heavy, and you didn’t fight it.
You woke up in his bed. He’d moved you. At some point while you slept he’d carried you — or walked you, half-conscious — to the bed and put you in it and the duvet was pulled up and his pillow smelled like him and you lay there in the early grey morning and stared at the ceiling and felt something enormous and inconvenient sitting on your chest.
You heard him in the kitchen. The quiet sounds of someone who knew how to exist in the morning without disturbing anyone. You lay there and thought about mine and important and the collarbone tattoo and his hand in yours on the dark street and the back room couch and two months of Wednesdays and the card he’d slid across the counter the first night like he’d already decided.
You thought about Ria’s voice. You’re terrified. You were terrified.
He was at the kitchen counter with his back to you when you came in. Making coffee, unhurried, still in the clothes from last night minus the jacket. Rings on his hands already. You didn’t know if he’d slept. He turned when he heard you. Took in your expression with one look. “Hey,” he said carefully.
“Hey.” You stood in the kitchen doorway. Your heart was doing something loud. “You moved me.”
“You were asleep on my couch.”
“You could have woken me up.”
“You looked tired.” Simple. Like it was nothing. Like carrying you to his bed was just a practical thing he’d done without thinking. “Coffee?”
“Riki.” He looked at you. Really looked — reading whatever was on your face with that careful focus, taking it in.
“What’s going on,” he said.
“Nothing. I just—” You stopped. Started again. “I woke up in your bed and it—” You pressed your fingers to your mouth briefly. “It felt like something.” He was quiet. Waiting.
“I think this is something,” you said. “I think it’s been something for a while and we keep not saying it and I’m—” You exhaled. “I’m tired of not saying it.”
The kitchen was very quiet. Riki leaned back against the counter. Crossed his arms. His expression was the open one — no performance, no control layered over it, just his face and whatever was behind it. “Say it then,” he said quietly.
You looked at him. “I want this to be a thing. A real thing. I want—” You. “I want the name.”
He uncrossed his arms. Crossed the kitchen in three steps and he was right in front of you and his hands came up to your face — both of them, palms at your jaw, tilting your face up — and he looked at you for one long second. “It’s already a thing,” he said. “It’s been a thing.” His thumb moved at your cheekbone. “I’ve been waiting for you to catch up.”
“That’s very smug,” you said. Your voice wasn’t fully steady.
“I know.” He wasn’t smiling. His eyes were serious, dark, right there. “Y/N.”
“Yeah.”
“I’m not good at the words,” he said. “You know that. But this—” his thumbs traced your face, gentle and deliberate “—this is not nothing. This hasn’t been nothing since you walked into my shop.”
Your hands found his wrists. Held on. “Okay,” you said.
“Okay,” he said. He kissed you. Soft, slow, his hands still on your face like he wanted to hold the moment still. You kissed him back and felt the unnamed thing finally, finally settle into something with a shape and a weight and a name you’d figure out the exact word for later.
When he pulled back he pressed his forehead to yours. “Boyfriend is a weird word,” he said.
You laughed. Surprised out of you, real. “It really is.”
“But yeah.” His mouth curved. “That.”
“That,” you agreed. He kissed you again, brief and warm, and then stepped back and handed you a coffee and the domesticity of it — his flat, his coffee, his hands, the morning — hit you somewhere soft.
“Sit down,” he said. “I’ll make breakfast.”
“You cook?”
“Don’t sound so surprised.”
“Riki I’ve known you for months and I’ve never seen you eat anything that wasn’t takeout or coffee.”
“That’s at the shop.” He was already at the fridge. “At home I cook.”
You sat at his kitchen counter on a stool and watched him move around his kitchen with the same ease he brought to everything — competent, unhurried, knowing where things were — and drank your coffee and felt the warmth of the morning settle around you. “What are you making?” you said.
“Eggs.”
“Just eggs?”
“Good eggs.” He glanced back. “Don’t underestimate eggs.”
They were good eggs. You ate at his kitchen counter side by side, your shoulder against his, and the conversation came easy the way it always did — drifting, unhurried, one thing opening into another. He told you about the record player, how he’d found it at a market two years ago and had to carry it up three flights on his own. You told him about the flat you’d wanted that you hadn’t got and ended up in your current one instead and how it had turned out better. “Things usually do,” he said.
“Philosopher.”
“Just paying attention.” His hand found yours on the counter between you. Covered it. Not making anything of it — just there, warm and present. You turned your hand over and his fingers slid between yours. You sat like that until the coffee was cold.
He walked you out two hours later. Down the three flights and out onto the morning street, quiet at this hour, pale winter sun doing its best. He had his jacket on, hands in his pockets, walking beside you in the direction of the bus stop. “You don’t have to walk me,” you said.
“I know.” He walked you anyway. His shoulder bumping yours occasionally. Not holding your hand now — just beside you, present, taking up the right amount of space. At the bus stop he turned to face you. “Wednesday,” he said.
“Wednesday,” you said. Then: “Actually I might come Tuesday. I need to talk to Heeseung about extending the collarbone piece.”
Something moved across his face. Quick, then gone. “You want to extend it?” he said.
“Just the stems, maybe. One more.” You looked at his expression. “What?”
“I’ll do it,” he said. Immediate.
“I know you’ll do it—”
“I mean — the extension. Let me do it.” His jaw was doing the thing. “Not Heeseung.”
You looked at him. Understood. “Okay,” you said.
“Okay.” The jaw relaxed. A short exhale.
You reached up and kissed him — he leaned down to meet you before you’d fully extended, like he’d been waiting for it — and it was brief and warm and tasted like coffee. “Tuesday,” you said against his mouth.
“Tuesday,” he said. The bus appeared at the end of the road. He stepped back. Hands back in his pockets. Watching you with that settled, certain expression. “Text me when you’re home,” he said. New. That was new.
“Yeah,” you said, smiling. “Okay.”
You texted Ria from the bus.
you: we sorted it
The reply was immediate. She’d been awake, waiting.
Ria: WHAT
you: it’s a thing. officially.
Ria: I KNEW IT I HAVE BEEN SAYING does he even know the word boyfriend???
you: he said it’s a weird word
Ria: oh my god he’s so him
you: he made me eggs
Ria: Y/N!!!
you: they were really good eggs
Ria: I am going to cry. IM SO HAPPY!
You put your phone in your pocket and looked out the bus window at the city going past and felt something settled and warm sitting in your chest where the unnamed thing used to be.
Daniel saw you get off the bus. You didn’t notice him. You were texting Riki — something small, a photo of a dog outside the coffee shop you were passing, the kind of thing you sent now because you could — and you walked past him without looking up.
He watched you go. Watched the way you were smiling at your phone. He knew about the tattoo shop. He’d heard you mention it. He’d put things together — the visits, the name that came up, the way you’d brushed him off every time since October.
He pulled out his own phone. Started looking. It didn’t take long. Public record. The charge, the conviction, the sentence. He read it twice. Read the name again. Looked up Studio 13. He sat with it for a long time. Then he texted Soo.
Daniel: hey, you’re friends with Y/N right. I need to tell you something about someone she’s seeing.
The thing about finally naming something was that it changed the texture of everything. Not dramatically. Not all at once. Just — small shifts, accumulating. The way he texted now, more often, nothing significant but there. The way he said my girlfriend to a client who asked about the collarbone piece, casual, not looking at you when he said it, and you’d had to look very hard at the flash wall for a moment. The way his hand found yours in public without him thinking about it first. Small things. Heavy things.
You were catastrophically gone for him and had been for a while and now there was nothing to hide it behind.
The first Tuesday after you came into Studio 13 at noon and Riki was with a client so Jay made you coffee and sat across from you at the counter with the expression of someone who had been waiting to say something. “So,” he said.
“Don’t,” you said.
“I just want to say—”
“Jay.”
“I called it.” He held up both hands. “First week you came in. I said to Sunghoon, I said that girl is going to wreck him, and I was right—”
“I didn’t wreck anyone—”
“In a good way.” He was grinning. “He’s different. He’s — I’ve known Riki for two years and he texted me last Sunday morning just to talk. Riki. Texting. On a Sunday. Because he was in a good mood and wanted to—”
“Jay.” Riki’s voice from the piercing section, flat. He’d finished with his client without you noticing.
“I’m just saying—”
“I heard what you were saying.” Riki came around the partition and looked at you and the expression on his face when it landed on you was the thing Jay had been describing without being able to name it — something unlocked, something that had been held tight for a long time and wasn’t anymore.
He came to the counter. Leaned down and kissed you hello like it was something he’d been doing for years. Brief, warm, his hand on your jaw for just a second. Jay made a noise. Riki sat on his stool without acknowledging him. Picked up his coffee. “How’s the collarbone?” he said.
“Good. I want to talk about an extension.”
“I know what I’ll doing with it.”
“I haven’t told you what I want yet.”
“I know what you want.” He met your eyes. Completely certain. “Trust me.”
You looked at him. Thought about the first piece — how right it had been, how it had looked like it had always been there. “Fine,” you said.
Jay, very quietly, said: “He’s so different.”
The extension happened the following Thursday. One more stem. Slightly longer than the others, curving toward your shoulder, a small bud at the end that he’d added without asking and that was so exactly right you hadn’t been able to speak for a moment when you saw it. “Riki,” you said.
“Hm.” He was examining the placement, focused.
“The bud.”
“Yeah.”
“I didn’t ask for that.”
“No.” He glanced up. Brief, the focus breaking for just a second. “Do you like it?”
You looked in the mirror. The three stems, the new one curving outward, the small closed bud at its tip. Something that looked like potential. Like something about to open. “Yeah,” you said. “I like it.”
He looked back down. Said nothing. But his free hand, steadying your shoulder, pressed slightly. Small. Deliberate.
Three weeks in and the shape of things had settled. Wednesdays at the shop. Tuesday evenings at his flat, which had become a specific thing — you’d bring food, he’d already have the record player going, and you’d eat on his couch or his kitchen floor and talk until one of you fell asleep. Some Fridays at yours, which he’d come to twice now and moved through with the particular attentiveness of someone learning a space they planned to know well.
His things had started appearing at your flat. A hoodie, first — left behind, not retrieved. Then a phone charger. Then a record he’d brought over to show you something and hadn’t taken back. You didn’t point any of this out. Neither did he.
You had a key to Studio 13. That had happened without discussion — Riki had taken it off his keyring one night when you’d arrived before him and handed it to you and gone back to what he was doing. You’d stared at it for a full ten seconds.
This was how he said things. Not in words. In the key. In the bud on the stem. In text me when you’re home and Sunday morning texts and the way he always, always knew when something was wrong before you’d said anything. You were learning his language. It was quieter than most people’s but it was fluent.
Four weeks in, on a Wednesday night after Studio 13 closed as usual. But tonight the energy was different from the second you’d locked the front door behind you — something in the way he’d looked at you across the shop all evening, something that had been building since you’d arrived and had nowhere to go while there were other people present.
He kissed you against the front counter the second the lock clicked. Not soft. Not the hello-kiss or the goodbye-kiss or the slow deliberate thing from his kitchen. This was four weeks of officially named wanting, his hands in your hair and your hands in his jacket and both of you breathing differently inside ten seconds. He pulled back. Looked at your face. “Hi,” you said.
“Hi.” His voice was rough already. His hands moved from your hair to your waist, sliding under your top to bare skin, and you felt his rings and exhaled. “Been thinking about you all day.”
“I was here all evening.”
“I know.” His mouth found your jaw, your throat. “Worse.”
“Riki—”
“I know.” He pulled your top up and off and looked at you in the low red light the way he always did — that slow, deliberate sweep that moved over you like you were something he was committing to memory. The collarbone piece. His hands on you. “God,” he said quietly. Not performing it. Just — reacting.
“Come here,” you said. He came. He got you onto the front counter. Which was new. Which was — you looked around the shop, the dark windows, the closed door, and then his hands were on your thighs spreading them and he was standing between them and the location became very irrelevant. “Here?” you said.
“Here.” He kissed you again, deep, his tongue against yours and the bar of it doing what it always did to your ability to think. His hands pushed your skirt up your thighs, found your underwear, pushed it aside — and his fingers were there, at your folds, and you grabbed the edge of the counter.
“Riki—”
“Already.” His fingers moved through your folds, slow, feeling you. “Fuck, Y/N, already—”
“Don’t be smug—”
“I’m not.” He pressed a kiss to your jaw, your throat. “I’m really not.” His fingers found your clit and circled and your hips rolled forward. “That’s it. That’s—” A breath. “You have no idea what you do to me.”
“Tell me,” you breathed.
He pushed two fingers inside you and your head fell back. “This,” he said, low, watching your face. “Every time. Every fucking time you walk in here I want—” His fingers curled and you gasped. “Yeah. That. I want that sound.”
“More—”
“More?” He kept the pace slow. Deliberate. His thumb finding your clit while his fingers moved and the combination was devastating. “You sure? We’re not in a rush.”
“Riki I swear to god—”
He laughed — low, warm, real — and his fingers moved deeper and his thumb pressed harder and you grabbed his shoulder and held on. “Good girl,” he said against your throat. “So good. So wet for me, every time, like you spend all day—”
“I do,” you said, breathless. “I do, okay, is that what you want to hear—”
“Yes,” he said simply, and meant it, and his fingers moved faster. You came with your face pressed into his neck and his name in your mouth, his fingers working you through it, not stopping until you pulled at his hair and told him too much, too much—
He pulled his hand back. Pressed his mouth to your temple. Your cheekbone. The corner of your mouth. “Good girl,” he said again, softer. “You’re so—”
“Don’t you dare say something nice right now,” you said. “I can’t handle it.” He pressed his smile into your hair.
You got his jeans open. Got your hand on his cock and felt him exhale sharply against your neck —that involuntary thing, the crack in the control — and stroked slowly and felt every bar of the ladder and heard him make a sound that was almost pained. “Y/N—”
“Yeah?”
“I need—” His hips pushed forward slightly. “Fuck, I need you to—”
“Need me to what.” You kept the pace slow. His own medicine.
His forehead dropped to your shoulder. “Please.” The please from Riki — rare, wrecked, genuine — landed somewhere it always landed and you let go of him and pulled him forward by his waistband and he understood, got his jeans down, stepped between your thighs.
He pushed inside in one slow stroke and you both went still. His hands braced on the counter either side of you. Your hands on his chest. The shop around you, the red light, the flash art on the walls watching everything. “Okay?” he said. Rough. Always asked.
“Move,” you said. “Please, Riki, move—” He moved.
The front counter was cold under your hands and he was warm everywhere else — his chest against yours, his mouth at your throat, his hips rolling into you in a rhythm that started slow and deliberate and got less controlled as it went. “You feel—” He broke off. His jaw set. “Every time. Like the first time, every—”
“Don’t stop talking,” you said. “I like it when you talk.”
He made a rough sound. “You like it.”
“Yes—”
“Good girl for telling me.” His pace shifted deeper and you choked on a breath. “Good girl for always — fuck — for always telling me what you want—”
“Riki—”
“I’ve got you.” His hand slid between you, found your clit, and you arched. “I’ve got you, come on, cum for me, you can—”
“I just—”
“I know.” His thumb circled. “Do it again. Come on. Let me feel you cum on my cock, Y/N—”
The degradation and the praise all tangled together and his thumb and the ladder on every stroke and his voice at your ear and you shattered again — harder this time, your whole body locking up, his name loud enough that it bounced off the dark walls—
He followed you. His rhythm breaking, his breath gone, his hands gripping the counter so hard you heard his rings knock against it — and the sound he made when he came was the broken one, the helpless one, the one you collected and kept.
After the both of you on the front counter, you sitting, him leaning against it beside you. Still not fully dressed. The playlist had long since ended and the shop was quiet except for both of you getting your breathing back. You looked at the flash art on the walls. “We just did that on the front counter,” you said.
“We did.”
“Where clients sit.”
“I’ll clean it.”
You looked at him. He looked back with the wrecked-and-unbothered expression, his hair completely destroyed, his rings catching the low light. “You’re not even slightly embarrassed,” you said.
“No.” Simple. His hand found your knee. “Are you?”
You thought about it. “No.” He smiled. The real one.
You leaned your head on his shoulder and he turned his face into your hair and you sat on the front counter of Studio 13 at midnight and the warmth of it — the us of it — felt like something you could live inside. “Stay,” he said. Into your hair.
“At yours?”
“Here. Couch in the back.” His hand moved at your knee. “Don’t want you to go yet.”
You lifted your head. Looked at his face. “Riki. I’m not going anywhere,” you said.
His eyes moved over yours. The thing behind them — the possessive, careful, quietly terrified thing that drove the jealousy and the silence and the hand always finding yours — settled. “I know,” he said. Like he was practicing believing it.
“I know you know.” You put your hand on his jaw. “I’m telling you anyway.” He turned his face into your palm. Brief. Eyes closing for just a second.
Then he stood up, pulled you off the counter, kept your hand in his. “Couch,” he said.
“Couch,” you agreed.
You were asleep within minutes with Riki’s jacket over you and his voice low in the background talking to someone on the phone — his brother, you thought, distantly, the conversation too quiet to hear properly — and the red light under the door and the smell of ink and his hoodie under your cheek.
You were asleep and warm and his and the storm was three weeks away. It felt like nothing could touch this.
Daniel texted your friend Soo on a Wednesday night. She didn’t tell you immediately. That was the first thing — she sat on it for four days, turning it over, looking at the record he’d sent her, reading it and rereading it. The charge. The conviction. The length of the sentence. Assault. Grievous bodily harm. Victim: female.
She read those words and thought about you and made a decision she believed was the right one. She texted you on a Sunday.
You were at Riki’s flat. Sunday morning, late, the good kind of late — his record player going, both of you in the kitchen, you on the counter watching him make coffee with the focused competence he brought to everything. His hair was wrecked. He had a bruise on his collarbone that was your fault and he’d looked at it in the mirror that morning with an expression of complete satisfaction that had made you throw a pillow at him. Your phone lit up on the counter beside you.
Soo: hey can we talk today. it’s important.
Soo: it’s about Riki.
You looked at the screen. “What,” Riki said. He’d clocked your face without turning around. He did that.
“Soo wants to talk.” You kept your voice neutral. “About you.”
He turned. Read your expression. His jaw did the thing — the subtle set — but his voice stayed even. “What about me?”
“She didn’t say.”
A pause. He looked at the coffee. Back at you. “When?”
“Today apparently.” He nodded. Said nothing. Turned back to the coffee and you watched his shoulders and thought about the tension in them and didn’t ask.
You met Soo at the coffee place near yours at two. She was already there when you arrived. She had her hands around her cup and her expression was the one she got when she was about to say something she’d rehearsed — careful, prepared, slightly guilty around the edges. You sat down. “Just tell me,” you said.
She put her phone on the table. Turned it to face you. A screenshot. A public record database. The name — Nishimura Riki — and below it the details, dry and legal and devastating in their simplicity. Charge: Assault occasioning grievous bodily harm. Victim: Female, 28. Sentence: 14 months. Probation: 12 months.
❝ in space, no one can hear you scream. they can't hear you wake up alone in a hunk of space junk against your will. they can't hear your ship get engulfed by a much larger and very alien one.
and they certainly can't hear you fall in love with the four-armed grumpy alien you meet while you're trapped within your own ship. ❞
☾⋆ cw ; mdni, 18+ only. strangers to lovers. slow burn. hurt/comfort. angst. fluff. smut. depictions of [likely inaccurate] science experiments. medical discussions. needles. illness. reader and sukuna can't exist in the same atmosphere. they're both huge nerds. bug discussions. mild violence. pet names [human, ange, baby]. trueform!sukuna. piv. inter-species sex. fingering. oral [f! receiving]. monsterfucking. sukuna has 2 dicks. size difference. biting. manhandling. licking. spitting/drool.
inspired heavily by project hail mary/iron lung/alien earth. mild modulo spoilers. sukuna is simurian. changed simurian lore.
☾⋆ wc ; 37.9k.
wattpad || ao3 || main masterlist
Your lashes flutter, eyes opening to sterile, controlled lighting. Lifting an arm feels like a hurdle to overcome when your muscles behave far more like limp pasta than something meant to support a full biological system. After your arm protests the very concept of movement, you flex your fingers, adjusting to the harsh whites of your surroundings.
“Movement detected.”
Blinking hard, you slowly take in your surroundings, expecting a hospital bay, only to be met with smooth white surfaces that tell a different story. Space.
It hits you like a truck and by sheer force of will, you lift an arm to your head, expecting some sort of blunt force trauma. That you must be seeing things. Rubbing your temples makes you aware of several tubes all connected to a tight white suit clinging to your skin. As you begin tugging on the tubes, many release with a hiss while others simply come loose without fanfare.
“Crew aboard: one member. Arrival imminent.”
You have to be dreaming. Hallucinating. Something.
Managing to weakly push to your feet, you stumble through the halls of the ship on a weak gait. It’s a small vessel, with a science bay through a sealing door just outside the medical bay where you awoke, four bunks and a washroom in what you assume is sleeping quarters, and the bridge itself. It’s small, but clearly designed for more than one crew member. Your heart drops at the thought, because that’s when it truly comes flooding back.
Your work. The project. The disease. The creature.
Several pieces of the same puzzle, but each one troubling in its own right.
Still groggy from the induced coma, you force yourself to take a seat in the hall, grateful for what you can only assume is artificial gravity. You might have been sick if you had awoken in zero gravity.
Taking a breath as you sit in the center of a large octagonal hall, you force yourself to breathe. Long breaths, drawing each one out in an effort to keep yourself from boiling over when memories of the very thing that put you here feel fresh in spite of your ten year induced coma. It shouldn’t be you here. You, some entomologist they found online for a paper suggesting beetles are smarter than people think.
You weren’t even really good with people. Just bugs. You spent most of your time alone with your stag beetles, attempting to bring out the very intelligence you’d written about. You never minded being alone. Maybe it’s sad that you spoke to the beetles, but they kept you company in their own way. Yet here you are now, onboard a space ship by sheer coincidence, if it can even be called that. And it’s not the loneliness you fear.
No, you’re content to grab a marker and draw a face on one of the many white walls, call it ‘Wilson’ and name yourself the next Tom Hanks, even if your acting credits are undeserving.
What scares you is the narrow hallways holding you hostage in a vacuum. Once you reach the supposed ‘destination’ that the ship’s programmed voice spoke of being imminent, gravity will cut out. The ship will rely on your ability to navigate yourself through its halls and hell, even navigate the damn hunk of metal through space yourself to send the mission target back. You’re a fucking entomologist. A bug scientist. What the hell are they hoping for from you?
With a sharp inhale, you push back up to your feet, navigating through the cramped hall until you reach the bridge. There are a number of screens and what feel like countless buttons and switches, all labeled with tape. You suppose that’s meant to be for your convenience given that you’re no pilot, but the amount of labels is a textbook in and of itself. Frustrating.
Slipping past the second of two chairs on the bridge, your eyes are glued to the first window you’ve seen. Your lips part as the marvel of space itself comes into view when you slip into the nook by the window.
It’s beautiful. Stunning. It’s full of twinkling stars and the far more consistent shine of distant planets. There’s debris of various different kinds of space rock meandering endlessly through a void. There’s a gorgeous mildly yellow-green planet not too far away with pink and blue accents. Its surface is probably unlike everything you’ve ever seen.
Seeing a planet from space is another kind of beast. Space travel is relatively new to humanity as far as the general public is aware, and you certainly never envisioned yourself aboard a spacecraft. In another world, under other circumstances, it might even be a dream.
The nearest sun has you staring down at your fingers, wondering if the faint heat you feel might be from its rays or if you’re imagining things already, hardly a few minutes into your trip. That is, if you don’t count the several years in which you were in an induced coma.
Flexing your fingers again as you stare at them, it’s not until a shadow takes away the sun’s distant rays, that you notice something incoming quickly. Your eyes widen at the sight of a ship, alien in appearance. Long, slender, dark grays in sharp and jagged angles all come together to build a ship that makes yours look not entirely unlike the very bugs you study. Very, very small. Insignificant.
“Oh shit,” you gasp in wide-eyed disbelief as something straight out of a sci-fi movie moves in a line straight towards you. “Oh shit” you gasp again, racing to push yourself to your feet and clamber for the pilot’s chair as though the labels will push you into action. Paralyzed on the chair, the most you can do is skim each word in hopes that one might magically say ‘turn one hundred and eighty degrees and get the hell away from the giant evil-looking alien spaceship’.
Unfortunately, you never find that button. With your hands hovering over the controls, you find yourself watching in horror as you’re swallowed whole by the other spacecraft. “Oh shit.”
Your ship is harshly jostled as all of a sudden the hull drops like a stone onto something hard and metal, screeching as it slides across what you can only assume is a bay of the other ship as you stare into the darkened corridor of the inside of an alien spacecraft. You grip the chair for purchase in an effort not to get thrown aside while your ship blares warning and lights flicker.
“Oh shit,” you breathe when the lights outside your ship flick on and flood the bridge with the harsh lighting of a warehouse. There doesn’t seem to be any other ships aboard if this is a bay or hangar, but it certainly looks like one… Though you suppose you’re basing that off of movie knowledge, which is probably stupid. Especially for a scientist at the top of your field.
Slowly descending from your chair, you approach the window in awe, staring out into the metal box. It’s largely human, with pipes running up the walls and across the ceiling, lights in long bulbs overhead and lower lighting from small circular vent-like structures. The structure seems rougher than the smooth metals of your ship, almost as though it’s made of an unpolished mineral, with a luster that dictates something akin to quartz or obsidian, but it’s slightly off. The only thing inhuman about the entire thing is the text. It’s not entirely unfamiliar, the sort of thing that you wager you could decipher in time, but when you spot movement at the far bay, you figure time isn’t exactly on your side.
What a way to wake up after ten years.
The alien figure that approaches your ship isn’t human. But… they aren’t inhuman either. You know they aren’t human, with an extra pair of limbs attached to their upper torso and an extra pair of eyes aboard a plate of some sort on the right side of their face, but otherwise the only thing inhuman about them is their massive size, standing at what must be ten feet tall.
A tight shirt clings to their upper torso, some sort of spacesuit loosely draped from their torso in an off-pink that matches their short hair. Markings line their jaw, coming up just beneath their eyes not unlike tattoos, though you can’t be sure whether or not that’s what they are. The most inhuman feature of all, however, is the blood red gaze they fix your ship with as they walk in an even, calm stride towards the door.
A creature with a calm like this is one that knows it’s powerful. It’s the type of confidence befitting of someone who far outclasses everything they’ve ever come across and doesn’t fear the beyond like you do. “Oh shit!”
It’s just about the only words you can manage as you clumsily navigate towards the small porthole of the door where the alien has deduced they may find you. Peering out the small circular window, you can only pray you aren’t about to be probed or something similar.
When the alien approaches your ship with some sort of technology in-hand, you tap on the glass to get their attention. The large alien’s head rises, their brow lowering to a scowl of sorts as they examine you. This close, they look startlingly like a human man. Like the kind of man you might see in a gladiator movie given his sheer size and musculature, sure, but human enough to reason with. He speaks some sort of language, but you can’t understand a word he utters.
The language is a mix of huffs, growls, clicks, and what you would otherwise consider sounds not unlike the languages found on earth. Between each noise that reminds you vaguely of an echolocation sort of noise is a very human syllable. If you were to put the syllables together without the clicking, you might even get something akin to human vocabulary.
By all accounts, this is an intimidating encounter. His gaze is sharp, almost grating in looks alone. His pupils have rings surrounding them that give him a formidable appearance. His mother tongue is so different from any language you’ve ever encountered– human or animal– that the only thing you even can compare it to are films. Some part of you is wired to expect a Xenomorph to uncurl from wires and silently drop to the ground, acidic saliva dripping from its mouth, and yet the man remains still, awaiting your reply before he answers in kind.
Maybe it’s your poor instinct for danger, but you’re far more intrigued than you are concerned.
“Uh– Hello!” You attempt to reply in an effort to keep the peace, further perplexing the alien whose eyes narrow. Your heart pounds behind your rib cage as you give your best effort to not get eaten. Or examined. Or whatever this species does. “I come in peace!” You offer, making a peace sign through the door with a wide grin.
His gaze slides to your hand, his deduction of the action clear in the way his narrowed eyes regard the action. He frowns like you’ve caused him an inconvenience, gliding his finger along the device in his hand briefly as he looks away. You almost wish he was more animalistic. You’re a better read on animal behaviour than human.
“Okay, um– hold on!” You hold up one finger, clumsily dashing back through the ship to the science bay. You grab a white board and marker, making your way back to the porthole. The four-armed alien is tapping on what you assume to be the screen of the device he brought with him, though his attention returns to you once you reappear. You draw a circle and the general outline of the continents, presenting the image to him. “I’m a human. From Earth,” you say, pointing to your drawing.
The alien’s gaze lowers to your drawing, then he taps on the screen of his device, growing more frustrated by the moment. When the device doesn’t seem to give him the results he wishes for, his shoulders visibly fall in frustration as he faces you again. His gaze fixes the drawing, then you once more.
When he doesn't reply, you quickly erase the drawing of earth, and draw something that might be more familiar. You draw the very thing you’re here in search of as clearly as you can from memory.
CRM-12. A creature so foreign, the scientists never even gave it a name. Beetle-like in appearance in spite of its size, which begged your attention, one of the heads in entomology. A creature intelligent beyond any credit they were willing to give it, treating it as lesser than even rodents. It was no more than an experiment, and your reason for being in the middle of uncharted space.
You present the drawing of the creature, a metallic brown beetle with accents that resemble an oil spill, iridescent pinks visible in the sun. Its eyes, however, are completely unlike any insect. Cat-like, they follow movement like the eyes of a higher being. Like they know. You hope that comes across in a crude drawing with a black marker.
The alien looks at the drawing you present, seeming to recognize it. He stares at you and chuffs, almost like a tiger, followed by a syllable unrecognizable to you.
“You know it?” Your brows raise eagerly at the reaction that you’re fairly sure is a yes given the way big cats so often use the first portion of the sound.
Another chuff in reply, then the syllable. You can work with that. The recognition in his gaze tells you that it isn’t a no, which means you’re communicating, even if it’s preschool-level communication. Even if he seems frustrated by the whole ordeal. Or maybe by you. Or the device. You really can’t say.
“Oh my god, you know it? I’m looking for it!” You point with a grin, intrigued by the alien life that seems to be as advanced, if not more than humanity.
He watches your eager movements with hooded eyes, all four following the way your body almost seems ahead of your mind as you attempt communication. In a far more languid movement, he lifts an arm, simply tapping once on the door as he stares at you, awaiting.
You purse your lips, fairly confident you understand. “Oh– I can’t leave my ship,” you glance down at the door’s handle. “Um– hold on.” You raise one finger again, drawing another picture on your whiteboard. This time, you present the alien species with a poorly drawn version of your ship, an ‘X’, and a stick figure of you, with your tongue out and an ‘X’ for either eye. “I would die in your atmosphere. I mean, probably. I guess I don’t know.”
One of his brows raises at the crude demonstration before he looks you up and down once through the porthole. He huffs, something of disbelief or maybe annoyance, before looking around the bay. He replicates your motion, raising one finger in a ‘hold on’ type of manner, disappearing for a minute. When he returns after a few moments, he lifts a lower arm to present to you a new device. From the device comes a hologram far more advanced than anything earth has managed thus far.
Your eyes widen at the sight of the very beetle-like species you’re here for. You nod, giving a thumbs up. “Yes! Yes, that’s it!” You loudly proclaim with a grin.
He recoils, though you can’t quite place why. He watches your reactions, the smile, the thumbs’ up, the nod, and chuffs in reply. Alright, communication.
“Hey, um, there’s–” You stammer over words, before giving your signal for ‘hold on’. Quickly and crudely attempting to draw your best version of the window by the bridge. You hold it up to the person opposite you, pointing in the general direction of the much larger window across the ship.
His sharp gaze follows the direction you point, his head moving in that direction altogether, before chuffing and surprisingly disappearing. You blink, before quickly moving in that direction as well, cables and tubing still drifting listlessly behind your clothing from when you awoke. You stare down briefly at the ordeal, at the mess you’re sure you look, and figure that’s a problem for when an alien isn’t staring you down.
You’re just grateful he isn’t looking at you in the same way humanity looked at that beetle. That stupid, god forsaken alien beetle. Even if he does seem a bit annoyed with you.
Dragging the cables along with you, you slip past the chairs in the bridge to the larger window where your new alien peer is curiously examining the circuitry within the bridge. “This is the bridge,” you explain, pointing behind you. “For the captain.” You turn to face him again, unsure if he understands a word you’re saying, but the need to fill the air is unfortunately at the forefront of your mind. Slipping into the nook of the window, you watch as his crimson gaze tracks your movements, dropping to the cables that he examines for a moment. “These are just cables,” you explain, holding them up.
He grunts through a deadpan expression as though he has that figured out already, and it’s at this moment that you realize how grateful you are that there’s an atmosphere at all in his ship right now to carry either of your voices so that you can communicate. The entire thing is fascinating beyond any kind of entomology you’ve ever been witness to. Of course, you’d have an easier time grasping his behaviour if he were a bug, but you suppose you didn’t get much of a good understanding of CRM-12’s behaviour anyway in light of the events that took place with the species on Earth.
CRM-12. The thought makes you wonder. “Do you have a name?” You glance down at the whiteboard, but you aren’t sure how much it’ll help. “A, uh–” You point to yourself, stating your name, then to him. “What’s your name?”
He straightens, and in a very alien language gives you a series of growls and hisses, along with a series of somewhat more human-sounding syllables. You attempt to replicate the sound, you really do. The problem is that your vocal chords simply can’t shape the same noises that his can. He frowns as you can’t reach one of the clicks in your vocal range, and surprisingly offers something more familiar.
“Sukuna.”
Your lips purse as you stare out the window at him. It’s shockingly close to the syllables that sit intermittently between the clicks and growls in his name, like his language might not be as far off as you originally hypothesized.
“Human.” He adds, then replicates your name, shockingly nearly perfect.
“Yeah!” You agree with a grin. “That’s my name. I’m human.”
“My name,” he forms the words, copying them in his deep baritone voice. It sounds somewhat foreign after you’ve heard primarily chuffs and hums, but he doesn’t struggle to form the words. They’re clipped, like his tone isn’t intentional and there’s a rasp to his words like his throat wants to add the clicking to the words, but doesn’t.
You have an itch to write and document everything you can, but your lab is a few light years away and your journal is… yet to be found, since you awoke. You do what you can to catalogue every detail for later in your mind.
“Okay, okay.” Beyond interested and excited by the ordeal, you make a wild motion with both arms towards– well– everything. “This is my ship.”
Sukuna’s gaze lifts to the exterior of the ship, then returns to you. An upper arm lifts, muscle that’s inherently humanoid rippling beneath what looks to be something similar to a performance long sleeve clinging to his arm. He taps twice on the window. “Ship.” Then directly in front of you. “Your ship.”
“Yeah,” you breathe in disbelief. “Is this your ship?”
He points back, chuffing. “My ship.”
The velocity of his ability to learn is stunning. In fact, you would wager a bet that not only is he so far advanced that he outclasses Humanity by miles, you would be willing to be there’s more to it than that. The scowls, the grimaces, the huffs. Could he be annoyed that you’re not capable of picking up his language? “Are you–” you point to him, then the chair behind you, “the captain?”
His gaze examines you as you point towards the seat on the bridge behind you. Understanding your gist, he chuffs.
“Holy shit,” your breath. Looking eagerly past him into the rest of the hangar bay, you press your hands to the window. He straightens, taking a step back as he stares at you with a raised chin. “Where are the rest of you? Do you have a crew? Do you have scientists?”
He growls, but it doesn’t appear to be a warning. Your limited knowledge of his language tells you it may just be a vocalization that’s within his language, but you can’t say for sure. You can’t be sure whether he’s answering in his own language or simply frustrated with your onslaught of questions. Maybe both.
“Are you alone?” You offer the option. “Just you?” You point.
To that, he straightens slightly, his gaze dropping as he evaluates your stature. He must determine you aren’t a threat, because he finally replies with a chuff. “Alone. Just Sukuna.”
It’s unbelievable, truly. It’s not the fact that there’s other intelligent life that baffles and equally excites you, but the fact that not only does he seem to be far more advanced, but it’s clear you’re both studying one another’s behavior. More interestingly, he’s making sense of your language so quickly without so much as forgetting a word that you’re fairly sure his species can outdo humanity’s feats in an evening. You watch him pick up words before you’ve even used it in much more than a sentence to yourself. He adjusts so quickly that it has you questioning everything you know about life outside of Earth. About life on Earth. About behavior, intelligence, and everything you’ve studied so hard when it comes to entomology.
Much of the… day? Is spent going back and forth, focusing primarily on language using the whiteboard, and you’re surprised to find Sukuna doesn’t just keep up, but clearly surpasses your intelligence. He’s offput by noise and moves at a much slower pace that gives you the impression that he wouldn’t know the expression ‘life is short’. You wonder how many years he’s wandered the universe.
He primarily listens and learns, letting you yap about tenses and grammar with little more than an aloof frown. He rarely inquires, but as his knowledge grows, he becomes more at ease. The rigidity in his upper and lower shoulders releases, and his expression shifts from one of skepticism to intrigue. Before you can inquire about his species or language, however, your ship comes online. With a robotic timbre, an announcement comes across the speakers. “Please report to the lab for documentation.”
You stare back into the ship for a moment before facing your new companion. “I need to go make a report,” you explain. “The humans back on Earth want a video of how things are going.”
You can’t be sure how much of that he understands given that he’s largely a closed book, but he chuffs his general understanding.
“Do you… sleep?” You make a motion of sleeping. “Or eat?” And point to your mouth.
The mere suggestion has him yawning, revealing primordial fangs behind his lips. He doesn’t grace you with a reply otherwise.
In a series of clicks and hisses, he says something you’re unable to translate and turns on his heel. Your best assumption is that he’s wished you a goodnight, so you opt to do the same. “Goodnight, Sukuna!” You call loudly from your side of the glass.
He tilts his head slightly, then shakes it, but doesn’t look back.
You watch the spot where he disappeared for a long moment. In the barren bay, the lights click as one by one they shut off until you’re left with only the ambient light of the interior of your own ship. Stepping back from the glass, you blink to yourself. He’s unlike anything you could have imagined when it came to aliens. It’s not like you haven’t met one, given that your assignment on Earth was studying CRM-12 and your assignment now is simply to retrieve more of them, and while you know even that creature’s intelligence was largely underestimated, you never imagined another planet like Earth could exist.
Maybe the atmosphere doesn’t match your own. Maybe there’s no oxygen. Maybe his planet is overruled by dinosaurs. You wouldn’t know. But somewhere out there is a planet with architecture and entire civilizations that you don’t know the first thing about.
As you make your way to the lab, a small camera prepped for you to record, you swear you’re still jittery with excitement. The scientist that swims in your veins can’t wait for tomorrow to come, ignoring every natural instinct to exercise caution. You don’t see yourself sleeping well in spite of the fact that your body remains heavy with the weight of several induced years of sleep.
Without thinking twice, you flip the camera’s screen to look back at yourself and begin recording. You recount your ship being engulfed, describe Sukuna, and explain your findings in largely scientific terminology.
“I know he’s not what I’m here for, but– This could be… I mean…” You shake your head. “I’m not giving up on this research,” you steel yourself, staring into the camera. Chewing on your lower lip, you reach for the camera, shutting the screen and effectively stopping the recording without signing off.
You take the extra time in the evening to put yourself back together. You’re not trained for space, or even for the use of this vessel as a whole, but you track down a sponge bath and washroom, before finally managing to find a small compartment with your belongings.
Dragging the compartment out from the netted area in which it resides, you open it slowly. Within are some clothes– some your own, most provided by the company responsible for your launch– along with a few general sanitary items. It’s largely impersonal, which you suppose you expected. Having prepared for this, you reach into the pocket of a hoodie and pull out the one thing you hoped to keep with you.
You breathe out a sigh of relief, unfolding a photo. The lines through the center block out only a modicum of the happiness held within it, but at its core it’s everything you wanted to hold onto. You’re holding the camera with a huge grin, an Extatosoma Tiaratum, a large stick insect, climbs along your shoulder, and your beloved Lucanus Elaphus, an Elk Stag Beetle, is in your hand. To your left is your best friend Shoko and her German Shepherd puppy, a month after she adopted him. She’s holding him like her pride and joy in spite of the fact that throughout her entire veterinary medicine degree, she swore she’d stick to an animal with less genetically pre-disposed health problems.
You had just gotten back from a research trip back then and were meeting her pup for the first time while she cared for your bugs while you were away.
It’s strange to think that she’s ten years older now. Your bugs are surely dead, and Shoko hasn’t seen you in over ten years. Your heart pangs as you pull the familiar hoodie on over your head and tuck the photo back in your pocket as you make your way back to the bed that didn’t exactly do wonders for your neck as you make way for the second day in uncharted territory.
–
The morning greets you in the same way it did yesterday. Cold, sterile, and controlled. The white lights flick on without asking, deciding your schedule before you ever do. You blink away the sleep in your eyes, grabbing a dehydrated granola bar sort of thing to bring with you to the bridge as you dress yourself in white pants and your own hoodie.
Sukuna still isn’t there when you arrive at the bridge, so you do the only thing you really can do in the enclosed ship bay. You come prepared this time, with a model of your ship, your whiteboard, some snacks, water, and a journal and pen to note your findings. Not necessarily for humanity’s sake, but out of habit, for you. With everything spread out around you, you reach into your pocket, pulling out your photo with Shoko. Your thumb smooths along the fold lines before you set it off to the side in front of you. Then as you would on any other day, you note your findings with small drawings in the column of your journal.
After a short wait, the bay’s lights flick on one after another with a metallic clang as each one begins pulling electricity to the large hangar. Sukuna has also come more prepared, with another new device in one of his many hands and what looks to be a spacesuit draped over another arm. He’s wearing much the same top in a slightly deeper tone of gray and baggy pants this time around, with that same overall neutral expression on his face.
Neutral is generous, given how grumpy he looks in human terms. Given how grumpy he is. Maybe it’s just his species, you can’t be sure, but he gives you the impression you frustrate him.
You perk up at the sight of him regardless as he approaches in the direction of the door’s porthole, changing his stride when he spots you at the window.
He clicks and grunts, which you assume is a greeting of sorts.
“Hi, Sukuna! Did you sleep good?”
He doesn’t beat around the bush. “Sleep bad.”
“Oh. Why?”
He approaches the window, dropping the suit on his arm into a pile on the floor. “Human loud,” he states, pointing accusingly at you with a finger to the window.
“Me? This ship is huge, there’s no way you heard me. I don’t even snore!” You pout first, but your mind doesn’t give you the time to be offended as something occurs to you. “Wait, is your hearing really good?” You ask, pointing to your ear.
He chuffs. “You loud.” He makes a motion to his chest, demonstratively inhaling and exhaling in kind. “Like that.”
“Oh my god, you could hear me breathing across the ship?” You instinctively bring up your fancy space pen and journal, scribbling down messy notes as your mouth gets a few steps ahead of your brain. “Wait, but the ship is on. I can’t be louder than like– Is your engine not loud? Or the life support systems? You must breathe some sort of gas or–”
He huffs, tapping the glass with a subsequent growl. Much like yesterday, it’s not a warning but something entirely else. “Ship my design. No sound.”
“No sound? Your design?” You gawk, sitting down at the window. Sukuna follows suit opposite you behind the glass. His movements are heavier in nature and far more languid, one corded muscular arm keeping him upright as he takes a seat. In spite of his constant aloof expression, you note that he does still seem intrigued. “Wait– oh my god, are you an engineer?”
He shifts his jaw, eyes narrowing thoughtfully as he attempts to use context clues to put the word engineer into place in his mental dictionary. He says something in his own language, reaching for the device he used yesterday to show you a hologram of CRM-12. This time, he flicks it on into some sort of 2D image, a screen of sorts. In concise, easy strokes, he pulls up a blueprint of his ship. “Engineer?” He queries, confirming the term.
“Yeah,” you breathe in disbelief. “Yeah, you’re definitely an engineer. Holy shit,” you laugh, tone wrought with disbelief. “The photo you showed me with that yesterday, the uh– beetle species?”
His gaze narrows and he grunts, almost a low growl.
“Um–” you lower your gaze to your whiteboard, drawing a quick sketch of CRM-12 again, writing its name beside the image. “This guy.”
The confusion rife across his features dissolves as he chuffs. “Kerm.”
“Kerm?” You blink, unsure where this word has come from.
He points to ‘CRM-12’ like it’s the most obvious thing he’s ever pointed out, blatantly frowning. “Kerm one two.”
You laugh, airy and light, grinning. “Yeah, Kerm. Yeah, okay. Kerm. Um, you’re looking for them too, does that mean you’re a scientist too? Like, um–” setting the whiteboard aside, you tap your fingers listlessly along your thigh. “You study life and elements? And learn about creatures?”
That clicks with him and he chuffs again.
“Holy shit,” you practically bound to your feet, quickly sitting back down at the revelation with a multitude of further questions.
Sukuna’s brow tents as he watches, disdain dripping from his expression as though you’ve offended him in your bout of excitement when he shuffles back slightly. He leans back on one arm, the other three held as though you might present a threat to him. Still, he remains silent.
“Wait, so you’re the captain, engineer, and a scientist? Oh my god, that’s incredible. Human life is so short we could never even dream of studying all three things and exploring space.” You don’t even pause as your thoughts simply spill from your lips. “You must be able to live so much longer than us. Or maybe you’re just that much smarter. Wait–” Your hand presses to the glass. “Where are you from? What planet–”
“Human.”
“–are you from? How long are your years? How old are you?”
“Human.” Sukuna’s hand presses to the glass with a jarring bang as he leans over you in spite of the barrier, the size difference growing apparent. His voice booms, stopping your endless trail of words in their tracks. Once he has your silence, Sukuna proceeds to click and growl in a series you’ve heard once before, though you now recognize it as displeasure.
It doesn’t take an understanding of his language to put together that he’s calling you ‘too much’. He’s telling you you’re annoying.
Your cheeks heat up and you take the opportunity to sit back, sucking in a breath.
Sukuna’s hand peels from the glass, his prints remaining in the spot where it was. He sits back with a loud huff, rubbing at his temple with one hand as he leans back on another. “Planet is–” he states the name in his language first, then pauses to think before providing something you understand. Removing the noises between the syllables, he lands on a simple name. “Simuria,” he starts, choosing one of your questions and going with it. “Age–” he glances down at the hologram, waving his hand through it to erase the blueprint. He makes ten markings through it like a whiteboard, then clicks, his word for ‘ten’.
“Ten,” you nod your understanding.
He points at the markings. “Ten tens.”
“One hundred,” you nod your understanding.
“Ten one hundreds.”
Your lips part. “One thousand?”
He chuffs, staring blankly at you.
“You’re over one thousand years old?” Your disbelief is palpable as your jaw hangs slightly ajar, taking in the details of his face and overall physique. He looks to be in his late thirties or early forties, but if there’s one thing you’ve learned in your time interacting with aliens, it’s that you don’t know the first thing about them.
He chuffs again, like it’s plain to see and his age is obvious. “How old you?”
“Um, three tens,” you hold up three fingers. “And a five,” you demonstrate the next number. “But I, uh, spent the last ten years sleeping to get here,” you offer a tight-lipped smile. His eyes narrow as he attempts to decipher the emotion written across your face, but you train your expression back to neutral before he can. “We only live to be about nine tens, though.”
“Nine tens?” He recoils at the mere thought. “Weak.”
You let out an airy laugh. “Weak, yeah. Humans tend to be.”
“Three thousands. Or more.”
“You can live three thousand years?” Once again caught up in the sheer difference in time you’ve both experienced, you’re forced to sit back, leaning on your arms. “Holy shit.”
That’s not even beginning to touch on the fact that his planet’s years could also be longer than Earth’s.
Sukuna has come to recognize your exclamations as disbelief and puffs out his chest. You can’t be sure whether it’s pride or a sort of bragging right he holds over your head, but it’s heartwarming to bond with someone so similar, and yet so different.
“Where your crew?”
“Oh–” You push a hand over your neck, staring back into the ship. “No crew. Just me. Just a scientist. I’m an entomologist. I study bugs.”
His brow dips as he attempts to put together what he understands based on your statements. “No captain?”
“No. No captain,” you reply coolly, the most calm he notes you’ve been since arrival.
“Captain?” He points to the photo of you and Shoko as he peers closer.
“No, that’s my friend Shoko. Another human, on Earth. And these are my bugs. I’m a bug scientist.” You point to the beetle.
“You study bugs?”
“Yeah!” You grin, followed by the familiar feeling of information running through your brain as your most passionate subject arises. “There are thousands and thousands of them on earth. Like, a thousand thousands. More than that. We’ve barely scratched the surface of what we know about them!” You pridefully explain.
“Scratched the surface?”
“Like, we barely know anything about them. So I study them to learn more.”
Leaning back on one pair of arms, he crosses the other pair over his chest, fixing you with a perplexed expression as he clicks and chirps out a word, followed by ‘human’.
You smirk, lopsided but wholehearted. It’s yet another of those familiar moments where you recognize the word from context alone. Weird human, he called you.
“Do you not like bugs?”
“Bugs on Simuria big.”
“They’re big? How big?”
He tilts his head to either side, casting a quick glance off to the side as some sort of debris hits the hull of the ship. His gaze returns to you, unbothered otherwise by the noise. “Big like that,” he presses his finger to the glass separating you.
Following the direction in which he points, you whirl around to find he’s pointing to a duffel bag of sorts. “Oh, we have some like that. Most are smaller though,” you explain as you turn back. “These two are my friends, like Shoko. That’s Spike,” you point to the stag, “and Stipple,” you point to the spiny stick insect.
“Stipple like Simuria bugs.”
“Really?” Your eyes widen, filled with wonder, and Sukuna’s head tilts as he lets out a pleased chuff. The revelation only brings up more questions. “Simuria,” you breathe the word like something sacred. Were the circumstances of your trip to reach CRM-12 any different, you might even be racing to document this beyond messy scribbles in a journal. “Do you all have four arms and eyes?”
Sukuna follows your gaze before he growls, which you take as a no.
“Is it based on region? Or– oh, maybe modification or–”
Sukuna huffs loudly, staring intently at you. “Human weak and loud.”
Ah– insults. The default when you’re bothering him or going too fast. “Sorry Sukuna,” you laugh, still lighthearted and chirpy in spite of his grumpy demeanor.
“Simurians all different,” he explains, waving his hand through the hologram still sitting off to the side to erase it. He draws a stick figure of sorts with horns and an eye on its forehead, then another with a tail that seems prehensile from what you can tell, like a monkey.
“All different? So, it’s not based on regions?”
He growls, confirming your thoughts. “I need four arms for science and making ship,” he points broadly around him.
You blink in complete and utter disbelief, the buzzing of the bay lights audible even over the gears turning in your mind. “So you… grew two extra arms? Like, your body made them yourself?”
He chuffs, pleased once again by your disbelief with a hint of what you might call a smile. You’re coming to notice that he seems to like that. He enjoys praise, even if it’s of his species rather than himself. He enjoys being above you in any way he can. It’s probably one of the most human things about him, in a roundabout sort of way.
“That’s incredible,” you shake your head regardless, watching as he puffs his chest out again, his chin tilted up. You can’t help a smile at the sight of him, the boyish pride on his face is something of a marvel. “What other adaptations do you have?”
He considers this for a moment, before running a hand through his hair and presenting a second ear hidden under pink strands over his humanoid ear. It’s far less human than the first pair, you would consider it closer to an owl. Your lips purse as you near the glass, leaning with both hands splayed across it. He then lifts the hem of his shirt and you damn near choke.
You can’t even decide which part it is that actually chokes you. The fact that he’s sporting a six pack like no other and a second pair of pecks that sends heat to places you do not want to think about while trapped in a box in space, or the huge mouth plastered where a belly button would otherwise be. You cough to distract him from the way your throat seizes, then sit back in an effort to disguise how you’ve reacted to an alien you hardly know.
Sukuna tilts his chin up slightly as he regards you. You want to chalk it up to nothing more than a natural reaction to your cough, but there’s a gleam in his eyes that you recognize. You’re then unfortunately reminded that his hearing is like nothing you’ve ever experienced and he can likely hear your pounding heart. It puts an idea in your head that his sense of smell may… also… be better on that note, too. Breezing past the moment as quickly as you can, you cough once more. “What’s, uh– what’s that for?”
“Eating large food.”
The sensation is jarring, but it occurs to you that you’ve never once asked what he eats. “Like… what?”
To your surprise, he smiles. Actually smiles. “Noisy food. Good food.”
“Are you joking with me? Are you joking about eating me?” You sputter.
His toothy grin is replicated on his stomach mouth as he lets the hem of his shirt drop and for the first time you hear him rumble in laughter.
You don’t even have the instinct to wonder if he’s lying when you’re too intrigued by the whole ordeal and just shake your head. “Oh, so you have jokes now?”
“Always have jokes,” he grins, wide. “You not understand, weak human.”
You scoff. “I see how it is,” you tease, curious about his ability to pick up not just language but the deeper meaning behind it. With a sigh, you cast a glance back at the spot where he revealed the stomach mouth, focusing back on your mission. For as curious as you are, at the end of the day you’re trapped in a box in space with a limit on time and supplies. “How quickly can you evolve?”
He tilts his head from side to side, something he’s seen you do when you reply with ‘maybe’.
“Does it depend? Is it based on how your surroundings are?” You make a motion to everything around you.
“Yes,” he replies affirmatively for the first time in your language, rather than his usual Simurian response.
“How fast are we talking?”
His brow tents, head tilting like the question is stupid. “We talk at normal speed for you.”
You bark a laugh at the realization that he’s now completely misunderstood. “No, it’s a saying, sorry. How fast can you evolve? One planet rotation around the sun? Two?”
Clearly displeased with your laughter, he takes a moment to fix you with a glare before replying. “Not one planet rotation. Smaller time.”
“Less than one planet rotation around the sun or less than one planet rotation?”
“Less than one planet rotation.”
You swear you need to pick your jaw up off the floor. “Less than a DAY?” You shout in disbelief, hand raising to the glass in a slam that echoes over the metal bay.
Sukuna growls, recoiling away from your reaction. It’s not out of fear, but rather that you’re being noisy again. “Human. Weak human. Stop.”
Sitting back down, you offer another apology to the begrudging man sitting across from you. Pieces of the puzzle all suddenly begin to click into place. That’s why he picked up your language so quickly. He didn’t just learn, his throat adapted to the sound. His vocal chords changed in less than a day to work around the fact that humans can’t. His species is advanced in the kind of way you could only dream. Hell, you never even realized he lost the strange rasp to his vocalizations in your language. “Sukuna, I–” you pause, raising a finger as you become aware that you’re about to get ahead of yourself when you go dashing back to the lab.
You gather a space meal, several beakers, pipettes, gloves, and a sterile handling box. When you return and dump it all on the ground beside you in a cacophony of glass, Sukuna still seems displeased with the noise.
“Humans sent me here because of this,” you present a phial of liquid to him. Held within the small glass container is a dark red, almost black liquid with yellow separation. “These are Alveoli. Normal ones. They’re cells in our lungs,” you point to your chest. “And this,” you present another phial, but the color of the liquid is off, almost more of a brown. “Is Alveolarium. It appeared on Earth I guess ten years ago now and we can’t find a cure. Around the same time it showed up, I got called to an island in the middle of nowhere to research a new discovery,” you explain. “They sent a ship somewhere around here back then, and picked up a CRM– um– a Kerm.”
Sukuna doesn’t move, but you have his attention.
“I was sent to research behaviour since it looks like a bug, but they also discovered that Kerm have cells in their shell that are really similar to the pathogen causing Alveolarium which was spreading a lot, but Kerm cells seem to carry properties that might help or stop or kill the disease or something,” you explain, shutting your eyes tightly as you search for vocabulary he’d know. “Basically they have similar cells,” you explain.
Sukuna inhales, long and slow as he sits up. Interestingly, his gaze splits as he looks over both samples at once. His languid movement makes sense when you consider that he’s well over a thousand years old and still has two thousand to go, if not more. Of course life isn’t short for a creature like him.
“We had one Kerm,” you continue. “But it died.”
“Died. Gone?” Sukuna confirms the meaning of the word.
“Yeah.”
He grunts. There’s no real emotion behind it, it’s nothing but sheer acknowledgement.
“So I need to get more Kerm. It’s…” You stare down at the sealed contaminated cell sample. “It’s bad, Sukuna. A lot of humans died. Probably way more since I’ve been gone.”
He stares at you for a long moment, his jaw moving as he evaluates your expression and every little micromovement of your body. He has a way about the manner in which he moves like he’s above life itself, everything in his mannerisms is lazy and unbothered– that is, until you grate on his nerves, anyway. There’s something almost kingly in the way he carries himself. After a long pause, he sets a forearm on his leg, leaning forward. “You want cells. Mine.”
Your jaw hangs open as you attempt to explain yourself. “I mean– you might be able to save us, but obviously only if you’re okay with it! I just– We don’t actually know anything about the Kerm, and I can’t guarantee if it’ll make it back alive or even at all, and–”
“Human.” There’s less heat in his voice as he shuts you up with the low rumbling of his timbre. “I help. You get suit,” he speaks like he’s ordering you, pointing.
“Suit?”
His eyes narrow as he gets to his feet, offense dripping from the very click of his tongue he gives you. “You scientist. You help.”
Your jaw hangs open as you glance back between him and the ship. You seal your lips into a tight line, staring down at fidgeting hands. “Sukuna, I–” You shake your head.
“Your atmosphere weak, humans weak. Use your second heart, my ship pressure not crush you. Stop scared movement,” he points mildly at your twiddling thumbs.
Before you can explain the truth, you’re perplexed by his words. “Second…? I only have one heart.”
He huffs. “Then I help reinforce oxygen tank to survive pressure of sulfur gas atmosphere. Weak human. Foolish weak human.”
You’re left in utter disbelief and mild shock, frozen in place as he turns on his heel to, you suppose, make you a new tank fitting of the pressure of his ship. When the hell did he even pick up the word foolish? Did you say that? Shaking your head of the thought, you need to focus on what matters here.
“Sukuna!”
He stops a short distance away, his gaze thrown over his shoulder.
“Sukuna, I can’t– I can’t leave.”
He crosses his arms– all four of them– unimpressed. “Why?”
“This was always meant to be a one-way trip. I don’t get to go home. I’m sealed in here. I have no depressurization pod, no suit, no way to unseal the ship without losing the oxygen in here. No portable generators, nothing. When the ship loses power, that’s it.”
Slowly, he turns towards you, straightening as he regards you. He doesn’t just look displeased, he looks downright offended. His usual go-to doesn’t seem to cut it either as he spews out something more than just ‘weak’. “Wrong.”
It likely doesn’t convey what he wants, but you get the gist anyway. “Yeah. It’s stupid,” you agree.
“Your stupid.”
“Yeah,” you laugh half-heartedly. “My stupid.”
Clearly realizing you’re butchering your own language to appeal to his limited use of it, he turns on his heel again, muttering something under his breath. Your hand slips away from the glass keeping you safe and trapped in tandem as you watch Sukuna disappear. You find yourself staring at the photo of you and Shoko again. What you wouldn’t give to check in on her right now. Or ever again.
This will be it for you. Your food supply is limited to what it was deemed was a reasonable amount of time to– somehow– procure not just one but multiple specimens of Kerm or CRM-12, or whatever you’re meant to call them. Your power will fizzle out. Your oxygen supply will end. Your ship’s fuel is already near its limit. You’re sealed in a death trap as a final sentencing. You shut your eyes tightly, rubbing your hands over your face in an effort to reset.
When Sukuna doesn’t return in a couple of minutes, you move around the ship in an effort to clear your head and get some exercise. Anything that stops reminding you of just how trapped you are in a void of uncharted territory with an alien that far exceeds any of humanity’s feats.
You grab a bite to eat, rehydrating some macaroni and cheese in a flimsy bag. It’s unappealing as all hell but it’s better than starving. Eating straight out of the bag, you meander back towards the window, blinking when you find Sukuna setting up a mobile science lab of some sort just outside the bridge. You jog closer to the window, taking a seat to watch as he sets out largely similar and recognizable equipment, although the shape and build of much of his technology is infinitely more advanced. Bigger, too, given his size.
One set of eyes glides to your movement, an eerie feat of having an extra pair, while he continues to set up. Your mind goes into overdrive trying to figure out just how much that sets apart his biology from yours to have the energy production and sheer brainpower to manage so much at once.
His nose wrinkles when he watches you spoon food into your mouth. Chuckling, you approach the nook by the window, presenting the bag to him. “It’s macaroni and cheese.” You tilt the bag in his direction.
“It’s bad.”
“Hey!” You chide with a grin. “It’s better than it looks. You can’t call it bad until you try it.”
With an unusually pompous huff, he turns back to the mobile set-up and picks up a box-like device, connecting it to the window by suction. He runs his thumb along the edge like a dial and it comes to life, seeping a sort of caulk onto the glass before it begins drilling through the window. Your survival instinct recognizes the structural instability. Your curiosity chooses to ignore it as the device uses some sort of nanotech to recreate its shape on the inner glass, sealing itself.
You purse your lips, your spoon held in mid-air. “A mini pressurization chamber.”
He chuffs. “Give macaroni and cheese.”
“You need to learn manners,” you mutter more to yourself than to him as he literally holds his hand out to bluntly demand your lunch with that unnatural edge to his voice that never quite fits his genuine intrigue.
“Manners?” He queries, though his hand never moves.
Chuckling to yourself as you give in and offer the small bag and spoon of food to him, you watch as your door closes and the pressure within the device changes. “We say please when we ask for something and thank you when we’re given something if we want to be polite or nice to someone.” When his side opens, the bag and food as a whole are crushed under the pressure of his differing atmosphere, presenting him with a dripping mess of squished pasta.
Admittedly, it does look bad now. As it begins dripping melted cheese that’s entirely too watery out the other side straight onto his shoes, he stares at you with the kind of tight-lipped expression that transcends any language barrier.
He’s not thanking you for this.
“Sorry,” you wince, offering an apologetic grin.
He growls, trudging back across the large expanse of hangar bay to get something to clean up the mess. By the time he returns and cleans up the cheese, he finally opts to take a bite of the crushed food, fixing you with a glare.
“Bad. Bad food for weak human.”
You can only smile, because it figures that he would hate it. “Fair enough,” you laugh, watching as he sets it along with the dirty rag he used to clean the cheese. Your eyes widen a fraction at the thought. “Wait, what do you–”
Rolling his shoulders, he points to the small chamber that connects you. “Give Alveolarium.”
Your thoughts are already long forgotten as you pick up one of the cultures, chewing on your lower lip as you examine the glass. “I think your ship’s atmospheric pressure might crush the vial.” You hold it up to him. “It’s pretty thin.”
With a hum, Sukuna offers a box through the exchange to put the phial in. As you exchange materials and Sukuna begins separating the infected cells into smaller cultures within an oxygen-controlled box with barometric pressure equal to your ship’s, it occurs to you that in spite of your life being cut short, some part of you is happy for this experience. Even if your notes and findings get stranded out here, you can say you found companionship in a grumpy ten-foot-tall genius alien, and that’s pretty cool.
With your plights long forgotten as you watch Sukuna work with your face practically plastered to the glass, the technology and rate at which he’s able to work grabs your attention. Your chest practically rattles in excitement as he moves through practiced motions like he already knows what to do.
“What’s that?” You query, watching eagerly as he injects something into a lower arm.
One pair of eyes flicks to you. “For cells.”
“For stem cells? Like from your bones?”
He chuffs, pulling out a rubber band as he restricts his blood flow to take a sample.
“It’s that fast?” You gawk as he already begins drawing a sample.
His brow twitches as you break his concentration, but he chuffs to give you a reply regardless.
“Oh my god. We have a drug that does that too, but it takes a while before it produces any neutrophils– um– stem cells. You’re so much more advanced than us, I never imagined how much different life could be!” You watch as blue blood is extracted from his arm, and he begins separating the sample in order to work with it. “Your blood is blue? Is that because of the differing atmosphere? Or maybe it’s an adaptation somehow–”
“Human,” Sukuna groans, disenchanted with your rambles. He fixes you with a tired expression, pointing to the experiment in an effort to get you to focus. “Stop. Noisy.”
“Right, sorry!” You apologize with a wide grin.
A series of clicks, syllables, and growls escape the brutish man as he mutters something to himself, undoing the band from his arm and flexing his fingers a couple of times before pulling a sleeve back down. As he introduces his cells to the Alveolar cells that are infected in the controlled environment, he moves a small device over the culture slide, projecting hologram of the microscopic cells. His cells are so different from anything you’ve observed on Earth that you have no issue telling which belong to him in spite of your differing major.
The cells collide once, the Alveolarium attempts to attack Sukuna’s cells, then simply… backs off. “They’re incompatible,” you state dryly, your shoulders dropping.
Sukuna grunts. “Alveolar cells still functional. My cells not see issue.”
“That could be it.” You shrug.
He hums, tapping a finger twice along the table. “Then we change environment.”
“Create artificial stress until your cells react,” you breathe, your hand snapping down to the ground beside you with a metallic clang that has Sukuna flashing you another glare.
“Loud. Loud human.”
“Sorry, I just– I’m a bit overexcited,” you offer with a smile.
Sukuna continues to stare for a moment, then adjusts the pressure within the glass box where the experiment is taking place to something more dense. He attempts to alter the environment enough that his cells recognize a threat, while not outright killing yours. Striking a balance between them proves to be a multi-day endeavor. In the moments where you can only wait, you slowly begin to unravel the enigma that is Sukuna.
You can’t count how many times Sukuna huffs or makes his disdain known with a very dramatic look in your direction when you suggest something altogether dumb, but you also note that he tells you you’re noisy less often. He picks up on more scientific terms, and even begins to pick up on prepositions purely from your use of them. He teaches you about Simuria, how the Simurians all have extra eyes, two hearts, and are fairly large compared to humanity, though they largely don’t resemble one another. He teaches you about one with horns, who you assume is a friend. He, on the other hand, refers to the horned Simurian as a neighbor.
You get the feeling Sukuna isn’t the friendly type.
“You’re invasive,” he gruffs out in reply to your question.
Your head falls back as you stare at the ceiling with a groan. “I literally just asked if you choose to be alone!” You retort lightheartedly. “You don’t even have to give me a reason!”
“You’re invasive. Like Kerm.”
“Like–” You gawk at him, watching a slow smile curl at his lips. “Like Kerm?”
“Loud like them too.”
“Hey!”
His head tilts as you exclaim your displeasure with that statement, but it’s one of the rare moments where he does seem pleased, which brings a smile to your face regardless. For whatever reason, nothing seems to get him boastful quite like belittling humanity. And since his only knowledge of humanity is you, that puts you at the center of his jokes.
“You know,” you meander back to the topic of Kerm, pulling the smile straight from his lips when you change the subject. “You never did tell me why you’re here. You know the Kerm too, so is it for them?”
He chuffs. “I did tell you. The Kerm are invasive.”
“That’s not really a reason. That’s just like– a statement.”
Seated on the floor with his back against the glass that separates you, he rolls his head along the rigid surface, his gaze finding you. “Kerm are smarter than you humans think,” he grumbles out a baseline explanation. He utters something in his language, then puts together a few sounds until he has a new word for you. “Methalonian weapons. They aren’t natural. They’re–” he taps his fingers on the bay’s floor briefly in thought. “Created by another species.”
“Methalonian,” you test the word. “Are they artificial? Or are they mutated? Like, completely not real or mutated from something that already existed?”
He taps his finger decidedly. “Mutated. Another species mutated them. I’ve been circling this planet for a while now to find where they come from,” he explains. “There are no other species here. They ate all of their resources. Now they invade.”
“How do they even leave? Are they that smart?”
He growls. “They attach themselves to ships and invade.”
“Oh. What are you planning on doing to them, then?”
He sucks in a breath. “Killing them.”
You freeze, staring at him as he examines your expression. You’ve never been much good at training your emotions, your pupils narrowing to mere pinpricks. You swallow, gaze averting to the photo of Shoko. “You were never gonna let me take any.”
“... No.”
“That’s why you trapped me. You knew I was here for them.”
“Made a guess,” he agrees with a hand motion that you’d equate to a shrug.
Slumping back against the bridge’s floor, you stare at the ceiling. Your alien counterpart watches in silence as you process what you know of the Kerm, your current situation, and your species’ survival. You consider Shoko back home, and the rest of your family and friends. You consider your nights out together ten years ago and what that might look like now if you ever make it back. You consider the failing government, and how it’s possible everything has completely fallen apart since your launch. But what really gets to you is that if this doesn’t work, there’s no world where Sukuna lets you send a Kerm back.
Maybe you shouldn’t care. You’re physically welded into a ship in the middle of nowhere. Yet here you are, even after everything, still being hopeful. It’s the most human thing you could possibly do. “What did The Kerm do to you?” You quietly murmur, still staring at the ceiling.
He inhales once, long. His eyes shut. “They’re mutated to kill,” he grunts. “The cells your scientists found in their shells…” his jaw ticks as he clicks, something you can’t decipher as syllables follow it. “It is not your cure.”
You lift your head, leaning on two elbows to look at him.
“It is your cause.”
Your lips part, brow furrowing. “But– I– That’s not–” Your chest tightens, emotions betraying you as you feel your waterline wet. Quickly wiping away the evidence, your fingers curl against the metal floor beneath you.
Sukuna doesn’t budge, his fiery gaze pinning you to place.
“But Alveolarium has been around longer than the Kerm was on Earth.”
He moves a knee, tilting his head. “Has it?”
“I… Don’t know, actually.” At last, you admit it, but things don’t fully add up from what you know. You let yourself fall onto your back again. “The company that sent me here, we had a bit of a disagreement. I guess… Maybe they were right, but still.”
Sukuna’s eyes narrow, minute, as he attempts to decipher the vagueness of your statement, but by nature of a language barrier, he can’t make out what emotion it is that you’re so graciously dancing around.
You swallow hard. “Did… Did they kill a lot of Simurians?”
“Yes. Humans?”
“If it’s them then… yeah, I guess. Millions. Like, thousands upon thousands.”
Morbidly intrigued, Sukuna shuffles to get a better look at you, his face closer to the glass than ever. “How many humans are on Earth?”
“Um–” You quickly pull up the whiteboard, demonstrating a number for ten, then a thousand, then a million, then a billion. “There were eight billion.”
This is the most baffled you’ve ever seen Sukuna, who physically recoils at the mere thought. “How do you keep distance? How do you celebrate the union of humans?”
“Union of humans?” You laugh. “Weddings? I don’t know, you invite a hundred people and call it a day.” But the question sparks something in you as you sit up to face your baffled friend. “How many Simurians are there?”
“Seventy nine.”
“WHAT?” You gape, noting that he doesn’t complain about your noise in spite of his narrowing eyes and defensive posture. “Are you guys close to going extinct? Like, being gone? Are you not worried?”
He simply growls in reply. “No, human. Things are…” He hesitates, his gaze averting. “We all have space and resources, it isn’t cramped.” He rolls his shoulders back. “We celebrate all weddings every year. Then stay alone with our partners.”
There’s a pit of jealousy in your stomach that you cover with a smile. “So you have someone you’ll be going back to, hey?” You grin, prodding at him through the window. You equate the unsettling feeling to a yearning for having someone like that back home, or even the option to return, but it would be ignoring the bigger picture that you’ve both been sitting in this bay for several days together and you’ve grown fond of him. You may not have a choice in being here, but he does. And he chooses to help in spite of his own goals. Your heart likes that he chooses you a bit too much.
To your surprise, your question irks him and his eyes narrow. A harsh hiss erupts from his throat as he suddenly turns back towards the pressurized box where your experimentation is taking place.
Your shoulders fall, watching the muscles over his back pull taut as he busies himself with little more than prep work for a next experiment as you continue to wait.
It doesn’t take a rocket scientist (hah) to realize that Sukuna has no partner. The thought trickles through the pockets of your mind. Seventy nine people on a planet total… You can only imagine how lonely that gets. Even you, who chooses to be with bugs a majority of your life, always returns home to Shoko and your bugs at the end of a trip.
Seventy nine. That’s thirty nine weddings. Is he the only Simurian with no partner? “Sukuna…” You watch him work, his movements unbothered as he dilutes samples and ups heat to push his cells to react. “Are you lonely?”
He freezes. A muscle in his cheek twitches as he flexes his jaw, choosing not to reply when he continues in his motions.
Your shoulders fall as you watch him silently work, pulling the rug out from under you on the reality of your relationship. A working relationship, really. He’s always chided you for being invasive, and you suppose this is why.
“I’m lonely,” you offer, quietly. His movements don’t freeze altogether, but they slow. He moves as though any noise might distract him from what you’re saying, in spite of the fact that there’s no keeping secrets from a man with ears like him. “I wish I could go back to Earth. Or maybe meet the Simurians, or see more of the universe. I wish I could study bugs again.”
When he still doesn’t reply, but his movements slow to a crawl, you pick up the photo of you and Shoko, presenting it to him again. “I’d love to tell my friend what we’re up to.”
After an extended moment’s silence, he removes his hands from the box, resting them on the table he rolled in. The dense metal protests his weight, even though it was designed for him. Likely designed by him, too. He still doesn’t face you, choosing to protect himself from your prying eyes by continuing to face somewhat away from you.
“It’s not so bad up here though, you know. I mean, I met you. That’s pretty cool.” You scoot closer to the glass, hoping to find common ground through friendship, if you can call this such a thing.
Your movement grabs his attention. His gaze flickers towards you, the only sign he’s heard you at all. He continues to face forward, his shoulders hunched over the cool metal table.
“Why are you alone?” He finally speaks up, unmoving otherwise.
“I’m uh– pretty noisy,” you offer with a grin in terms he knows well, deflecting the question. “So I guess it just never worked out with other people.”
Sukuna straightens, turning to face you. “Not what I meant.”
You smile, half-hearted. “I’m a criminal, Sukuna.”
“Criminal?”
You nod, pulling your knees into your chest as he slowly nears the glass again. He takes a seat, cross-legged as he leans over his forearms to give you his full attention. “I did a really bad thing. Other humans got hurt and I’m here as a punishment. Our technology isn’t as good as yours and the crew that signed up for this mission knew they wouldn’t get to go back to Earth. The choices I made landed me here instead of them.”
“What did you do?”
Your arms tighten around your legs as you settle your chin along your knees. “The Kerm, you know how I told you we had one?”
He chuffs.
“We put it in a cell, a big cage or room,” you explain to the best of your ability. “I was told they just caught it and I was brought in to study it, because it looks similar to our bugs so people in charge made assumptions,” you haphazardly point at the photo where your bug pets are crawling on your clothes. Their features are close enough to the Kerm that you can see the train of thought that led to you. “In my time studying it, I realized it was smart. Like, way smarter than any bug on Earth. Maybe even smarter than any animal. It was listening. It was learning.”
“You opened its cell.”
With a drawn out sigh, you bury your face in your folded arms, muffling your words. “I opened its cell.”
“It ate them all.”
“It ate the crew for this mission. Every last one of them. And then the people in charge killed it, too.”
With two arms relaxed in his lap and two holding him up, Sukuna watches in relative silence as emotions swim through your eyes. He doesn’t have a name for most of them, but he’s seen them in himself. Over a thousand years of life will do that to you.
Your voice is a mere whisper. “It was so smart, Sukuna. I just couldn’t watch it live out its life in a cell.”
“Now you live your life in a cell.”
You lift your head, gaze flickering across the buttons you never bothered to figure out and the white walls you never quite grew accustomed to when all you ever see is Sukuna. “Yeah, I guess so. Funny how that works, huh?”
“It’s not funny,” he hisses, his brow furrowing in such a way that actually has you curious.
It’s not as though you didn’t consider yourself acquaintances at least with him by this point. You've spent several days together and he chooses every day to return when he could have dropped you off at any point and cleaned up his scuffed hangar, but he doesn’t. Every day, he pushes his own goals and mission back another day into the future and chooses to help the trapped little entomologist residing in the back corner of his ship. The whole thing is funny if you’re grim enough about it.
In spite of his frustration, you shuffle forward, pressing a hand to the glass. “It’s okay. I’m glad we met before I’m gone.”
His brow twitches not once but twice as he stares at your hand like it’s a personal affront. “My ship can get you home.”
Your fingers curl just slightly against the glass. Your body inadvertently winces at the thought. “Maybe. But if I go home, I’ll still be arrested and live life in a cell down there. That’s… worse.”
“Even if you bring back a cure?”
“Humans are… complicated.”
“Stupid.”
A puff of air leaves your nose. “Yeah. Humans are stupid.” You do what you can to mask your underlying sadness as your lips curl up into a smile.
You can’t read Sukuna’s expression as his intense crimson stare burns into you. You know there’s a level of disbelief and maybe even frustration at your self-sacrifice in his eyes. Whether you want to admit that an alien could feel something like that for you is another story.
You can see the internal battle raging within him, although you can’t identify what battle it is that he fights. In spite of his troubled scowl, you’re shocked when an arm slowly lifts from where his elbow rested on his thigh. He brings it to the glass, his fingers pressing first over each digit, before his palm splays over yours. The heat he radiates is warm enough that you feel it through the glass, befitting of a ten foot alien that expends far more energy than you. As if you weren’t already aware, it makes it apparent just how much he dwarfs you.
You peel your gaze from his hand, examining the way he refuses to look at you. Softly, you pose a question that might answer some of your own. “How many Simurians were there before the Kerm?”
His frown deepens, his head falling. “Over one thousand. I evolved. Most… did not.”
Something briefly occurs to you of the whole ordeal. You wonder if maybe there was someone that even he– a scientist and engineer clearly capable of incredible feats– could not save. “Your family?” You query, your voice a near-whisper that you know he picks up on.
His eyes slowly drag across the glass, staring straight through you as his reflection startlingly pins him in place. He swallows hard, refusing to confirm when it’s not you staring him down, but his own misplaced guilt that reflects back at him.
His jaw locks, teeth grinding as he pulls back suddenly, on his feet in an instant with an expression you can’t place. He’s scowling with wide eyes, turning on his heel as he excuses himself with nothing more than an “I’m tired,” trudging away with footsteps that echo throughout the bay.
Sitting back, you let out a sigh as you’re left alone once again.
–
The somber tone of that day never fully recuperates itself into something easier. There’s a constant pressure looming overhead that unfortunately isn’t barometric. It’s that of a ship set to fail and a man who treats revenge like a cure for loss. But on the other hand, one thing does change. Sukuna opens up.
He shows you a hologram with images of Simuria that leave you wistful for the greater universe. Space was never your forte, but the dense petrified wood forests and gaseous craters and mountains have your brain tripping over itself in curiosity of what insects could exist in those biomes, much to Sukuna’s dismay as he brushes you off as noisy.
As the days pass and your food supply begins to run short, you’re left with no option but to eat less as you quietly enter survival mode upon realizing Sukuna eats… well, rocks. So you’re left only with what was packed for you.
You were intended to have sent Kerm back by now. You weren’t intended to find life like Sukuna. You weren’t intended to bond. You weren’t intended to be left with a yearning to explore the universe and see the things he’s seen. You weren’t intended to slowly begin to wither. There was an out for you, as morbid as it is. A single dose ready to take once your mission was complete.
And yet, every day, Sukuna brings something new for you to see or experience. It’s small, but it’s surprisingly meaningful. He shows you the vast cliff faces of a Simurian coast that’s a famous vacation spot. He tells you stories of the gaseous craters within the planet that make much of it uninhabitable, hence the far smaller population across it, even before the Kerm. He demonstrates the use of four arms to their full extent and how his brain adapted. He shows you his tattoos. God, the tattoos.
He tells you all about how they each have meaning. How in Simuria, they’re a mark of life events. His wrists were banded when he finished an equivalent of elementary school at twenty-eight. His upper arms were an equivalent of high school at thirty-six, and something akin to university marked his shoulders at sixty-two. It’s a wonder to hear someone graduating university at sixty-two with their life still ahead of them.
He lifts his shirt and points to stripes along his shoulder and back. You swear you’re paying attention. You swear. He smirks, but he tells you nonetheless that they were from what you might consider a bachelor’s degree equivalent.
“What about your face?” You ask, tracing the ink on his jaw along the glass as you leave behind a smear.
“That,” he states, “was my choice. We all choose what our face will look like.”
“No special event?”
“Just me,” he breathes.
It makes you smile.
He hates how much that very action sits under his ribs. It pokes at him, prods at him like it belongs there, reminding him that this won’t last forever.
One morning, he arrives with dark circles under his eyes. He notes that you both look tired. He knows his reasoning, but he can’t place yours. Your energy is largely spent, yet you just awoke. You’re not noisy anymore. He places a circular device on the ground. A holographic device, you recognize it right away, but it’s far larger than the usual one.
“You wanted to see the mountains,” he states simply, ignoring the failed experiment to his left, in spite of the fact that he needs to start a new one with time of the essence. “You will.”
Awaiting him in your usual nook by the window, you’re wrapped up in a blanket, smiling in spite of yourself. For the first time since you met, weak feels as though it properly describes your appearance, but you refuse to give up despite your body’s shortcomings as your stomach rumbles. Sukuna never points it out.
He runs his finger along the outer dial that his machinery tends to run on and it springs to life. You bring a hand up to block the light protruding from a high-lumen-count projector, squinting as the hologram doesn’t just project something in a controlled, small environment, it extends to every wall as though you’re there. The bulb remains bright as Sukuna steps away from it, allowing you to see a mountain as though you’re there.
It’s not a rebuilt landscape either, you realize as you press your hands to the glass to get a better view. It’s a video. It’s a bit shaky, and you’re certain that if it played audio, you might hear the camera operator panting. Every time it shakes and the hologram can’t make sense of what it’s projecting, you squint, but it comes back in a moment. When it flashes suddenly, you catch a glimpse of Sukuna, following along behind the camera operator. He looks young. In human years, you would guess his twenties. Maybe three hundred for him. You can’t help a smile as you note that he doesn’t seem to have four arms. You wonder if they came later.
The camera flashes again as the operator moves it, revealing his own face along with Sukuna and four laughing Simurians. Sukuna still bears his usual aloof expression, but the joy in his eyes is palpable as they all pose for a photo. The camera operator looks largely like Sukuna, though he bears no facial tattoos and only a simple set of extra eyes. A twin, perhaps.
To Sukuna’s left is a Simurian with shoulder-length white hair who’s much shorter than the rest of them with an eye in the center of their forehead, a tall and slender Simurian with horns and the same third eye, one with shaggy white hair and six striking blue eyes, and one with silky-looking black hair and four eyes, purple beyond your wildest beliefs.
“Are those your friends?” You query, covering a cough in your elbow.
Sukuna intently watches the action, chuffing when the camera turns away. “We went on a trip after my fourth tattoo.”
“You look young.”
He steps around the projector, moving closer to your window. “I was.” He’s never been the most talkative, but he does ask more questions. You chalk it up to scientific curiosity. “Are Earth mountains like this?” Were you more keen, you might realize he’s deflecting you from the subject of the friends of which he’s mostly lost.
You stare around at the landscape. Simuria is largely rocky with giant craters. It’s covered in iridescent minerals that seem to form under the far more gaseous and toxic-leaning environment. “Some,” you decide. “The more harsh environments get colorful like this. Mostly, they’re gray with trees. Kinda spiky green ones with pointed tops. We get snow, too, at the tops where it’s colder.”
Simuria is warm, from what you’ve gathered, and his head tilts curiously at the thought of snow.
“You know when you bring a liquid to a cold temperature and it freezes?”
He chuffs.
“Like that, but tiny shavings of it. It’s white and cold. It falls from the clouds.”
“Fascinating.” And he means it, too. It’s the most intriguing part of all of your interactions with him. You don’t learn through questioning as scientists anymore, you learn through sharing as friends.
“It’s beautiful,” you murmur to yourself, watching the video clip play out. It cuts off without so much as a sound of warning, the room returning to the usual bright and barren metal appearance you’ve grown accustomed to. “Snow doesn’t have much friction, so humans would go to the top of mountains and slide down.”
“You have no cliffs?”
“Not really on the snowy mountains.” You scoot forward, leaning your shoulder against the window as you pull yourself into a tight ball with a blanket draped over your shoulders. “Mostly in deserts. Desert mountains look more like Simurian ones, but mostly one color. They’re warmer, too. Most of the time.”
Subconsciously, Sukuna leans against the glass, his shoulder warming you enough that your eyes flutter shut. “What color?”
You yawn. “Orange. It’s kinda like a darker version of your hair. If you squint.”
Absently running a hand through said locks, he stares out at the hangar’s walls, where the hologram projected mountains mere moments ago. “I think I know the color,” he murmurs mostly to himself. Rising from where he leans against the glass, his lips part to speak when he finds you sound asleep slumped against the glass.
His jaw tightens, a sharp pain rising behind his teeth at the sight of the tiny Human he’s grown fond of curled into a little ball aboard her ship. His friend. Slowly, a hand rises to the glass as something in his chest twists painfully. He recognizes the feeling, he’s no fool. He’s spent over a thousand years alive and isn’t a stranger to the pang gnawing at him as the noisy stowaway he picked up passes out in his presence.
To you, he’s safety. To him, you're more than just company.
And you’re wasting away in his hangar bay because some species he’s never come across decided that would be the case simply for having compassion. It brought about a mistake, sure, but you had compassion nonetheless where they did not.
He sucks in a breath, taking long strides over the metal floor to continue experimenting until you rise again. He works quietly, although he knows your hearing doesn’t compare to his. He moves with silent ease in spite of his lumbering form and watches with a frown as every environmental change he puts either of the cells through doesn’t bring out the result he wants. His cells adapt to the environment, but never recognize the Alveolarium as a threat.
Stepping back as he attempts to re-evaluate, he casts a glance back at you. Even if your energy wanes, your heart still beats steadily in his keen ears. He can get you back to Earth so long as he can figure out a solution to get energy back into your system somehow given that his food doesn’t fit within your diet.
You stir with a yawn, seemingly roused by his glance. You press against the glass, sitting up and blinking a number of times. When you meet his gaze, a spark of energy ignites that has Sukuna wincing. You clamber against the metal, some sort of button or zipper on your clothes clanging hard against the metal. “Sorry, Sukuna! I didn’t realize I fell asleep.”
He growls, rubbing absently at his second ear tucked within salmon locks. “It’s fine,” he grumbles, although your company is more welcome than he gives off as you sit upright to watch his experimentation once more.
You offer suggestions that get you deadpan expressions and a dramatic roll of the eyes given your lack of knowledge on the subject of medicinal chemistry is lacking. You figure you’re better at telling stories anyway, and even if you lose your place here and there when your tiredness catches up with you, Sukuna always offers a guiding suggestion when you falter.
The following day is when he starts to notice a trend that doesn’t greet either of you with warmth.
You drag yourself to the bridge later than usual without your morning granola bar. Sukuna offers you a mineral, but he knows it would break your teeth. He also offers meat, but you both already know your system rejects it. The blanket you’ve been dragging around with you for the past few days is bundled so tightly around you that Sukuna would wager a guess that you’re colder than usual, too.
When you make a motion to point at something on the table, his gaze lingers on your trembling finger. He can hear your stomach. He knows you’re starving. He’s watching your spirit fade, completely helplessly.
Sukuna, a man who’s spent over two hundred years coming to terms with the past and adapting to being alone, finds himself completely at a loss and frustrated beyond his means when he finds you the following morning. Or– more accurately– when he doesn’t find you.
His footsteps are even as he makes his way across the hangar. Your belongings remain at the glass, but you aren’t there yet. He tilts his head, catching your heartbeat as a slow, steady thump that keeps him at bay, and moves to check on his most recent experiment. He frowns as he finds after the allotted time, his cells remain by their lonesome, still unable to identify your Human disease as a threat.
Truthfully, it perplexes him. You determined early on that you share enough DNA to potentially be susceptible to the same diseases. Hell, by all means this is something Simurians have already overcome. It came from the same source, so he can’t figure out why his stem cells have yet to take to yours.
Carding his finger through his hair, he lets out a forlorn sigh, eyes shut for a long moment. Your heart is a steady drum in his ear, a reminder of what it is that he’s working towards. Had someone told him two weeks ago that he’d be helping such a pitiful little species overcome a disease of their own doing, he might not have believed them. But there’s more to you than your brittle bone structure and weak muscle mass. You’re smart. Perhaps not as advanced as he is, but you’re smart far beyond your thirty five years.
You’re smart in the kind of way Sukuna can only dream. He’s seen the way your mind works, how thoughts pour out before you even have time to put them together. He’s seen how resilient you are in the face of certain death. But what really gets him is your attitude. You grin through every shortcoming. You ensure him that if you keep trying, eventually your minds will come together and you’ll figure it out. You never acknowledge that breakthroughs like this take centuries. You didn’t even blink when he revealed that he’s been searching for the source of the Kerm for over a hundred years.
You’re unlike anything Sukuna’s ever known. And something dark crawls beneath his skin when you don’t rouse by the time you’re usually eating. Noon, you called it once.
With his experimental cells set in an extremely cold environment, he leaves the workspace to round your ship. His head tilts as he listens for your heartbeat as though it ever left his periphery, but it’s as sound as it’s ever been. Slowed by sleep perhaps, but sound. He comes to a halt when it grows louder as he nears your sleeping bay. His hand drifts across the scraped metal where your ship tilted on its axis when it scraped the ground as he scooped you up, resting along the damaged hull.
He hones in on you, and finds you’re still breathing. Still there. Still alive. But shallow. There’s no wheeze, no sharp inhales. It’s simple and shallow.
His brow furrows as he turns to fully face the ship. You aren’t just malnourished anymore. Something is wrong. His gaze lifts, traveling along the mechanics that keep your ship in one piece, far more primitive than the smooth and compact design of his. He doesn’t know what he expects to find, but when what he’s faced with isn’t an easy explanation, he turns on his heel.
He moves with more severity than he has in a century, no longer silent as he pads over extended corridors of metal that leave him questioning ever having a ship of this size. When he reaches his lab, he reaches for a scanner and jogs back to your ship.
It only takes a moment to calibrate its sensor to search only for organic matter. He lifts it to your ship. Alveolarium, as expected. Blood, and healthy stem Alveolar cells, as expected. All in small quantities.
Until everything lights up red. Immense amounts of blood, of musculature and tissue, along with a high volume of water. He’s found you. And along with everything he expects of an organic creature, a revelation that makes his blood run cold.
An uncontrolled quantity of Alveolarium. You’re infected.
Somehow, between the multitude of items you’ve exchanged and the experiments you’ve run by your lonesome, you must have been exposed. Your energy is being sapped because your body is fighting a disease engineered to kill.
He harshly clicks and growls to himself in a series of muttered curses, as he stares at the reading. For the first time since the bioweapon you call Kerm was found on Simuria over two hundred years ago, he finds himself completely and utterly helpless yet again. Control slips through his fingers like the sands of time as he raises the scanner once more as though it might reveal a different fate, but it never does.
His chest rises and falls heavily, his arms falling to his sides as he stares blankly. His mind takes a moment to wrap around the reality that you’re not Simurian. You’re human. You’re noisy and weak, your mind can’t keep up with your thoughts, and you’re invasive as hell– you won’t adapt to the illness. And god, is it quiet without you.
Urgency kicks in like a long-dormant volcano coming to life as he moves back to the table, evaluating how many samples he has left. He draws more of his cells, ignoring the tingling feeling in his arm as he injects himself with a drug to draw stem cells from his marrow. He drags more of his lab to the hangar, setting out tables and creating extra boxes able to pressurize to the same barometric pressure as that of an oxygenated atmosphere.
He lowers incubation times to do more tests, changing the parameters so often that his notes become a mess.
You don’t move. He hears you shuffle once on the first day. On the second, he grits his teeth as he listens to your harsh breaths. Your moans, your groans. You move at one point in what sounds like a drag of your feet and he hears water, but he’s not even positive if you make it back to your quarters.
As he watches one of his cells back off from Humanity’s infected lung cells, he leans over the table on two arms, sucking in a long breath. He doesn’t know how long he has. He doesn’t know how long you can survive without food. He doesn’t know if you have more water.
His second pair of hands ball into fists at his sides as he shuts all four eyes tightly. He didn’t know what to do two hundred years ago watching something so similar take out his entire species. He doesn’t know what to do now, stuck in the same situation. His knowledge is far more advanced than everything he knew back then. His technology and abilities exceed everything from back then. So why the fuck can’t he figure it out?
Is it that your suggestions were more useful than he gave you credit for? No, is it that he simply misses them? That they kept his mind from running off-rails into mania?
He works himself to the bone until he’s leaning with his back to your window. With one knee pulled up, he rests his elbow atop it, using his hand to block the light from his pounding head. He absently rubs at the bridge of his nose, eyes shut as he runs through formulas in his head until his mind begins to give in. The only thing he can bring his mind to hone in on is the sound of your heart. The steady reminder of the noisy human he’s doing this for in the first place.
Just as he begins to drift off, the gentle buzz of lights in your ship comes to a halt, a mechanical voice brought to life by necessity.
“Backup power activated. Life support systems online.”
The alien jolts, his slumber interrupted as he stares up at your ship with wild eyes. They flick all around the bridge as he takes in the red light and the way the buttons along the navigation board have dimmed, many shutting off altogether.
“Backup?” He states the word as though the program might respond to him. “Online?” Neither word is in his vocabulary, and as he gets to his feet, all four hands pressed to the glass, he searches desperately for meaning. “Human? Human?” His mind is too worn out to fill in the gaps with context as panic coats his movements like a snake slowly seeping its venom into its prey.
With a final call of your name, his fingers squeak as they drag along the glass. He turns back to his work station, dragging his hands violently over his scalp. He clicks and growls to himself, slamming a lower hand down over one of the sealed pressurized boxes. It cracks easily from his strength, putting his experiments immediately at risk. His eyes widen, two hands raising as though he might be able to stop it with his bare hands. He rushes back through his ship, racing through corridors to find something capable of stopping the crack before it shatters altogether.
Returning with a handful of options, he opts to melt a stone element from his planet into the crack. It’s the safest option he can think of. Sitting back from the soldering gun, he collapses onto the floor in a flurry of exhausted limbs. His stomach mouth parts as his body expends much of his energy on his mental state, only furthering his trouble.
In an effort to gather his thoughts, he leans over his knees, dragging his hands down his face. Backup. Red lights came on, some systems shut down. Using context clues, he can put that together. He pushes down his panic as he works on the second word. Online. He can still hear your ship whirring. He can hear your breathing. Life support must be working.
Okay. One problem down.
No matter how he changes the co-culture or adjusts the selective pressure, no matter how he adjusts his hypothesis or the duress he puts his cells under, the results remain the same. His cells adapt. But never to the disease. They co-exist in separate worlds.
Two eyes flick towards your ship, reminded of you, stuck on your own in a cell of your own doing. His fingers curl into his palm as he drives his focus back to his makeshift lab.
He can’t figure out why his cells won’t recognize yours. You may be different species, but his cells should recognize the pathogen in the Alveolarium as similar to the same illness that took out a majority of Simuria. He’s already adapted past it, and the cell structure isn’t that different.
He drags his nails over his scalp while his lower arms remain in fists. How much power do you have left? How much longer can you survive without water? You’re largely compounded of it based on his scan, can you survive without intake?
With a harsh growl, he pushes to his feet, ignoring the way his muscles protest. Pain simmers as he pushes them, keeping the reins on his control over this situation with an iron grasp. He pushes through the burn, pushes his mind to its limits as he works out chemical compounds with what brain power he has left, all the while continuing to alter the cells’ environment until he has nothing left to give.
–
Your ship doesn’t do its usual chime come morning. What’s worse is that your coughing startles him awake. Your heart stutters, a deadly sound for any species.
Hunched over in an odd position on the floor, Sukuna cracks his neck, rubbing at it as adrenaline pumps through his veins.
You’re dying. For all the tireless work he’s doing, you’re still dying.
He reaches out for the window where you once sat, dragging his fingers over it like your very ship might fall from his grasp at any moment. His breathing accelerates, his chest leaden with the gravity of the situation. Resting his entire body against the glass, all four arms settle along the panel. His head rests unevenly on the panel, off-kilter at the whim of the plate that resides over the right side of his face. A low rumble starts from deep within his chest, erupting in a full-blown furious fit of hisses, clicks, Simurian syllables and roars.
He curses in his mother tongue like he did over a hundred years ago. He’s spent over a century learning, advancing, and searching the damn stars for a bioweapon only for the very same thing to be his demise once again.
Peeling himself off of your ship, he reaches back to rub at a kink in his neck. His first issue was a lack of understanding of your ship system. He fixed that. His second issue is the cells. He can’t fix that without trial and error. His third issue is you dying, which is made up of two issues. The pressure of his ship would crush you, but your own life support systems are failing. When your ship depressurizes, the hull will be crushed, your oxygen will flow out into the sulfuric compounds that make up his air, and you’ll suffocate.
And then there’s the dehydration. And he doesn’t know which one is a more immediate threat. Regardless, his immediate problem is your ship. He stares at it in an effort to figure out how to remove it from the equation.
He could create a new box for you, something smaller than your ship, create his own life support systems for you and pressurize the box by pumping in oxygen and out carbon dioxide, similar to the box he uses for experiments. It’s not impossible in theory, but he doesn’t have the materials on-board to build a box of that size, nor does he have an extra generator capable of creating oxygen at that scale.
The only materials aboard are from your ship, the very thing he can’t tear apart right now.
He drags his hand back through his hair, tearing it straight from the scalp as he fails to find a way to guarantee containment while also pressurizing whatever he can work out. On a small scale, he can manage with what’s in his lab. On a large scale, all he can truly manage is his ship itself. His shoulders fall slowly. His ship.
The pressure of your atmosphere wouldn’t be a big deal on a creature like him. His ship could handle that without question. His muscles would survive. He could wear a suit, pump the sulfuric components through it. He could save you from the immediate threat. For a moment, the thought sits with him. It slips into his chest along his ribs, curling around his pounding hearts. It almost doesn’t feel real.
But when the dust settles and he’s left simply staring at your window, it becomes suddenly, startlingly, real. He turns on his heel like a man on a mission, moving through the ship as he heads for the mechanical room. He wrenches the small metal door with too much force, causing it to bend as he slips down into the tight space.
Machinery hums and breathes around him, worn pipes humming on every side as he shimmies through the space you might think was built by someone else given how much Sukuna is forced to squeeze through it. A whirring tank brushes his skin– hot– burning him in the process, but it’s barely a distraction when he’s aiming for the back of the room.
Sure enough, the sulfuric gas generator residing at the back comes into view quickly. The generator currently keeping his ship pressurized could be repurposed for oxygen through chemical reactions similar to what’s currently generating his sulfuric gasses. He can suit up, and–
His hands come to a halt as he finds himself scanning his surroundings like it might change his fate.
]He only has one generator. He can only create sulfuric compounds for his own atmosphere on a small scale with what he has onboard his ship, but not enough to support him long-term, and what’s currently stored won’t last forever. And that’s only the tip of the iceberg, when he considers that he still has to kill the Kerm, on a planet whose atmosphere he knows nothing about, with creatures built to kill whether through sheer violence or illness. He can’t risk using what sulfuric compounds he has stored while aboard his own ship.
In the cramped space with the generator’s hatch open, he presses the ball of his palm against his temple. There’s an answer. One that he’s already considering. But the cost could be his life. He could make the change to oxygen and pray his body is forced to adapt and maybe save you, should he survive. It’s either that or sit here and listen to your heart and breathing weaken until you’re nothing but a shadow in his hangar bay.
On the flip side, if he doesn’t adapt, then you’re both dead.
Sukuna has always been a man of certainties. He chose science because it makes sense. He chose science, because variables don’t react without reason. He chose science because it gives him control of his outcomes through error and studious attention. But this decision isn’t about science or reason.
This decision is about the hundreds of Simurians he feels responsible for losing. It’s about his revenge against the Kerm. It’s about the noisy human wheezing in his hangar bay who told him she wanted to see Simuria. It’s about the stupid girl whose heart stuttered as she solemnly lied to him about being okay with her fate. It’s about how cold your hand felt, even through the glass.
He barks out a Simurian curse, reaching for the tools necessary to begin generating a different gas.
He wrenches on a cable, giving it a harsh twist to unlock it from its position. The ship comes alight with warnings that he opts to block out as the pressure of the hull begins to shift. It’s not painful to begin, even as the ship’s very structure complains with harsh moans and groans. He floods the chamber with sodium chlorate and ups the heat until it begins producing oxygen. As the remaining sulfuric gas runs into a reserve chamber, he shuts the generator and continues to ignore the creaking and warnings his ship spews.
Getting to his feet again, he slides through the tight space, sucking in every last breath he can of sulfuric gasses as they begin to dissipate.
Oxygen hurts. He pushes through the pain, trudging through the halls as he fails to catch his breath, certain that the generator is working when his muscles feel loose as the pressure of the ship adjusts to the new gas flowing through its chambers. He turns down a long hall, ignoring the flashing lights along every wall while the hull groans. When he finally reaches the hangar, his chest doesn’t ache or burn, it sears like something is clawing at him from within, begging to be let out. It’s not his first brush with pain like this, but there’s something different when it’s his lungs. Tears form along his lash line as he lacks sulfuric gasses to his brain, the compounds unable to pump blood to his most important organs.
When he reaches your ship, he stumbles into it, still upright through sheer willpower alone. He slams his fist into the panel nearest where he last knew you were, loosening the edge. His fingers curl around the newly revealed edge and with all the might left in his body, he tears it off. Along with it comes a series of mechanics as your ship begins to beep and protest in tandem with his. Only once he tears through some wiring with a series of flashing lights does your ship finally shut off.
This is it– the test of his own scientific capabilities. Whether or not you survive in the environment he’s artificially created within his own ship.
The blaring alarms mitigate his ability to find you, his head whipping one way or the other. He drags himself through the pain, through the mind-numbing brain fog, picking up a half-finished bottle of water he spots on a counter along the way, until he finds you.
You’re sitting awkwardly in a corner, shivering, but conscious. Alive.
Your eyes are harshly lidded when you stare up at him, clinging to your blanket like it’s a lifeline. Your dry lips part, a look of sheer confusion falling over your expression like you doubt what you’re seeing in the dark corridor of your ship whose systems have completely failed.
Sukuna’s chest struggles to rise and fall evenly, every breath furthering the pain behind his eyes as his lungs fail to pump sulfuric compounds into his bloodstream and his brain function falters. He doesn’t let his knees give out until he’s able to hand you the water bottle.
“S’kuna?” Your voice sounds as though it’s been scraped against the very compounds that make up Simurian mountains. You sound as though you don’t trust your voice, let alone your mind.
Close enough to leave the water within your reach, the giant alien’s body finally gives out. The water hits the floor beside you just within reach as one arm attempts to grab the counter that you lean against. His palm brushes the surface, but his body drops like a stone to the floor beside you, scraping his palm. His vision is narrow as he uses what little strength he has left to envelop you in his arms, acting as a blanket for your shivering form.
The moment he touches you, clarity shoots through your mind like lightning. This is no fever dream, you’re not waking up out of sheer necessity of needing water or a way to warm up. It’s a shock to your system in more ways than one. He’s not just warm– his body runs like a furnace in comparison to yours. He’s so warm that curling into him isn’t a choice, it’s survival and he knows it.
The very thing that kept you apart for so long hits you harder than the shock that Sukuna is beside you. “Wait–” the word comes weakly as you give his arm a shove. It barely affects him. “You can’t–” A cough settles at the back of your throat, interrupting your thoughts. “What did you do?” You rasp out between the kind of coughs that wrack your body and send spikes of pain to every receptor that will listen.
But he doesn’t respond, any semblance of consciousness long gone as his arms go limp. You can’t move him. You can barely move yourself. The most you can do is hope that his body takes to oxygen like it did to science, or whatever it was that truly gave him an extra pair of arms. You assume that’s his hope too.
The flashing lights and warning buzzers continue to blare outside the hull. Your ship offers very little cover from the noise, but enough that your already-foggy mind is able to drown out the noise with the static of illness. Unable to fight the heaviness held over you, you shakily grab the water. You may be too delirious to grasp the true gravity of the situation and what Sukuna’s done, but you know better than to overlook the gift of water.
The massive alien wrapped around you on the ground makes it easy to lean into him, basking in his warmth as it quells a modicum of your shivers. The longer you sit there in the flashing lights and blaring sirens, the more your body gives in to the grasps of the sandman. Subconsciously, you lean into Sukuna– passed out beside you– until your head leans against his shoulder. It doesn’t rise and fall, but you find comfort in the fact that when you press a hand to his chest in search of something, anything, that might give you hope, his heart pushes a single beat through. One after another, each of his two hearts continues to push through the unlikely situation.
That reassurance makes it easier to give in to the forces pushing you to unconsciousness. Because you recognize Sukuna’s actions as more than just kindness in the face of danger.
This is a species you’ve never witnessed whose primary goal was revenge, brought to his knees by the very stowaway he huffed and puffed over being noisy. Not by manipulation or force either, but by choice. Sukuna didn’t just choose to save you. He chose pain, he chose to bet on low odds. He chose to put off his mission, and he chose to endanger and expose himself to disease, all for you.
He isn’t just asking you to live. He’s commanding it.
–
Sukuna doesn’t stir for forty eight hours. You aren’t much better, but at least your body faces wakefulness in the face of dehydration. You don’t know how long Sukuna can survive without food or water, but you have no other option but to hope it’s longer than you.
Midway through the third day is when he finally stirs. It comes in twitches at first. It’s not dramatic, but in the few moments where you’re awake and delirious and you spot any semblance of movement, you cling to him like your life depends on it. Because it does.
Next come the wheezing breaths. Then groans, and sharp inhales that sound unnatural. You feel his pain deep in your ribs like a stabbing sensation. His fingers drag so harshly against the metal floor that his fingers break through it, the metal proving to be little more than an ant to his elephant strength.
Consciousness is dramatic for him.
Like a switch being flicked, his body comes to life and with it, his pain and confusion. He flies back, head ramming harshly into the cabinets you had been leaning against. He huffs out his displeasure, but the sensation is harsh in his chest. His lungs may have adapted, but oxygen is a harsh forced change to sulfur. The compounds shred within his chest, something that has one of his many hands flying up to grip at his chest.
He mutters a harsh curse under his breath in his mother tongue that sends pain back through his throat like a ricocheting bullet. In the cramped confines of your torn-open ship’s hull, he rests his head back against the door to the lab. Every breath is fire in the large expanse of his chest, his lungs accepting the oxygen not out of desire, but need.
He mutters a curse again, recoiling far less as he pushes through the pain. Ignoring the deliriousness of pain and the cramping in his gut, he cards a hand through mildly oily locks, pushing them away from his forehead. When his gaze glues itself to you, blearily watching him from the floor in a state of suspended wakefulness, he freezes altogether.
You’re alive.
His chest finds a new way to deliver pain as he hunches forward, sliding back to the spot where he had clearly been your pillow if your odd position is anything to go off of. He glides over the floor, taking a seat where he had been in an effort to provide a pillow.
The sensation of his returned warmth has your lashes fluttering as you stare up at him. He can see the gears physically turning in your mind as you make sense of him being there, awake, and alive as well.
For a moment, his brain betrays him. He moves on instinct, brushing his thumb over your collar. Only to be met with a weak smack to the chest. He blinks, staring down at you with confusion woven within his fondness.
“You could–” you cough, “have died.”
A series of growls and clicks between syllables you don’t recognize fall from his lips like he’s giving you a full scolding in a foreign language. It almost brings a smile to your dry lips as you recognize only two words.
“Noisy human.” His muscles are fraught from disuse as he hoists you into his lap.
The alarms may have stopped blaring, but the lights around him continue to flash in warning, reminding him of the reason he underwent this in the first place. Under the duress of having very little energy after evolution and his chest protesting his every movement, he groans as he pushes to his feet with you cradled close. He pulls you into his chest, casting a glance down at you as even in sickness, your eyes seem to shine as you watch your environment change. You never fail to bring wonder along with you, no matter the circumstances.
He treats you with the fragility of a flower as he brings you to his lab, moving over a panel that has no identifiable buttons, yet as Sukuna moves his hand over it, you hear the shift behind you. A bed reveals itself from the wall, not entirely unlike that of a human, though it’s a far harder material that he makes adjustments to in order to conform to your body as he lays you down.
His medical equipment isn’t unlike yours. He gets you started on an IV without hesitation, preventing the first of his major worries, and watches as your body shuts down, grateful for the new fluid intake. Every time you fall asleep is no easier than the last. One of his hearts skips, then the second one, but he takes the opportunity to continue his work. He moves the samples back to the lab, no longer bothering with the oxygenated box as he’s able to work faster now.
Waiting is the hardest part. It leaves him feeling powerless, pushing himself to his limits to distract himself from the fact that you look weaker every time his eyes glue themselves to you.
“Dabura’s anniversary was yesterday,” he mutters one morning, standing between you and his experiments where he can monitor both.
His lower hands rest on his waist, the upper arms crossed over his chest like twisting wrong doesn’t still send a shock to his system as his lungs continue to mold themselves to their new dual-purpose. He pushes through, idly taking a step towards you and the pile of blankets he stole from your ship that keep you from shivering.
“You would like the celebration,” he remarks, meandering to the side of your bed. He lowers himself to take a closer look at you, before sinking to his knees. His upper arms rest along the edge of the bed, chin seated atop them. “We have a–” he pauses, glancing aside at the realization that he frustratingly can’t even tell you about the celebration because he lacks the words. He growls, his expression pushing into a scowl as he utters the Simurian word for ‘fire’. “A heat light. It’s big,” he presses on. “We use chemicals to create oxygen vacuums,” he continues. “Everyone comes from across the planet. We eat a lot. Drink.”
You don’t stir.
“You would have liked Satoru. He was noisy, too.” His gaze rises from where he sits to sweep your face. You don’t have the gentle look he’s grown accustomed to anymore, your features sunken and permanently pulled into a pained expression. It wrenches at his chest more than the pain of evolution somehow. “He studied the Kaliyans. Some Simurians have deep ties to them. Neither him or I did, so he chose to study them. We never did find answers before…” He huffs, muttering a curse of clicks and growls. He lets his cheek fall to his arms, at a loss. He shuts all four eyes at the sound of a timer going off, sucking in a breath as he wearily pushes to his feet.
He stares at the hologram emptily. It irks him to see the Alveolarium still rampant, but he expects no less at this point. He doesn’t know what exactly he’s expecting to get out of these at this point when experiments like this don’t just take days. They take years. They take materials and vigorous testing and… He throws his gaze over his shoulder, noting how shallow your breaths are now.
He doesn’t have years. He might not even have days, yet again. He bought himself more time, but he’s back to square one with control slipping through his fingers yet again. He grits his teeth so harshly it sends a sharp pain straight to his brain. One would only catch his wince if they were paying attention, as his bottom left eye twitches from the sensation.
Padding out from the room to give himself a break to eat as he overthinks every equation until there’s no semblance of hope left, he sits casually at the bridge, staring out at the planet below. Green clouds and space debris make up the remnants of the species that created the Kerm, long extinct by the hands of their own bioweapon. Below those clouds are the pinks and blues that make up the largely crystalline surface where the beetle-adjacent species now resides, hungry and in search of new prey.
Kerm. The thought settles between his ribs alongside the pain of his evolution. He always envisioned his arrival at their planet to be more triumphant. He envisioned traveling to its surface to ensure that his hypothesis was correct and they’ve eaten beyond their means, invasive to their own planet and destroying its very ecosystem until all that remains are themselves. Then leaving without a trace of the Kerm, the planet, or his own actions.
Yet all this trip has done is resurface every scar he buried a century ago. He scratches at them until what remains are no longer just scars, but open wounds. Forcing down what food he can manage, he drags a hand down his jaw, staring out at the planet, Methalon. It’s silent for a long moment as he inhales and holds the breath.
In Simurian, he finds himself muttering to himself. “What if you’re right, human?” Another extended silence as the thought lingers. “What if… Kerm are more than your cause? What if they’re your cure, too?”
He taps his finger along the panel in which controls reside as he mulls the thought over, before springing into action. He doesn’t have the luxury to consider the consequences, pressing a palm to the controls as they react to electromagnetic pulses emitted from his brain and read through his fingers as he brings the ship to life for the first time in a couple of weeks, disturbing the spacerock that’s settled around the ship.
With a groan, the ship’s nose shifts as he points it towards the planet’s surface. The pressure surrounding the ship shifts as he nears the atmosphere, far more dense than what you would be accustomed to, so he thanks the stars that it’s him going in place of you. He stops the ship a short distance from the planet’s surface, setting it to hover within the densely gaseous atmosphere. It’ll keep you out of reach of the Kerm, which he hypothesizes shouldn’t be able to reach you with their stubby wings.
Should he be wrong, he supposes you’ll both succumb to his stupidity. He almost cracks a morbid smile at the thought. Not that you both might be a lost cause because of his decisions, but because he so often chides you for being stupid, when he’s recklessly allowing himself to be stupid now, too.
But he’s certainly not noisy. No, he talks to you because you like it. Not because he does. He’s quiet.
Suiting up, he drops to the planet’s surface with his limited sulfuric compound supply, his tank unsuited for oxygen. Gravity pulls him down like nothing he’s ever experienced as he drops heavily to the surface. He expected the dense atmosphere, but it still presses down on him like a weight.
Crystallic compounds crunch underfoot, and he shouldn’t consider himself shocked when he comes across the first series of Kerm, or as he knows them, Methalonians. He supposes the name isn’t very fitting, however, given that they’re unnatural. They killed whatever species was more befitting of the name.
The first one turns towards him, its head swiveling as its iridescent shell reflects the gorgeous light of the crystalline environment aiding it to blend in. It regards Sukuna with an entirely animal head tilt that might fool someone who doesn’t know their methods, but Sukuna isn’t fooled. He grips his EMP gun tighter, preparing himself for the inevitable. While the Kerm believe he’s fooled, he sets down a heavy containment pod, opening it with a hiss.
When he faces the group again, all fifteen or so creatures are facing him. Their wings buzz and hiss as they communicate, their antennae twitching through the air as they coordinate what Sukuna already knows to be an attack.
This time, however, he’s prepared. The first one approaches him slowly and curious, feigning a kindness they don’t possess. The brutish alien keeps up the facade in an effort to keep himself from being buried by a sea of Kerm.
He reaches a suited-up and reinforced hand out to the creature, watching its mandibles click together. It approaches slowly, peering up at Sukuna’s outwardly non-threatening demeanor. Its head tilts as it nears, nudging his fingers like it might provoke him.
But it’s not Sukuna that breaks the facade first. The creature zips forward, smashing its mandibles together where Sukuna’s hand just was, giving him enough time to lunge back. As the rest of the group moves in a coordinated hive towards him, he unleashes a small EMP attack that temporarily disorients the Kerm, sending them in more varied directions.
One that approaches him meets the fate of a heated vibrating dagger to its thorax, while another leaps at Sukuna’s shoulder. He spins, wrenching his shoulder in an effort to dislodge it from his suit, but its mandibles dig into the material. The material is impenetrable by their mandibles, but fuck if it doesn’t hurt anyway.
Hissing, Sukuna throws an arm around the Kerm to prevent it from leaving as he pulls the gut-ridden blade from the previous Kerm to lodge it into the next one. He remains largely in control, throwing one off to tear another from its own thorax with the blade the following moment until the smaller crowd re-coordinates itself. Sukuna launches another small EMP attack, throwing two of the group off, while the remaining four all leap at him at once. Mandibles clamp down on one shoulder, while another clings to his abdomen, choosing to methodically jab at the spots where his organs are.
Smart little asshole.
Sukuna recoils, hissing as pain rips through his stomach just beyond where his second mouth can reach. It momentarily disorients him, knocking him to the ground long enough that the remaining two Kerm are able to pile themselves onto him as well. They separate him from both the EMP and dagger, the sound of the vibrating tool over the crystalline earth grating on his nerves.
He shuts his eyes tightly, attempting to reset himself as he evaluates how much he’s been stamped down. He grits his teeth, grunting as he manages to lift an arm and throw one creature off with enough force to disorient it. The freed hand allows him to get enough leverage to flip himself over, slamming one hand straight through the creature’s shell. With one fierce glare, he flips the fight back in his favor, grabbing an incoming Kerm by the head and crushing it in one hand.
With a majority of his movement freed, he picks up the EMP again, blasting the remaining three insects and smashing them too, leaving only the one he tossed aside earlier. He grabs it by the thorax, wrangling it between two arms as he shoves it into the containment box with his spare set of hands. Once it’s inside, he lets out a huff, staring down at his gut-covered suit. He’ll need to be sure he carefully washes himself and his suit after this, given that he doesn’t want to expose you to more diseases that the bioweapon could have hidden beneath its shell.
Getting back to his feet, he better evaluates the surrounding environment. There’s evidence of trees, of civilization and buildings in the distance now turned to rubble and ash. He doesn’t have much sulfuric compounds left to breathe, so he figures he’ll do a once-over of the planet from within the ship, focusing his efforts back on a cure for you as he returns to the safety of his ship.
–
Splaying the Kerm’s insides across his workbench proves to be a disgusting feat. Even within a containment box, the smell permeates the damn room. He ends up moving it into the hangar, which by some grace has better filtration, but Sukuna finds himself further beaten down by the smell. As if his failures weren’t enough.
Unlike his cells, the Kerm’s stem cells do attack the Alveolarium… Unfortunately, no matter how he attempts to alter them, they only ever seem to act as aggressors.
For as smart as Sukuna is, he finds himself missing your curiosity. Your stupid questions. You challenge him. Not just because you’re noisy, but because you’re far more willing to approach the unlikely with an open mind. You lack the knowledge he has, specializing in natural biology where Sukuna excels in chemistry, cytology, geology, archeology, and engineering, but he’s also had a few extra years. Your lack of specific knowledge allows you to excel in general knowledge that Sukuna found himself praising you for.
Mentally. It’s easier to show fondness through actions than words, after all.
Bringing a hand up to his eyes, he presses a thumb and forefinger into them, yawning as every continued failure sets him back not just physically, but mentally too.
He collapses at the base of your bed, your breathing setting his nervous system into a furious rage of emotion as he realizes for the first time how close he truly is to losing you, with no cure in sight. Your species is weak in every sense of the word. Your muscles lack the build that Simurians have, your brain’s capacity is low, your immune system could be knocked over by a harsh wind, and yet Sukuna can’t help but find you endearing. Your lifespan is barely a smear in the grand scheme of his life, and yet the brutish alien, a species who mates for life, finds himself wondering how many ways you might be able to throw his life into disarray.
He wants your annoying quips. He wants your too-loud rambles. He wants to feel you warm in his arms, your eyes bright and wide as he shows you a Simurian mountaintop in some dumb-looking suit of his creation.
He slams his head back against your bed with enough force to rattle the very stone that makes it up. Dragging his hands down his face, the most he can do is stare at the experiments as one by one the timers go off and he’s left with one failure after another. His gaze splits as he looks between not just one, but four separate failures. Pushing his hands back through his hair, he balls his fists within the strands, eyes shut tight. Sitting so close to you, he still feels far. He finds himself mourning something he has yet to lose.
You haven’t awoken in several days, and as much as he wishes he could equate it to illness, the fact is that you’re dying. He can pump as many nutrients as he wants straight into your body without allowing your stomach the opportunity to reject his food, it’ll only do so much when it’s not your stomach fighting you anymore. It’s your lungs.
Every round of failed experiments is another scathing tear at his wounds as he leans against your bed on the floor. His gut aches where the Kerm attempted to strategically puncture his suit and beneath his performance longsleeve are several mild puncture wounds that only serve as annoyances in the grand scheme of things.
“I’m the foolish one,” he states simply out of the blue. “Not you.” He doesn’t follow it up with a long-winded explanation or flourish, it’s as simple as he makes it. You only ever did what you thought was right, giving every living creature the benefit of the doubt. It landed you in a cell, parked in his garage, but god damn it. You gave life your all. You lived without regrets. Sukuna’s lifespan trumps yours, and yet he lives with every weight he’s ever conjured still boiling under his skin.
He’s spent over a hundred years building himself into an impenetrable wall. The kind of man that doesn’t let his past haunt him. Yet here you are, under his skin like a leech and wrapped around his mind with roots that dig straight for his hearts.
He’s so wrapped up in his thoughts that he doesn’t feel your hand at first, as it slips into his hair. He jolts when at last he feels movement against his head, whipping up to face you. He meets your eyes from barely over the bed, heavily hooded as you regard him with a small smile in spite of yourself.
His shoulders fall as he approaches the side of the bed again, resting his head atop his arms. His lips press into a thin line as he doesn’t just let you reach back out, but leans into your touch against his cheek.
“You know,” you rasp, unsurprisingly coughing. “I was wrong about Kerm, but I wasn’t–” another cough, “wrong about you.”
His brow furrows, a deep scowl overtaking his features. Your words sound startlingly like the kind of thing that one might say when they’re coming to terms with the decisions they made in life, further wrenching his hearts.
“Thanks for trying to help Earth.”
He growls and clicks his displeasure with your words, earning a laugh that feels warm even in sickness. When you quiet down, his muttering is nearly unintelligible. “I don’t care about Earth.”
“I know,” you smile, your thumb trailing down his cheek as one lower eye flutters shut. “I like you too, Sukuna.”
He allows himself the peace of shutting his eyes, kneeling beside your bed with his cheek in your hand until his legs go numb and you pass out again. Pain spikes through his knees when he finally rises and straightens them, sighing as he wearily looks over his experiments again. His gaze passes over a hologram displaying one of his cells idly standing by as he considers what the hell he could possibly be doing wrong when something finally hits him like the full force of a jet engine as something dangerous surges into his chest– hope.
His cells are part of a system. A system capable of sending electromagnetic pulses like thoughts to his cells in order to trigger mutation. Sure, the cells will mutate on their own no matter what you put them through, but could the reason they aren’t accepting your cells be because there’s no system to indicate to his cells that there’s an issue?
He’s been approaching the whole situation under the lens of his cells being anti-pathogens, when in fact they’re closer to mutagens. They aren’t a cure, they would never be accepted as a cure. In fact, he’s willing to wager a bet that you’re right and there is a cure that could be pulled from the Kerm, but he doesn’t have the time to figure that out.
His cells could very well re-write your DNA. They could overwrite important information, they could make you more sick. He doesn’t know. His experiments will never work without a live test subject. But on the flip side, they could save you. They could mutate your cells into something capable of handling Alveolarium. Quite frankly, when both alternatives are death, he’s willing to give it a shot.
He moves across the room quickly, hitting a dial that brings to life a hologram in order to act as a whiteboard. He takes your weight and general body size, measuring the exact quantity of his cells that would need to be injected in order to fight a full system infection without the dose being lethal, or possibly mutating beyond control. Gene therapy is a risky move by all means, but he doesn’t have any other options.
He moves through the lab with ease as he extracts a new sample from his lower arm, moving it in a box to ensure his cells aren’t contaminated. He isolates the cells necessary at a dosage he prays is non-lethal and injects them into a sample of healthy stem cells you provided before you got sick to act as carriers.
With a final check of his calculations, he moves to your bedside, praying the healthy cells trick your body into accepting his cells. Sucking in a breath, he injects the gene therapy, and pulls up a chair to wait.
There’s nothing ceremonious about the wait. Sukuna busies himself by continuing to search for a cure, something you can send to Earth assuming he didn’t rip through the return vessels in his effort to get to you. After every pair of gloves he tosses aside, he always returns to the same chair to wait, resting his head on the edge of your bed.
On the second day when he wakes up with his hair glued to his forehead by sweat and drool dripping down his cheek, he moves to wipe it when he finds his head weighed down. He blinks, unable to see past the arms crossed under his cheek, but when he lifts his gaze just slightly, he finds you’ve shifted for the first time in days. Your hand is settled on the back of his head, fingers curled into his hair.
When he tries to tilt his head, your hand falls away again. You’re still asleep, but the hope in his chest surges.
Your face fills out properly over the next couple of days. He seems to miss your waking hours whenever they do happen on his horribly varied sleep schedule, but your coughing fits begin to die down and your breathing evens out.
It’s almost a week later when you wake up with an ache in your muscles like no other, but relief in your chest. The ceiling should be unfamiliar, but even within your fever dreams, you knew glimpses of him were real. Your head lolls to the side, the bedding beneath you rough in spite of its conformity to your body. Across the room, Sukuna moves around the ship in a frantic bout of quick movements. There’s a crudeness to his movements that doesn’t fit the put-together Simurian you’ve come to know. You catch a glance of the side of his face, noting the dark circles under two eyes that rest in a familiar fashion on his face, while those that sit angled along flesh are simply squinting more than usual.
He yawns, betraying the obvious. There’s a slight tremor to his hand as he uses a pipette to transfer cells. He sets a phial down, his lower arms heavily leaning over his work table. It’s obvious weariness plagues him to his marrow, but he doesn’t stop for a second.
“Sukuna?”
Crash!
In the flurry of his limbs leaving the table as he whips around, he sends an empty flask to the floor. Not a single one of his eyes shifts to follow the mess, frantically flickering around your face as he searches for signs of illness. Rather than the dull look he’s faced for the past week, he finds a gleam that he mentally pockets for later. He moves towards you in slow, lumbering steps like he doesn’t quite believe what he’s seeing, before lowering down to a kneel. His skin is deeply calloused, far denser than human skin, as his hands come to rest on your cheeks.
You find yourself biting back a smile as the stoic alien you’ve come to know keeps his intense gaze on you as he nuzzles his nose against you. You may not know Simurian, but you know animals. In some species, that’s a kiss.
“Sukuna?”
He hums.
“Was that a kiss?”
His lips press into a line, nudging his nose slightly against yours again like action is easier than a reply.
“Humans kiss with their lips,” you explain softly.
He doesn’t move immediately, his face a breadth from yours. Something cocky and knowing gleams within his gaze. A laugh bubbles from within your chest but it comes out as a cough, which you attempt to stifle, pulling back momentarily. Sukuna drags you back like he can’t stand the mere thought of distance.
Your laughter subsides quickly as you try hard not to grin.
The stoic Simurian’s breath comes out in an eager puff against your face. “Lips are usually for other things,” he offers with a suggestive tone. But he doesn’t know how to deny you anymore. The corner of his lips quirk up as he surges forward, engulfing you in a claiming kiss. You don’t know what exactly a kiss means for a thousand-year-old being that spends their life with one person when you only live a fraction of his lifespan, but in spite of that you don’t think you mind finding out.
Everything about the kiss is all-encompassing. His smell floods your senses first, the sort of sterile musk that comes with a man working himself to the bone in a lab. His taste doesn’t match it, though. There’s a spice to his taste that isn’t Earthly in nature, but it’s pleasant like a warm herbal tea. It’s intoxicating and addicting all the same, the kind of taste you could get drunk on, should he let you.
His grip doesn’t let up, hands sliding up the base of your scalp as he tips your head back to deepen the kiss. Your hands fly up to his collar, curling into the thick material of his muscle-tight shirt for purchase. It’s dizzying, and not just because your head is spinning with the sheer amount of thoughts bouncing around your overactive mind like ping pong balls. His lips move against yours in the kind of rhythm that doesn’t just insinuate passion, but something far deeper. A desperation that can only be conveyed through actions.
You can sense his resistance as you pull back, but you find yourself laughing as your hands splay across his broad chest. “Sukuna,” you tease. “I’m feeling better, but you still need to give my lungs a break.” You laugh airily, chest rising and falling heavily as he refuses to break contact.
The lumbering giant’s shoulders tense for a moment, then relax, his hands gliding down the column of your neck to rest on your shoulders. He takes the opportunity to envelop you in all four arms, grateful to find you’re no longer shivering. You don’t hesitate for even a moment, arms snaking around his neck as you bury your face into his neck.
“How’d you do it?”
He inhales, letting out a breath of relief as he relaxes into your grip in spite of his awkward hunched position over your bedside. “My cells aren’t like yours. They react to neural oscillations and signals sent through electromagnetism. We were trying to use them like anti-pathogens, but they aren’t.”
“They’re mutagens,” you finish the thought in an excited burst, pulling back to face him with those wonder-filled wide eyes he’s come to adore. “You did gene therapy.”
He chuffs proudly, puffing out his chest under your hands. It’s somehow far more endearing up close.
“Wait, oh my god–” You proclaim suddenly like you’ve come to the greatest realization on earth. “Do you think that means I can breathe sulfur? Or– Or maybe I can grow extra arms,” you murmur, wiggling your fingers over his chest.
His expression deadpans. “No.”
“But if you changed my DNA with alien DNA–”
“That’s–” He breathes out a sigh, amused with your overactive imagination and how fast your mouth moves before your mind can catch up. “That’s not how gene therapy works.”
“Bummer,” you pout. It’s clear the word perplexes him as he narrows his eyes, but he cracks a hint of a smile. He gets it regardless.
You let the moment hang, laughing airily as the reality of your last two weeks truly hits you. Sukuna doesn’t handle the situation with the same lightness as you do, pulling you back into his chest and muffling your laughter altogether. You wrap your arms around his torso once more in reassurance. “I’m still here,” you promise.
“Stupid human,” he mutters, his chin dipping over your shoulder as he locks you tightly against him with a squeeze. When you bury your face into his broad chest, he winces, hiding it behind another squeeze as he attempts to ignore the meager injuries left behind by the Kerm. “Stupid, weak human.”
“I know,” you murmur into his chest. “I know. But I’m here now.”
–
The difference between Human and Simurian traditions turns out to be greater than you think. Not in the sort of grand way you might expect, but in the sense that Sukuna doesn’t quite seem to know what to make of being close. Of course, Humanity aims to choose a person for life, but not without trial and error. For Simurians, there’s some sort of instinct. Something Humans don’t possess that has Sukuna uncertain how to navigate the idea of courting you. In particular, while you’re still recovering.
Your pulse increases to a steady waking beat as your lashes flutter open. You’ve gotten accustomed to the strange way the stone bed conforms to your shape, but you have yet to grow accustomed to the way you’re greeted every morning, even a week into your recovery where– by and large– you just have a cough.
You’ve barely roused when Sukuna’s hand is firmly planted on your jaw, tilting your head left and right. “Nngh, Sukuna,” you sigh, fingers wrapping around his wrist. He doesn’t budge, not satisfied until he’s determined that you’re still on a steady road to recovery. His fingers loosen once he lets out a steady breath, his palm sliding down to your cheek. He doesn’t hesitate for so much as a moment to lower himself to his knees and brush his nose against yours. The Simurian nuzzle is something you’ve grown fond to waking up to and even in your half-asleep state, you find yourself unable to hold back a grin.
“You haven’t coughed yet.”
“I just woke up,” you reply groggily, amused.
“You’re better.”
“Getting there,” you chide, staring down at the mountain of a man on his knees for you. Every morning gets easier, and every morning you have a menacing-looking puppy greeting you at your bedside. It makes recovery easier, especially when you’re forced to eat some sort of alien vegetables he cultivated for you upon converting his compost room to a garden as the only food your body won’t reject, alongside nutrients he continues to inject into your bloodstream.
Slowly pushing up to a sitting position, you suppress a cough that comes across as a personal affront to the bulky alien, who stands upright with you. “How did the experiment from last night go?” You query, your vision still mildly blurry from sleep as you look over the holograms opposite you.
“We’re close,” he murmurs, long strides taking him across the room. “Your hypothesis was right. The Kerm cells react to heat, but not too much heat. I was killing them before.”
Rubbing your eyes, you smile. “So we’re close to a cure that we can send back?”
He pauses, facing you. He’d been unwilling to send his own cells back to the very people who sent you to your death, but at your request, he’d continued experimentation for a cure that didn’t require gene therapy. “I don’t understand why you care.”
“There were eight billion Humans, Sukuna.” Your head tilts in sympathy for the fact that he resents a whole species for their treatment of you. “The hundred or so involved in sending me here shouldn’t be responsible for punishing the rest of the species.”
“Punishing,” he repeats the word, though he doesn’t need an explanation when he can use context clues.
Pushing to your feet, you walk on weakened feet to join him, sidling up to his warmth. “You know, I never got the chance to thank you.”
Two eyes flicker down to you, questioning, while the other two evaluate the weakened state of your muscles.
“You’re breathing oxygen.”
“I am.”
“And you risked getting Alveolarium from me.”
He stubbornly looks up. “I did.”
If there’s one thing that remains the same between your species, it would seem it’s embarrassment. Sukuna is over one thousand years old with no partner. You can only assume he never found someone, or prefers solitude. Or, more aptly, preferred. It’s safe to say he doesn’t know how to navigate your healthy return to his life.
As you jovially grin at his side, Sukuna adjusts the temperatures of his experimentations, each by a fraction of a degree, before he turns to face you. The tension in his shoulders has released upon seeing you eagerly facing him with clasped hands. “Yes, human?”
“Can I see the rest of your ship?”
“Not until you’re well.”
“I’m literally fine!”
He crosses both pairs of arms over his built chest. “You coughed.”
“There was something in my throat,” you counter.
His lip curls in haughty frustration. He clicks with intermittent syllables that you’re unable to put together. Missing the word, he goes with the simplest train of thought. “No.”
Stepping towards him, your palms settle over his lower veiny forearms. Your thumbs rub small circles into his tough skin, the hair on his arms noticeably standing on-end. “Please? I promise I’m okay.” His eyes narrow a fraction. “I wanna see how you keep your food, and where you’re growing those turnip things. Oh–! And the bridge, and– Wait, your ship is so big, what else do you even have here? Do you–”
He huffs loudly, but you note that in spite of the scowl pulling his brow down, relief floods his gaze and his lips fluctuate wildly between a frown and smile. It doesn’t take much for him to give in, loosening an arm as he wraps it around your shoulders in an effort to steady you as he leads the way through the ship.
It’s massive beyond anything you could ever comprehend. Metals you’re not even positive exist on Earth line the walls and natural bioluminescent amoebas are used to light long stretches of hall where wasting energy is unnecessary. Light only exists where needed, like bathing a large medical bay with a missing bed and several bottles and boxes thrown astray as though the room was flipped upside down in search of supplies. Your heart surges with something dangerous at the sight, as you know the stoic creature beside you– who doesn’t so much as bat an eye at the mess– did this for you. He tossed aside equipment and tore through supplies in order to keep you alive, who barely lives a fraction of his lifespan.
Hell, he’s almost twice your height and keeps walking at your unsteady and slow pace without so much as a peep. His hand shuffles from your shoulder to your back as he briefly points out a food hall complete with a garden and a large freezer for overgrowth and cured meats. There’s a pungent smell to the room befitting of what was once a compost bay.
“Is this what I’ve been eating?”
He chuffs, lifting a heavy arm to point at what you would otherwise describe as a radish. He states its name in his mother tongue, not bothering to translate given that the syllables thrown in between each click sound painfully like ‘engine’ and he’s heard you use that word before, so it simply doesn’t translate into a word you can both use. You nod your approval as he continues his tour with little fanfare, his hand gliding from your back to your elbow.
“I’m lucky,” he states, “they’re the only plant that will grow in oxygen from what I tried.”
Next, he leads the way through an exercise hall, a gravity converter, and a communications bay. His ship dwarfs yours in every possible way and it’s all intended for just one person. The real enigma, however, is the way his hand keeps shifting on you, like he isn’t quite sure what to do with himself now that he has you back and you’ve kissed.
“I didn’t think you’d be so awkward,” you blurt out without a care in the world, pleased as you tilt your head to find his expression narrowing just slightly.
“Awkward?” He searches for confirmation despite being able to put the context clues together.
“You keep moving your hand. Seven times now, Sukuna,” you tease, your grin widening.
“I’m guiding you,” he grumbles dismissively.
“I don’t need a hand to guide me through a ship. I’m a good follower.”
His gaze glides to the side, teeth gritting as he clicks his disapproval. “Noisy.”
Laughing, you give him a nudge that pulls his attention back. His usual aloof gaze briefly flickers across your face like he expects signs of sickness before fixing on your chiding grin. “You’re allowed to be nervous, Sukuna.”
“I’m not.” He growls out some sort of curse word in Simurian, continuing on the walk through the ship as he finds the explanation he needs. “I don’t know Human traditions. I don’t know how to move forward.”
You bite back a smile at the sweet admission. “Well, humans are a bit different.” You give him a thoughtful peek from beneath your lashes, catching the way it disengages the tension in his shoulders. “We try to stay partners for life, but we’re complicated. Emotions get in the way, people change–”
“You would separate from your partner in such a short life?” Sukuna sounds utterly shocked at the thought, his nose wrinkling as he stops dead in his tracks. He turns to face you, staring at you like he wants to shake the mere idea from existence by your shoulders.
“We try not to. But sometimes it’s inevitable.” You shrug. “Sometimes you fall out of love with the person you marry or date, or sometimes things change or distance gets in the way–”
“Then you talk about it. Or visit.” His voice comes out clipped with edge. You can’t tell whether he intends it to.
“Our transportation isn’t very advanced. The ship I was in,” you explain, pointing over your shoulder, “it’s the tenth one capable of space travel beyond our own moon.”
The brutish alien’s scowl lessens as something of far greater importance occurs to him suddenly. You allow the silence that stretches on as you recognize his troubled expression. He’s grappling with something he doesn’t know how to address. The ship stands by idly in the moment where Sukuna straightens, settling a pair of hands on his hips while the others cross over his chest. He doesn’t move as he speaks with a flat tone that almost conveys solemnity. “I can take you back. To Earth. Along with the cure, once it’s ready.”
Somewhere between the kiss, the illness, and the acceptance that your fate was to die, you forgot that there was another option. “What if I don’t want to?”
Sukuna’s gaze travels listlessly left and right. It’s clear this is something he’s considered. After all, imprisonment awaits you on Earth regardless of the cure. What point is there in returning? And yet, Simuria would be imprisonment in a roundabout way, too. You can’t breathe the sulfuric gas. He isn’t even confident in your ability to withstand the barometric pressure in one of the suits in his ship.
He doesn’t answer immediately, either pretending something caught his attention by tilting his second ear towards something, or genuinely listening to something. Regardless, he glances aside as he considers your question before proceeding to completely ignore your query. “How do Humans wed?” He mutters, as though the concept that he doesn’t know makes him mad.
“We date first,” you chuckle. “We impress one another. We go out and do fun things together. We give gifts and spend time being intimate. Like, cuddling and kissing. Oh–! And then if things are going well, one person presents the other with a ring with a pretty stone in the middle and if things are right, that person says yes and then they wed and there’s a big ceremony, and then both people get rings, and friends come visit, and–”
Sukuna bends down to your height, nudging your nose once, then kissing you. “What’s a ring?”
Giddily, you can’t help a giggle as he shuts you up without complaint of your noisiness, simply backtracking to the portion of your rambling he doesn’t understand. “It goes around your finger.” Instinctively reaching for his face, your finger traces along the edge of the protruding plate from his face. One of his eyes twitches, but he allows you to do so. “It signifies to humans that you’re in a committed relationship with another human.” Your finger traces the side of his face as he stays bent to your height. “Do Simurians have something like that?”
“Tattoos.”
Your eyes brighten. “Humans do that sometimes in place of wedding rings, too. Basically, you present one ring when you want to get married, and then when you do get married, you get matching tattoos around your fingers instead of matching rings. It’s actually really–”
He kisses you again, that familiar spice of tea flooding your senses pleasantly.
Undeterred, you inquire about Simurian traditions. “What about for you?”
“We simply… Know.”
You pout at the mere thought. “Like love at first sight?” You whisper eagerly.
He nudges your nose, growling his disapproval. “Instinct.” He straightens. “No rings. The date of the ceremony is decided based on when other Simurians are available.”
“Oh right, they’re like holidays.”
He chuffs.
“Were they always, though? You said… I mean, you–”
“There used to be over a thousand of us, yes.” He doesn’t bother skirting around the question. “No, we didn’t always do things this way. We used to be selective.” He sucks in a breath, pushing past the question with little fanfare. “The ceremony has a fire,” he states now that he has the word after some experimentation involving it, “and a ceremonial dance.”
“I can’t picture you dancing,” you giggle.
His eyes narrow. “I don’t. The dancers dance.”
“Of course, of course, my bad,” you grin.
“Then, we braid one anothers’ hair, and an elder tattoos us.”
You smile at the differing culture. “That sounds beautiful.” Your gaze slowly rises to his short, pushed back hair. “Your hair isn’t very long, though.”
“Our hair has to be long enough to braid before Simurians can be wed. Or in some cases, exceptions can be made.”
“So you’d have to grow it out?” When he chuffs, you tilt your head with a grin. “That’s kinda hot.”
Catching the compliment in your tone, Sukuna shifts, a rare smirk crossing his features as he tracks the way your hands rest on your hips.
“Are we talking like a braid in your whole hair or just a small portion?”
“A small portion.”
Your grin widens. “That’s kinda cute. You’d be like a Jedi apprentice! Only, I don’t think it’s fitting to call you an apprentice, you’re more like–”
“Human.” Sukuna’s chiding carries far less annoyance since your recovery. “I don’t know ‘Jedi’.”
“Oh–! Right, yeah, I guess you guys don’t have Star Wars. Well, at least you avoided the sequel trilogy,” you mutter more to yourself than him when he lets out a huff as you turn to explore his ship again. He no longer leads the way, allowing you to explore all on your own, only keeping a hand on you to ensure steadiness as though your dwindling cough might blow you over. At least, that’s what he would tell you if you asked why he insists on keeping a hand on you.
His ship is vast. It could be compared to several acreages where your ship is barely the equivalent of a small apartment. The size is staggering, and you begin to realize exactly what he meant when he said Simurians enjoy having large properties to themselves.
“So, do your instincts just like… line up with the other person?”
“Generally.”
“How do you tell one another that you’re in love?”
Sukuna is silent for so long that you stop at the precipice that leads down into a storage and whip around to face him. He’s scowling at you with that kind of look that has you realizing your bug-based brain has missed a very Human– or in this case, Simurian– social cue.
“We nuzzle.”
You purse your lips as you’re faced with an intensity that’s oddly sweet given the frown it’s accompanied by. It’s not like you haven’t figured out by now that Sukuna is fond of you, but the reality of Humanity and Simurians is that he’ll outlive you. You’ll be nothing more than a distant memory by the time his hair goes gray. Assuming it does that, anyway. That’s not even beginning to address the planetary differences, atmosphere issues and dietary needs amongst other things.
Or the fact that you’ve known him for only a few weeks. Unusual by Human standards to be in talks of marriage, but by Simurian standards, you suppose he’s implying he chose you already. As much as the very Human part of you wants to call him yours, the scientist in you knows only compatibility. He’s a Thorny Devil Stick Insect to your Isopod Cubaris. Everything about the situation is absurd and your brain and your heart are fighting for keeps– Sukuna, or the reality that you should return to Earth and let Sukuna find a Simurian that allows his instincts to kick in.
As you stare blankly at him with pursed lips, he steps closer into your space, examining the way you fiddle with the hem of the hoodie draped over your shoulders. His movement kicks you back into the present.
“O-oh–! The nose, uh– The nose thing? The kiss?”
He huffs, shockingly cross as he averts his gaze. “Yes, the nose thing.”
You swallow hard, the reality of your harshly pounding heart bringing to light every issue you’ve already gone over in your head in spite of the fact that you’ve spent so long craving the touch of this ten foot tall man you have no right to. “Sukuna, I barely live like a thirtieth of your life span.”
The noise he lets out is something between an affirmative chuff that he knows and a grumble of sorts. He lets the moment hang, unsure what to make of it before brushing it off with something too simple. “Instincts,” he grumbles, nearing you again as his face lowers to yours. Without knowledge of dates or Earthly traditions, the most he can do is press his lips to yours. There’s something pleading in it that melts every reservation your brain screams at you.
His lips are never soft, neither in texture nor movement. He’s a being that lumbers around and his strength is beyond obvious. You feel that, too, in the way he aims to claim you, should you let him. When he leaves the ball in your court, you press forward, wrapping your arms around his neck as the kiss deepens.
Your tongue slips against his lips like an invitation that he doesn’t hesitate to grasp as he takes charge again. He still tastes of something with an overall spicy tang that you can’t place, but it’s no less pleasant now than it was the first time. No longer weakened by illness, he takes the opportunity to lift your thighs with his lower arms while his upper arms support your torso as he hoists you up, straightening. His lower hands knead your thighs in what feels like a subconscious manner, thumbs gliding over the stretch marks and scars of a life not yet fully lived.
He stumbles towards the wall, caging you between him and it, the strange coarse texture of the metals that make up his ship cool against the spot where your hoodie’s ridden up. He presses in, his lips moving faster, his body pressed against yours so tightly that you can feel the fact that his stomach mouth is panting.
The things that does to your body should be studied. Just as you grip him tighter, fingers curling into fists in his hair, he pulls back with a strange rigidity to him. “You never– I can still bring you back. To Earth,” he offers through pants in a tone that doesn’t suit his usual clipped and formal one. The uncertainty swimming in his gaze is unbefitting of him.
“Wh–” You look around like someone might be around to share your incredulous stare. “You’re asking that now?”
He swallows hard, the movement betraying his embarrassment. Good to know he’s capable of that, truly. “I want to give you the option.”
“Is it greedy of me to ask for both?”
He tilts his head curiously, something of a clicking noise coming from deep within his throat as he places just enough distance between your faces to take in your expression.
“It would be nice to make sure the cure gets delivered to the right people when we get there,” you admit, “but I’d like to say bye to Shoko and my family.”
He sucks in a breath. “You lost ten years getting here. You would lose another ten returning, and–” his hands dig into your thighs, his shoulders tightening as he calculates distance based on where you identified the Milky Way in your many scientific discussions prior to your illness. “Seven more, at least, on the trip to Simuria.”
Your gaze falls. “Oh.” Leaning back against the cool wall that suddenly feels nice on the back of your head, your fingers curl into Sukuna’s multi-sleeved compression shirt. “So I’d be over fifty,” you murmur. It shakes you to your core, and you lean into Sukuna.
He adjusts his arms to embrace you, nuzzling his face into the crook of your shoulder. “I’m sorry.”
The silence that follows is a welcome one of mourning. You had accepted death sealed in a tin can in the void of space. You had accepted death faced with illness, grateful to have met such a wonderful otherworldly being. You had been satisfied knowing you fell for someone, even if it never came to fruition. It had all been enough.
Until Sukuna came barreling through the hull keeping you imprisoned, unwilling to let death be an option.
To say you fell harder would be an understatement. If the option ever presented itself, there was never a question what you would choose. There is no question what you’re choosing.
After an extended period of silence, you lift your head from Sukuna’s shoulder. “The pods aren’t too damaged to make it to Earth?”
He blinks a number of times, questioning your decision-making. “I didn’t damage them.”
“Then… As long as my friends and family know I made it to the cure, that’s enough.”
Slowly, Sukuna sets you back on the ground, a surprising amount of conflict in the way he runs his tongue over his teeth, casting his glance at the makeshift garden whose artificial sun has set.
The low bioluminescence of the hall light glows softly over his features as you watch his expression pull taut. “You don’t seem happy.”
“I am,” he argues, flashing you a glare as he mutters something under his breath in Simurian.
“Then what’s wrong?”
He sucks in a breath, stepping forward as he leans his massive form down to your height. “You’ll be stuck aboard this ship until I can figure out something better.”
“I could use a suit!” You offer gleefully. “Actually, that would be kinda cool if you think about it–” you begin, your mind wandering. “It’ll be kinda like all the movies and shows I watched growing up and then I can come back to my little– no, actually this place is huge– my huge ship, or I guess our huge ship–”
Sukuna doesn’t interrupt you for once, chuffing not in affirmation but amusement. There’s almost a purr to it as you prattle on about how every kid on Earth dreams of being an astronaut and here you are on an alien ship. He casts you a sidelong glance as you make commentary on the hot alien company you’ve found, sidling up to him with a grin as you compliment him.
“Hey, um– Do you wait until marriage?” You query with warmth in your cheeks, sending the conversation in a complete one-eighty.
“For what?”
“Sex.”
Sukuna’s jaw shifts as he regards the small being beside him. “Sex?”
“Um–” Your gaze averts as your cheeks warm further. “Like reproduc–” you pause when you narrowly catch his lip quirking up out of the corner of your eye. “You know what I mean. You’re fucking with me.” You face him with a deadpan expression.
The creature rumbles in amusement. “Noisy human,” he chides. “I’m not having sex with you here. My ship is meant for one. We don’t wait, but this is unsightly.”
“Oh, so now you have decorum?”
Using context clues to put together the meaning of your retort, he straightens. “When have I not?”
“You call me annoying all the time!”
“I call you noisy. And I’m right,” he puffs his chest out as he crosses his arms over his chest as he continues your little tour.
–
The long-awaited day comes far sooner than Sukuna could have imagined. After countless temperature adjustments and endless suggestions from you that may have had him rolling his eyes weeks ago, the fresh Kerm stem cells attack the infected Alveolar cells, curing them.
He straightens, watching the immediate reaction under the duress of an exact temperature, and replicates it once more. Then again. And again.
You’re already watching, on the edge of your seat as you set aside the roasted turnip you were eating. You both wait with bated breath as the fifth experiment comes out as a success.
“It worked,” you breathe, getting to your feet. “You did it.” Disbelief coats your tone, the dimmed lab lighting reflecting off of Sukuna’s gloves as he discards them and steps back, staring at all five successes.
“A cure,” he states. His disbelief is plain, but there’s something far greater woven within the way his fists ball up at his sides and his shoulders rise.
He failed once and his species suffered for it. Maybe it’s not Simuria, but Earth means something to you. And this time, he didn’t fail.
As control weaves itself back into his grasp, he stares down at his hands, sucking in a breath. Blinking as tears prick his waterline, he stays put so as to not reveal his vulnerability to you.
But you’re already bounding towards him, practically whipping yourself around his immovable form to hug him with unmatched ardor. “You did it!” Your whole body trembles with relief at the thought that just maybe Shoko is still out there, and this might save not just her, but your entire home. Your family.
With a sharp inhalation, Sukuna’s arms curl around you, lifting you effortlessly, as he hides his relief in your shoulder. “We did.”
But as you put together instructions for cell breeding and duplication and prepare the cure to be sent to Earth, so too comes the day Sukuna has been dreading.
Staring out the window after sending off the cure, you lean over the control panel, wide-eyed as the stars twinkle back at you. You whip around to face your companion, but your question is met with a solemnity you aren’t expecting. “What now? To Simuria?”
Sukuna’s lips are drawn into a frown. It’s not unbefitting of him, but the dullness of his cerise eyes tells another story.
The pieces fall into place with every ounce of tension in his musculature. The gleam in your eyes burns out like a solar system’s light at the realization that faces you. “You’re gonna destroy the planet.”
Two slanted eyes turn to face you, followed by the two more humanoid ones, his arms crossed over his chest as his heart pangs at your disappointment. He’ll never fault your compassion, but this is something he can’t let go.
“It’s a sacrifice,” he admits. “A few to save many.”
“I know they’re the cause of so much destruction but… do you have to? It feels… wrong. Even if they’re artificial.”
The alien’s voice is a low rumble. “You’re kind, little human. I like that.” The warmth in his compliment echoes over hard stone lining the interior of the bridge. “I flew over the planet’s surface while you recovered,” he explains as he stares down at the stark green gas buildup around the planet that’s been increasing the longer the ship sits just outside of orbit. “There are no other species on the planet. No flora, no fauna. Where there were cities, there are now ruins. Trees are shredded. There’s nothing left. If I leave them, they will evolve. Someday, they will escape, or another unsuspecting species will do what Simuria or Earth did.”
When he puts it like that, you can understand his reasoning. After two hundred years of searching for the Kerm, you can sympathize with his need to follow through.
“This decision doesn’t need to involve you. This would have happened regardless.”
You turn to face him with your arms around your middle, hugging yourself. “I know, but after letting that one go on Earth, I feel like I’m involved now.”
“You had no way of knowing. Then or now,” he excuses your action, something you’re grateful for, as much as you’ll always harbor that guilt and the vision of a creature tearing through a crew.
After a moment of silence as he allows you to grapple with reality, he moves towards the control panel, sliding his finger along a series of sensors as his ship turns to move further from the planet while more systems come to life as he prepares a laser.
The planet looks beautiful from a distance. Pinks and blues scatter the surface, while a gaseous blue-green surrounds the planet. You don’t doubt Sukuna told the truth, but your heart pangs to know that the gorgeous sight will dissipate in mere moments at the hands of someone you care for. Hell, maybe even at your hands, if you think too hard about it.
Guilt bubbles in the pit of your stomach as the whirring of Sukuna’s ship ramps up, a bright light beginning to form somewhere from the side of the bridge where you can’t see. The brutish alien glides his hand over a few sensors, pressing something with finality before returning to your side. His palm settles along your shoulder, pulling you into him as his chest rises and falls, his own guilt palpable in the air between you.
The whirring of the ship comes to a sharp halt, the laser’s light suddenly brighter than the sight of the sunlit planet itself. Sukuna’s grip on your shoulder tightens as he moves deftly, pulling you face-first into his chest and wrapping you tightly in all four arms to prevent you from seeing the blast. With one hand on the back of your head, he prevents you from turning your head.
Even in your peripherals, you see the light. You shut your eyes tight, Sukuna’s grip on you increasing as the blast goes off. Some part of you expects to hear something, forgetting that space is a vacuum, and you’re met with nothing. But nothing is worse. An entire species eradicated, and you’re met with nothing.
Sukuna’s heart pounds hard as he watches the planet splinter. His curse to live with, but never your burden to bear. He won’t let it be. He holds you tight until the planet’s remains are little more than debris floating every which way. You’re far enough away that whatever else was blasted into space isn’t visible, and for that, he’s grateful.
He holds you so long that he isn’t sure whether it’s for him, or for you.
“It’s done,” he murmurs, allowing you at last to look out over the wreckage as his ship’s whirring slowly winds down.
“They won’t hurt anyone else,” you murmur as your brow tents when you look over the wreckage of stone and crystal that floats where Methalon–as Sukuna referred to it– once was.
“Let’s hope that’s true,” he murmurs in return, his body hunching over as he drops his face to your head, eyes shutting tightly.
–
It’s a wonder you make it to Simuria at all. Not because of any extenuating circumstances, but because you have so many questions and queries and noisy impulses that Sukuna seems to perpetually scowl at you. On equal grounds, however, you catch him with a longing stare when you least expect it.
In the midst of a full explanation on the reproduction of Scorpions. When you’re desperately trying to yank a Simurian radish’s roots from the ground while it protests you, sweat dripping down your spine. Even when you’re sifting through the remnants of your belongings from Earth. He trails after you with nothing short of zealous loyalty.
When you arrive on Simuria, you’re trapped on the ship as you expected, only able to experience the planet from the bridge’s window. Still, it’s more than you ever could have hoped. Not unlike Methalon, Simuria is primarily crystalline in nature with petrified trees growing crooked from mountains. You’re able to expand your diet to more vegetables, supplementing your vitamins with injections that Sukuna is damn-near overbearing about.
“Sukuna, I can do it myself!” You try to insist as he nuzzles you, intermittent with kisses.
“It’s my job to take care of you,” he insists into your neck, nipping at the sensitive skin to distract you before pulling back to inject your daily supplement into your thigh while you’re distracted.
“You’re a menace!” You insist through giggles, and the injection becomes nothing more than an afterthought.
Still stoic, you see his warmth within that familiar four-eyed gaze. “You chose me without instincts,” he points out in a teasing manner, pride held within his straightened back. “Now come.”
Rolling your eyes at his shockingly witty retort as he gets too good at your language, you let him lead the way through the ship until you reach the exit door. You’ve only seen the planet’s surface through glass as he promised you an oxygen tank to withstand his atmosphere someday. It had been taking so long that you figured he ran into a snag, but as you stand at the bay and watch his hand glide along the sensors, you realize just how foolish you had been.
For the first time, the bay opens up and you find yourself instinctively trying to search for a way to protect yourself from the sulfur.
“Sukuna, I–”
“Give me your trust, ange.” He holds your bicep as you begin to back away, his gaze insistent.
Ange. The syllables that, intermittent with clicks and growls, make up the word ‘angel’ in Simurian, and french–the language of romance– and his favorite nickname for you. He had explained that when he takes you to meet the rest of his kind, it would be helpful for you to understand more of his language, and that if you paid attention to– and spoke– in only the syllables of the words, you would largely be able to communicate with his kind without issue. The clicks and growls come out of necessity of Simurians having broadly low voices and living in craters. The second ears and extra sounds in each word allow them to communicate from longer distances without the necessity for the syllables, but the same is true for communicating without the clicks. The syllables can also stand, mostly, on their own.
Your jaw tightens as you stop resisting his grip, allowing him to lead you through a small bay door where you’ve often seen him leave through the pressurized chamber. When he leads the way through it, there’s shockingly no change in barometric pressure. Or oxygen.
Off to the side of the ship where you aren’t able to see from the bridge, Sukuna has built out a massive domed biome with oxygen production within, allowing you to touch the surface for the first time. Your lips part as your feet scuff over the crystal-threaded dirt beneath your shoes.
You take small steps at first, glancing to the left where petrified trees protrude from a cliffside within the barrier of the biome, hanging over the mild seafoam that coastal waves leave behind. You tread towards the beach, your shoes sinking into the sand as you take in the smell of the salt water, your mouth still agape at how massive the space is.
To your right is a cavern that you know to be partially artificial, Sukuna’s home held within. You turn to face him, the shock of it all pinning you in place, when you’re met with another surprise.
He’s not down on his knees, but in his hand is a ring crafted from metal with a gorgeous off-pink crystal in the center, clearly carefully procured. It’s simultaneously gorgeous and obvious. The jewel matches his hair. It’s romantic, but it’s claiming too, something you’ve realized of Sukuna over the months that you’ve resided within his ship.
Your hand raises to cover your lips as you stare down at it. “Are you…?”
He runs a hand through his locks. “My hair’s not long enough yet for a ceremony,” he states, the strands falling through his fingers, “but I think your traditions are different.”
“I–” You breathe, staring down at the stone. It’s not like you didn’t know this would all happen in time, but to wrap your brain around being proposed to by an alien who made a barometric dome of oxygen for you is still a feat. Slowly, you reach for the gorgeous stone. “Yes. I’ll marry you.”
His brow scrunches as though there was no need for an answer and he already knew such a thing, but he hands the ring over regardless, watching as you slide it down your ring finger with a gorgeous grin.
“This is beautiful, Sukuna,” you breathe.
He chuffs pridefully, four palms finding their place along your body– two on your hips and two your waist. He doesn’t hesitate to pull you in, his fingers kneading your skin as he nuzzles you hard. His hooked nose rubs against yours before he dips down to kiss you passionately.
Given that kissing in its Simurian form is so different from Humanity’s version, it’s almost unfair just how good he is at it. Your body goes warm as you grip the Simurian robes he’s begun wearing now that he’s home.
Kisses with Sukuna are never slow and sweet. There’s intention behind every swipe of his tongue as he invades your mouth, pleasantly flooding your mouth not with the usual herbal tea you’ve come to expect, but something more minty, like there was thought behind this kiss that makes you smile into it.
He swallows your smile as he deepens the kiss, tilting your head up. There was a point where you were convinced you would die alone in the darkness of a welded ship without feeling the warmth of the sun on your skin again, and by some miracle, the very man who held your life in his hands now holds your heart instead.
When he pulls back, his thumb brushing your waist softly, he inhales, long and deep. “It isn’t Earth,” he concedes, a rare vulnerability within his baritone voice. “But I hope you’ll be happy here.”
Reaching for his cheeks, your thumb brushes the plating along the side of his face. “Sukuna, this is everything I could have hoped for.” You smile softly, turning around in his grip to stare out at the ocean as you shed your shoes and wriggle your toes in the sand, his hands never once leaving you. “I could live here for a lifetime.”
“Good,” his chest rumbles behind you as he chuckles, watching the tide swim ashore to your feet. “Because you very well might, ange.”
You grin up at him, wading further into the warm water. The planet is so much warmer than Earth due to the heavily gaseous atmosphere that the water isn’t cold like much of Earth’s oceans, pleasant around your ankles. “I’m kinda like Sandy Cheeks, if you think about it.”
“What?” Sukuna’s nose wrinkles, perplexed.
You laugh heartily, staring down at the stone around your finger. “Don’t worry about it.”
–
“Are you sure I look okay?”
“You,” your fiancé heartily purrs, “look like my dinner for tonight.”
The worst part is that you can see the maw on his stomach grinning from under his white robes.
You whack his arm softly, earning a playful chuff in reply as he looks you up and down, already mentally undressing you of the traditional Simurian wedding gown that Sukuna had an elder Simurian make for you, giving your measurements and no further details as he perplexed the poor elder on just who his bride-to-be might be.
The robes drape over your shoulders elegantly, the pale green accents of the off-white robes complimenting your traditional makeup. The sweet young (in Simurian years, anyway) woman doing your makeup and using traditional natural skin dyes hadn’t stopped gushing the entire time about Sukuna finding a mate, something you had picked up through broken understanding of their language.
You had even caught on that as it would turn out, he was the only Simurian adult who lacked a mate of those remaining.
“Have you picked out your tattoos yet?” She excitedly inquires, sure to slow her speech down so you can piece together what you can.
In extremely broken Simurian, you reply, “Yes! He chose design and I chose placement.”
She squeals in excitement, going on to tell you about how a Simurian named Dura recently took up tattooing, and you two would be his first wedding tattoos. There’s a certain solemnity in knowing that, with dwindling numbers, you very well may be his last, too.
Your nerves hit hard as you grow closer to emerging from Sukuna’s home where you’ve been prepping.
“If you’re still worried,” Sukuna offers as the young woman heads off to prepare herself for the ceremony, “just remember you and I are the only ones that can breathe oxygen. They’ll all be in suits.”
You’re pretty sure he just told you to picture them all in their underwear essentially, but it helps ease some nerves regardless.
“You’ve got a point,” you breathe out a sigh of relief before sucking in a breath. “Remind me how this goes again?”
Sukuna steps towards you, lowering himself to a knee to speak with you. His hand raises, his fingers gliding along your palm as he takes a moment to stare at your palms pressed together. To think that glass once separated you feels like another reality now. His gaze moves from your hands to your eyes as he intertwines your fingers. “You will wait in a tent by the beach as I am readied,” he explains, referring to his own traditional makeup that needs to be applied, his hair shaggy and a complete mess now that it’s much longer and ready to be braided. “Dabura is to wed us, as he’s my closest ally. He’ll come get you. There will be a ceremony with dancers and a large bonfire, then Dura will tattoo us.”
“And then?” You chew on your lower lip eagerly.
“Then,” he nears you, his fingers delicately brushing your robes. “The night is ours.”
You let out a breath, biting back a smile at the thought given that you had chosen to wait to have sex after all when it took so long to get you out of the ship.
“Are you nervous?” He gruffs, tilting your chin with a calloused hand.
“For the sex, or the wedding?”
“Either.”
It takes you a moment to consider the thought. “Yeah, I guess so. Both.”
“No one can understand your language. If you need something, just say so. I’ll be here the whole time.”
“You know, you never would have had me thinking you were so sweet when we first met.”
His brow twitches, his gaze averting. “I’m not.”
Stubborn.
“Noisy.”
Your eyes narrow. “Just curious, can you hear my thoughts?”
“No, why?”
“No reason.”
The night carries out as he promised. Seventy eight Simurians gather from far and wide, of tribes from a bygone era, of all ages and appearances. A fire is stoked and dancers do what you’re sure was once a much more elegant dance without the added bulk of spacesuits beneath traditional outfits.
The Simurians are kind to you, regardless of your broken ability to speak their language. They pick up on the occasional word in your language too, not unlike Sukuna.
Once the grand part of the ceremony is over, the rest of the Simurians take their seats on the beachside surrounding you and Sukuna as you both take small portions of your hair and braid them for one another. Your husband’s fingers are surprisingly deft, and upon finishing the braid, he gets the rest of his hair cut back down to his preferred length. Once the ceremony is complete, you’re met with cheers as Dabura declares you officially wed.
The horned alien is somehow more aloof than your husband, and the largely disinterested looks he shoots everyone you come to realize is his neutral. Were you not surrounded by far more boastful Simurians, you might even think they’re all like this.
Following the cheers of the ceremony, as things begin to quiet down, you’re approached by a Simurian with long, flowing white hair tucked into his spacesuit. He has a friendly look about him as he grins at you. “Dura,” he introduces himself, extending his hand.
Your brow raises at the realization he’s given you his name in your language, keen to the fact that your ability to speak is broken. Sukuna seems to respect that, taking a step back from the protective shadow he’s been all night with so many people so close to you, wary that someone might disprove his choice to wed a Human. You shake Dura’s hand in turn, offering your name as though he hasn’t been hearing it all night.
“Have you chosen a design?” He asks in his mother tongue.
He speaks slowly, allowing you to keep up. “Sukuna chose design, I chose– um–” your brow furrows as you attempt to place the syllables for the word in Simurian.
“Placement?” Dura steps in.
In a harsh tone, Sukuna steps forward, his lip curled into a snarl. “My wife is talking,” he snaps, the growls and clicks far more bitter than you’re used to hearing.
Dura’s hands raise. “I was just helping with words, Sukuna,” he smiles easily, waving the white flag before anything breaks out amongst the Simurians still lingering from the ceremony. “I wasn’t interrupting.”
You exchange a sympathetic glance with Dura, setting a hand on your husband’s arm. “It’s okay, Sukuna,” you murmur. “I just didn’t know the word, he was helping,” you agree.
Your husband’s shoulders fall slowly into something less aggressive, his gaze immovable as it glues itself to Dura. The tension between the two men is brief, before Sukuna gives into your sweet touch and softens, describing the design and placement to Dura. The white-haired man proceeds to prepare a table for you, sanitizing everything and pulling out what, by Earth’s standards, would be traditional handpoke tattoo materials.
Once ready, Sukuna goes first. The design is small, two zigzags mirroring one another with a simple tear in the center right where you chose– on the ring finger. He’s completely still throughout the process without any complaint, and you find yourself embarrassed when you wince at the first tap of the stone tool. Dura does what he can to distract you, attempting to speak with you– though at you is probably more apt given how broken your Simurian is. Still, you’re proud of yourself for your proficiency with the language and your ability to sit through the tattoo, which isn’t so bad once the first few punctures are through.
Once it’s complete, you hold your hand up to Sukuna’s, comparing the ink to one another with a bright smile before Dura bandages them. Your husband leans down to nuzzle and then kiss you, succinct but meaningful.
As the night winds down and the attendees begin to take their leave in ships of varying sizes, you sit by the entrance to your now-shared home with Sukuna. The stars twinkle overhead as you marvel at how different they are from Earth’s. In spite of everything, you stare out at the same vast expanse of space as your family back home does. You wish they could see that you got married. Pulling your knees to your chest, you rest your chin on them as you stare up at the sky, only able to wonder.
A bulky shadow leans over you after saying his goodbyes to Dabura and shutting the dome for the final time of the night. He blocks your view of the stars, pulling your attention to his ever-intense gaze. His chest rises and falls evenly as he regards you fondly. “I’m sure that was a lot.” Sukuna doesn’t often apologize, and you’re fairly sure it’s what he intends when he speaks.
“I liked meeting everyone,” you shake your head, relaxing as you lean back on your splayed palms. “I just wish my friends back home could see.”
“See how well the robes compliment you?” He comments in a smooth tone, although his expression remains unchanged.
You scoff, shaking your head. “The ring. The tattoo. That I’m married. Here, Simuria. All of it, really.”
Sukuna’s fond smirk fades as the moment hangs. The waves washing ashore have an ambient white noise that barely manages to hide his small sigh. “I’m sorry,” he starts, kneeling down to your level in an act that reminds you just how big he is. “But Humanity doesn’t deserve my ange.”
You let out a breath through your nose, offering a lopsided smile. “Thanks, baby.”
It took him a moment to get used to that nickname, but now he fondly chuffs. “But,” he tacks on, a little more chipper than you’re accustomed to. “I do have something for you, too.”
“For me? Is that something we were supposed to do?” You worry. “Oh god, I didn’t get you anything– I don’t even know what I would–”
“Always so noisy,” he jeers, growling out what you recognize as a Simurian word for ‘mouthy’ even as he offers his hand to help you to your feet.
“Hey!” You smack him playfully, earning a grin as he casts a glance at you, his gaze dipping down to the portion of your leg that protrudes from your robes as he helps you up.
He’s quiet as he leads the way into your shared home, strings of lights and domed bulbs decorating the walls at your request given that your then-fiancé lived largely in the dark aside from bioluminescence, much like his ship.
It seems to be the Simurian version of when men just put a chair and a TV in a room and call that decorating. Despite living in a cliffside, the rest of the house is well-decorated, just not well lit. It isn’t largely personal by any means, something you hope to change with art and photos, but at least you can say he does have furniture.
When you reach your bedroom, the most expansive room in the house, decorated with plants and a small bug-like creature you found within the dome that you’ve been studying– to Sukuna’s dismay– he reaches within a closet and pulls out a large box. Blinking as you stare down at what you recognize as a device, you slowly approach the box as he sets it atop the bed that you requested he make plush, rather than the conforming stone he was accustomed to. With a glide of his thumb, a hologram comes to light.
“What is it?” You ask your engineer husband, nothing immediately giving it away as the light displays nothing.
“Your species uses frequencies to speak from long distances on Earth, right?”
You straighten, staring at the brute in disbelief as he continues fiddling with the machine. “Sukuna, you didn’t.”
It’s all you can manage as you watch Sukuna fiddle with a dial, tapping his nail along the smooth surface of the machine as he makes calculations to figure out how many parsecs the signal will need to travel and at what speed in order to allow you to speak to your friend in real time. Once he’s finished fiddling with it, he turns back to you like this is just another day, handing you what, effectively, looks like an old phone hooked up to the box.
“You use numbers, right?” He chuffs for the latter portion of the sentence, completely ignoring your slack-jawed expression.
“I don’t– I can’t– You did all of this for–”
“Ange.” He chuffs, nuzzling your nose as he pulls you close. “Dial the number.”
A lump sits at the back of your throat, but no amount of swallowing will rid the feeling as you stare at your husband. Tears prick your eyes as slowly you find yourself needing to set the device down in shaky hands, curling into his chest as warm tears trail your cheeks. “You did this for me?” Your voice is hardly a whisper, frail in its delivery into his chest as your makeup inevitably stains his white robes.
“Obviously,” he clicks in his mother tongue, positive you know the meaning.
“You didn’t have to,” you sniffle, muffled. “I brought a bug into our room and I know you think I’m loud–”
“Human,” he growls, his voice clipped as he pulls back. The ceremonial red makeup streaking across his forehead and nose has smeared with the day’s activities, a sheen of sweat over his skin as he lowers himself to your height, holding your cheeks. “You are loud. You are noisy. And you are my wife. I want you to be those and more.”
“Even the bugs?”
A pair of eyes swivels across the room to the beetle-esque creature in a large glass enclosure. A grumble begins in his chest. “I’m less fond of those,” he admits. “But, yes.”
You smile. Lopsided, but genuine. “At least you’re honest.”
“Put in the number for your friend.”
Given that it’s not common to memorize numbers anymore, you’ve never been more grateful in your entire life that you actually know Shoko’s off the top of your head. Your fingers betray your disbelief by trembling as you turn back to the remote of sorts that he gave you, typing Shoko’s number with no regard for what time it might be. It rings once, twice, three times, and a final fourth before your friend picks up.
“Hello?”
Your voice breaks into something between a sob and a gasp the moment you hear her. She sounds older. There’s a rasp to her voice that betrays the weariness of her trade, but she also sounds well. Not sick. Alive. “Sho?” You breathe her nickname in sheer incredulity.
The shuffling on the other end is immediate, a flurry of static as you can practically imagine her flailing out of whatever chair or bed she was slumped over in. “You’re alive?” More static follows, a distraught shout for someone, then, frantically, “oh my god, I thought you were dead, or– I mean after the cure got here, I just had to assume you had taken the drug and I just– where are you? Can you facetime or something?”
It brings a smile to your face to hear your friend again, tears continuing to silently trail down your face in disbelief as tremors ripple through your muscles like waves. You laugh airily at just how much she sounds like you, her mouth at least ten steps ahead of her brain. Turning to Sukuna, you wipe your tears with the back of your hand. “Sukuna? Is there a way to connect to video?”
Standing idly behind you, his gaze lowers to the glimmer of fresh tear trails, his adam’s apple bobbing as he steps forward. He lowers himself to nuzzle your nose first, undoubtedly wiping tears along his own cheek, before fiddling with the box. “What frequency are your videos run on?”
Shoko is practically vibrating on the other end of the line. “Oh my god, who is that?”
“I don’t think Facetime uses frequencies, I think it’s on like… internet. Or LTE, or something.”
Sukuna hums, though he doesn’t seem confident.
“Google says two point four gHz to five gHz!” Shoko much more helpfully adds on the other side.
“Tell Google that helps,” he gruffs as he fiddles with frequencies until the blank hologram gains static.
There’s a brief silence on the other end as Shoko attempts to process how strange that sentence comes across to someone on Earth, but she doesn’t have time to question it when at last a video is displayed for each of you.
It’s clear when the video connects that life has been harsh in far different ways on each of you. Neither of you are the spry twenty-five year olds finishing up degrees and putting out papers that put you at the top of your fields at young ages. Smile lines adorn the corners of her mouth and her eyes have an ever-lidded look to them that only time and exhaustion could bring about. To your surprise, you recognize another acquaintance in the background in Utahime Iori, Shoko’s biggest crush at the time and a big rock on her ring finger.
A wide smile crosses your face and if she were right in front of you, you would surge forward to hug Shoko. Utahime, too.
Shoko’s gaze flicks around your surroundings as she holds up her phone. “Where the hell are you?” She queries as Sukuna rises from where he was fiddling with the long distance radio, popping into the frame behind you.
“Simuria. It’s gorgeous, and the people are so kind, you would love it here.”
“What’s on your face?”
“Oh–! Right, it’s ceremonial makeup,” you explain as you hold up your ring finger to display both your engagement ring and wedding tattoo. “I got married like two hours ago,” you giggle, bubbly.
The sight has your husband closing in on you, unable to stand so far apart when the very sound of your happiness draws him in like a moth to a flame.
With her jaw already on the floor at the revelation of your marriage, she can hardly contain her next question. “Who is that?” Shoko exclaims again, her image a blur as she nearly drops the phone at the sight of your husband.
“This,” you hold a hand out to the brutish alien, “is my husband. Sukuna, this is Shoko.”
It’s not often that Sukuna greets others in your mother tongue, so as he leans into frame, revealing four arms and four eyes, he simply waves at your gawking friend.
“Nice to meet you!” She starts, before it devolves into that scientific disbelief programmed into her brain. “He’s– I mean–” Shoko shakes her head incredulously as she attempts to make sense of the situation. “Aliens are real,” she mutters to herself. “Not just beetle things, either.”
“I feel like you’re really breezing over the four arms and eyes part here,” Utahime comments, surprisingly calm given the situation. You were never particularly close, but the way she evaluates you both seems to anchor your best friend. “Also hey,” she greets you by name with an easy smile. “We’re married too.”
Before you can even congratulate them as well, Shoko is already continuing, too many things to catch up on in too little time. “Honestly after CRM-12, nothing comes as much of a shock.” It comes as an observation more than any kind of blame as she evaluates your towering husband behind you. When he hums, you note that his more talkative personality may be reserved for you only.
“Congratulations, by the way! Wait– Sho, did the cure get there?”
“THE CURE!” She cries out suddenly. You grin through a laugh as everything hits you both at once, over ten years to catch up on. “Girl, yes. You saved– I don’t know, billions of people. And you didn’t even need to send any of those fuckass beetle things back. The company was pissed at first, but I swear they didn’t actually want a cure.”
“They still spread the cure out though, right?”
“They didn’t have a choice. One of the pods landed with NASA. We got lucky.”
“Thank god. I was worried about that.”
“Wait, speaking of beetles–” The hologram flashes and flutters as Shoko moves about the room, a clicking noise followed by something snapping and at last the camera faces her again. “Look!”
You stare in disbelief at the Stag Beetle on her fingers. Sukuna curiously leans forward.
“There’s no way in hell Spike survived this long.”
“Meet Spike Thirteen!” She grins as the stag’s antennae reach for her phone, its mandibles curiously snapping together.
Barking a laugh, you lean back into Sukuna’s warmth. Under the dim lighting of the strung up bulbs, he relaxes into your touch as he instinctively reaches for your waist. “Thirteen makes way more sense.”
Changing the subject again with so many things she wants to go over, Shoko sets Spike on her shoulder. “Are you able to come visit?”
You knew the question was inevitable. The one you were dreading hearing, for there’s no easy way to say it. “I can’t. We’re about seven years apart. I’d be almost sixty by the time we get home.”
There’s a brief somber silence, but it surprises you when Shoko smiles, genuine and kind. “Home.” She repeats the sentiment. “Never thought you’d find one. I think I’m okay with that, knowing that you found a home.”
Your vagabond tendencies make her sentiment make sense, and a tender smile graces your features as Sukuna’s remaining two hands find your hips, like he’s grounding himself in his own home. “Yeah. I hope you did, too.”
“Yeahh, Hime and I are doing pretty well,” she agrees, mirroring the sentiment that perhaps home can be unconventional. For you, an alien in a dome (and just one little bug in a tank), and for her, a person.
“Good. That makes me happy,” you murmur softly.
Shoko’s lips part and it’s clear she has further questions and ten years’ worth of stories to fill you in on, but she shuts them with a smile. “I should let you enjoy your wedding night.” She sits back, Utahime’s hand barely in frame as it rests on Shoko’s shoulder, opposite Spike Thirteen. “Can we talk again?”
You swivel towards Sukuna for confirmation. He shrugs. “I built it for you. Use it as you wish.”
Your hand finds his, threading your fingers through the thick ones resting on your waist. “Yeah, I’ll talk to you soon, Sho.”
“You too,” she can’t help her grin as the line cuts out.
Leaning back into Sukuna, you bask in the thrill of seeing your closest friend again. It doesn’t quite compare to your old dinner and ice cream outings where you claimed dessert was for your second stomach and nearly threw up when that proved to not be the case, but it’s more than you could ever have expected. The lumbering form of your husband leans down slowly, nuzzling your neck from behind. His hooked nose nudges your chin. “Happy, ange?”
“Than I ever thought I could be,” you murmur, tilting your head as you allow him access to the sensitive skin of your neck. There’s a level of harshness to just how much he grinds his face into your neck, earning a giggle as he pulls you closer with ease.
“My wife deserves nothing less.” His lower arms anchor you to his chest as his upper hands trail delicately along the green accents of your robe. One hand dips between your breasts, resting on the tie around your waist. In Simurian, he mutters, “may I make you mine?” against the warm skin of your neck.
A shiver runs stark up your spine as you nod. He sets the transmitter aside, effortlessly lifting you onto the plush of the bed.
“I don’t know how you ever had sex on those stone beds,” you comment breathily as Sukuna parts your legs with a knee.
“My skin is denser,” he replies between nips and licks at your skin. “You’re weak.”
“Yet you married me.”
“Weak and noisy.”
“Whatever you say,” you hum when his lower palms press your hips into the mattress, his torso slipping between your thighs. It comes as a shock when he’s wet on his abdomen and you’re damn sure you’re not the reason. You instinctively search for the cause to find his stomach maw must be drooling under his own robes, more emotive than your husband is himself.
Eager to feel him, your hands slip to the tie of his robes where he leans over you, pulling one end until they hang loosely from his shoulders, revealing a toothy smile along his stomach. The maw’s grin widens, his tongue slipping from within teeth so jagged one would almost think your husband were a predator, not that he eats rocks. Along with his drooling maw, you discover something far more debauched that you had yet to come across.
Simurians don’t typically wear undergarments during wedding ceremonies given that it’s typical to give oneself to the other following the ceremony, hence why the party left at a reasonable hour.
So why on Earth– or in this case, Simuria– does this man have two massive dicks?
“Why do you have two?” You query in bewilderment as he deftly unties your robes.
His expression twists as he lifts his gaze to you, searching for an explanation to your perplexity in the fact that–
“Why don’t you?”
“Why would I need two?”
He points to his two throbbing dicks, each with a black band around the base. “Two,” he states plainly.
“Yeah, I–” You chuckle at the absurdity of it all. “I see that you have two dicks, Sukuna.” Covering your face as you can’t help laughing, you shake your head from behind your palms. “But why?”
“Twice the pleasure,” he states, letting out a throaty noise that you recognize as Simurian for ‘duh’. “Where’s your second one?”
“I don’t– Humans don’t have a second one, Sukuna!”
He hums, something of a grumble. “We’ll make it work.”
Left staring straight through your husband as he moves on while you’re still caught up on him having two dicks, on top of the fact that he’s almost twice your size, he returns to his musings. His nose trails the length of your neck, nudging your robes aside and kissing along the red dyes used to mark you for the ceremony, leaving new marks in their place.
“Gorgeous,” he clicks and purrs in his mother tongue, slipping his hands beneath the ceremonial garments as he pulls your mind to the present. Slipping your arms from the sleeves, you let your hands run along the tattoos that wrap over his shoulders, reveling in the way his rough skin still seems to get a rise from your touch, goose bumps following your fingers’ trail. Ten feet of alien bulk and a tiny human still brings him to his knees.
You let out a gasp as drool from his stomach drips to your abdomen, trailing down to your thighs, warm and wet. If he wasn’t already obvious with how hard he is, his stomach mouth gives him away entirely.
“You’re soft,” he comments, the words slipping from his lips like an idle thought unintended to be spoken. A large tongue swipes from the bottom of your slit to your clit, the sensation sending shivers up your spine as you breathe in a soft gasp.
The room is already warm with the anticipation of arousal, the musky smell of the night’s earlier activities pungent around you. Your husband drinks in the way your back arches for him when he gets a taste of you, a languid pace to his movements as he crawls further over you in spite of his eagerness. Once he realizes he has something, he’s not quick to let it go. The size difference between you allows him to lap at your entrance with his second mouth while he delves his tongue between your lips. Your fingers curl into his shoulders as your nails leave stark half-moons in their wake.
When he adjusts the way in which he laps at your dripping pussy, the flat of his tongue puts pressure on your clit as you realize that his tongue has a mildly rough texture as though it’s intended for your pleasure. Your back arches once more, separating your kiss. One pair of hands drives your hips further into the mattress, while the other pair steadies your cheeks, allowing him to swallow your moans once more.
It’s downright euphoric the way he uses his tongue to work you to the edge so quickly. You want to chalk it up to being over ten years since you’ve felt this sensation, but the only thing to blame here is him. Not unlike your language, he’s learning your body. Fast.
“Hah- fuck–” You breathe when he finally lets up for air, his chest heaving as you cling to him for purchase. “Don’t stop, Kuna.”
His chest rumbles as he lowers himself to one pair of forearms, continuing to knead the plush of your hips with the other pair. His fingers run along the imperfections of your skin, committing each and every stretch mark, scar, and beauty mark to memory without so much as pulling his gaze from your expression.
He drags his massive tongue slower against your clit, the barbed texture pulling you closer and closer to the edge and leaving you breathless altogether. Blood roars in your ears as he slows his pace to keep you right where he wants you, crimson irises mere rings as his blown pupils watch whimpers pour from your slacked jaw.
“I like you like this,” he murmurs, his nose nudging your cheek where makeup has already smudged. “At my mercy and begging me not to stop.”
“That’s because you have a superiority complex,” you mutter even through the haze, still mouthy at the worst of times.
His tongue pulls back, your head lifting in disappointment just in time to watch his stomach maw nip at your inner thigh. You yelp, clinging tighter to his shoulders as you undoubtedly leave behind marks. “I like you noisy during sex, but not mouthy,” he coyly remarks.
“You’re such a–” You sharply gasp when his tongue returns to your clit with another long drawn out stripe up your slit.
“Don’t be smart,” he chides in Simurian, although he speaks so fast he’s positive you don’t catch it. Your head’s already in the clouds, thrown back into the mattress as you cling to him for purchase when at last he gives you what you want.
Adding to the pressure of his tongue, he finally throws you over the edge with shorter, faster licks. Stars encroach on your vision, your nails digging into his tough skin as he nuzzles your chin affectionately while your body twitches with each jolt of static to your abdomen that could damn well be slowing time and you would never know.
When your vision begins to even out, you shift against your husband, suddenly very aware of just how much drool and cum has collectively pooled between your thighs. Your movement rouses his attention as he lifts his head to inspect you. The bliss lighting up your features has his chest puffing out, that stupid prideful and boastful purr that you’ve grown fond of rumbling his chest.
Your lips part as you catch your breath, pulling him back into your shoulder. He doesn’t protest, nuzzling into you so hard you might think he wanted to live there.
“I love you too, Sukuna.”
He lifts his head, his slanted eyes curiously narrowing. “Is that how humans express partnership?”
You smile as he picks apart your traditions so scientifically. “It’s one way,” you murmur softly, tracing a finger along his cheek. His left eyes flutter shut, only opening when your nails rake through his hair.
He chuffs his approval, returning his attention at last to your body with kisses to your breasts. He shifts you up the bed, spreading your legs over his thighs as he sits between them. His cocks are heavy against your stomach, twitching, and equally slick with his own drool and your cum.
As he leans over you, kissing you once more with ease given his extra height. Two thick digits gather the mix of cum and drool, bringing it to his mouth. He runs his tongue along his lips, bringing his wet fingers down to your core. Regardless of species, he clearly knows better than to try sex without adequately working you open for him. You’re small and he has no intention of hurting his wife.
One finger eases in without any friction, the saliva coating it acting as a natural lubricant. The second is met with little resistance too, and he uses the opportunity to pump them slowly. He moves his fingers not like a human might, but as though he’s searching. Like he knows, biologically, that you derive pleasure from a specific point. And god, does he find it. Your hips buck for him as he locates your g-spot, a devious smirk curling on his lips. Your nails rake down his back with each slow pump of his fingers, your arms trembling as you cling to him.
A third finger swipes up the amalgamation of drool and cum and slowly he slips it in to the first knuckle. He watches your shoulders tense, allowing you to pull him closer until your chests are slick with one anothers’ sweat. Your walls don’t clamp so tightly around his fingers as you adjust and slowly, he slides the third one in to the knuckle.
The stretch of three fingers from your massive husband is immense as-is. You both know he isn’t fitting the second of his dicks in you, but he seems satisfied regardless as he watches your expression with blown pupils.
“Fuck, that feels good,” you breathe as he works you open slowly but surely, picking up the pace until he’s got you damn-near at the edge again.
He hums, pulling his fingers away with a wet squelch just as your nails dig into his skin. “Keep that feeling going for me, ange.”
When he lines himself up with you, a shudder rocks your body. He’s always been big. From this angle, he looks massive and his cocks are no different. The upper cock is heavy as it rests atop your abdomen, leaking pre-cum and coated in saliva all the same, both of you equally a mess. When he pushes in the tip, you suck in a breath, a hand flying to his chest to stop him from pressing in too quickly.
He hisses at how tight you are, the size difference more apparent than ever. Swallowing hard, all four eyes turn their attention to you. “Relax, baby,” he coos, his voice dropping an octave as he uses your preferred pet name for him on you. Anything to allow you to anchor yourself. His gruff attitude flips on a dime, with no intention of causing you anything but pleasure and the knowledge that it’s not only been a long time, but you aren’t the same species.
He wets his thumb with his mouth, bringing it down to your clit to massage small circles into it. Your lashes flutter, the muscles in your arms slackening as the pain of the stretch twists into ecstasy, searing and hot. His body runs so warm that the sensation of him stretching you open all the while warming you up is nothing short of heady and intoxicating. Slowly, he sinks in past the black band around his cock until he reaches the hilt, heavy balls resting against your ass.
Your walls convulse, still short of an orgasm but grappling with his size, until they finally let up and he shifts his hips slightly, testing how you react. You throw your head back in a searing moan as you grab his shoulders again, the kind that rips from straight in your chest and to your surprise, your husband groans in response. “Fuck, that’s it,” he gruffs with a pleasureful lilt to his tone. He’s only ever heard you curse twice, but it seems he got the gist of its meaning quickly.
He pulls out to the tip, his breath hot on your sweat-slicked chest, gliding back in swiftly, though he watches you carefully. When he’s met only with a louder moan and your hands raking down his back, he takes the opportunity to dive in.
His hips rock slow at first, speeding up as he chases both of your highs. He keeps one finger perpetually on your clit, moving in calculated circles in spite of the fact that his hips now snap into you. Moans, pants, and the sound of his balls slapping against your ass fill the air as the scent of sex fills the room.
Your head is too hazy to look, but you’re fairly sure his stomach’s tongue is pleasuring his upper cock, if the feeling of pressure on your abdomen is anything to go off of. It’s like nothing you’ve ever experienced before, and just as his hands ball into fists in the sheets where they rest on either side of your head, both begin twitching. A heavy load of cum fills your pussy and coats your stomach all at once. He doesn’t stop once they begin jerking, chasing your orgasm and riding his own out.
The sensation of his cum filling you is enough to push you over the edge moments later like glass shattering as it rocks your body in ways you’ve never experienced before. You cling to him as your vision goes black, the world around you fading into an afterthought when all you can think of is your massive husband, hunched over and finally having stopped his movement. All four of his arms hold him upright and in one unsteady movement, he lowers himself to his forearms.
Both of your chests heave as you ride the highs, eyes lidded when he nuzzles the crown of your head. “I love you,” he murmurs into your hair, a hint of a question to the statement, as though he isn’t positive that he’s using it correctly.
Through pants, you chuckle at his uncertainty, lifting your hands from his back to the nape of his neck. “I love you too.”
He slowly pulls himself from within you, rolling to the side so as not to crush you. As you come back down, you give yourself a onceover, blinking at the mess along your stomach and thighs and coating the sheets.
“Sukuna, there’s drool everywhere.”
“That’s your fault,” he grumbles, eyes shut as he lays to your left.
“Literally how?”
With no words in your language for the matter, he replies in his mother tongue. “You feel too good.”
You can’t help a smile, but you do take the opportunity to turn and curl into him, coating him in every fluid you’ve shared.
“Mm,” he hums as you intertwine your legs, your head resting on his bicep. “You might be right.”
“Just a little bit.”
“I’ll clean us up,” he murmurs, leaning down to nuzzle the crown of your head. “Just give me one more moment of this.”
–
The tides are low as you sit with your bare feet in the wet sand. The water scarcely reaches your toes, coming up to your husband’s calves as he naps in the sun, a hat laid over his head. He stirs every so often as you read a Simurian romance novel with your legs thrown over him, the written text coming easier to you these days.
The couple in the novel are so young– relative to the species– that it has you feeling wistful for days long past.
“Sukuna?”
You know he’s awake, having recently adjusted his hat. His chest rises and falls in a content sigh before he chuffs.
“What will you do when I’m gone?” You wonder about your husband, a species that mates for life.
He moves lazily as he sits up, hunching over you to parse what you’re reading. When it isn’t of interest to him, he adjusts the hat back over his head to block the sun. “I’ll mourn you.” He stares out across the ocean of the dome he’s grown into a much larger space over the years. “But I’ll celebrate your life, too.”
The thought brings a smile to your face in spite of the somber tone of your conversation. “Will you take care of my bugs?”
“That’s what you’re worried about?”
You shrug. “Yeah, a little.”
He sighs. “Not the ones that sting. I don’t like them.” He wrinkles his nose at the thought of them. “But the rest, yes. I like the ones with extra legs.”
“Yeah, the tarantula-looking ones are pretty cool,” you agree, leaning back into his chest.
His gaze softens as he looks over your features. You’ve aged beautifully over the past several years of marriage, and he knows your reservations about the difference in your species’ lifespans, but he knows something else, too.
Your aging has slowed to a near-halt. At around forty in Human years, your body stopped showing the signs of age that you so often describe. He’s more than positive that you haven’t noticed, but every minute change in your features is something he categorizes mentally.
It was never on purpose, but by the will of some God, whether Human or Simurian, his injected cells have slowed your aging. He isn’t sure if he’s gained a lifetime with you, or simply a few more years, but he considers the action the sort of thing you might call star-crossed. Like the gene therapy that saved your life acted as a string of fate too, bonding you together not just for your life, but several Human lifetimes.
One pair of arms holds him up as he leans back on them, the other pair sliding around your waist as he pulls you closer, the feeling of your bare skin familiar and comforting to the lumbering man. His fingers curl into your skin as he watches you happily turn a page, content with his reply. His gaze lingers on the ink on your ring finger that matches his.
However many lifetimes it may be that you’re blessed with, he knows he’ll cherish each and every one.
☾⋆ a/n ; okay so i watched phm and between that, iron lung, and alien earth, i got alien sukuna brainworms. i didn't anticipate it being like 38k 💀 i hope you enjoyed though!! this one was a lot of fun and i'm proud of how it turned out. you may also notice a difference between the tumblr and ao3/wattpad versions of this fic which is because i found tumblr's post limit (1000 paragraphs) and had to do some quick combining/editing. forgive me for any strange pacing on this piece in the tumblr version <3
i also wanna take the time to thank you all for the patience while i deal with some medical issues, i promise my regular series should be coming back soon <33
☾⋆ taglist ; @lilrosyhaven @tiny-mimi @grimm3r @yujisredkicks @knittybritty98 @sukunahs @saezzi @epicderpface @ynishalee @pandabiene5115 @silibiliballs @ane5e @feyrinnn @jkslvsnella @maomimii @megumuro @beereadzzz @sukunas-one-n-only-peach @beaniesayshi @ryomeowie @suguusatoo
author's note: this is highly inspired by flowers are bait so there are significant similarities but also differences. rest assured it won't be that predictable (or ill try not to be, lmao). none of the images i use are mine! credits to the rightful owners, PLS. and thank you! have fun reading! <3
[tags] MDNI. dark romance, eventual smut, lowkey wholesome, reader is a healer who's really good at combat because why not but she's a virgin, sukuna is still an asshole btw, a lot of physical fights (even the nasty one), more of a slow burn, corn with plot, reader isn't that nasty, just a stubborn pain in the ass, afab!reader
check other works here.
synopsis. In your isolated village, the name Ryomen Sukuna was a curse spoken only in whispers of fear and hatred. From the proud elders of the Yoshinori clan down to the blood of your own family, everyone shared the exact same sentiment: they wanted him dead, and they prayed for the day a brave soul would finally mount his head on a spike.
Yet, for all the terrifying tales woven around the flickering hearths on freezing winter nights, you had never actually set eyes upon the monster. You only knew him through the grotesque, exaggerated legends of his atrocities, descriptions passed around in the dark to frighten children.
Four arms and two mouths, was it? A towering, multi-limbed beast birthed entirely from nightmares and sin.
What you certainly never expected, however, was that the brooding stranger you stumbled upon while he was secretly burying a fresh corpse in the dead of night was the very same King of Curses that the entire world, and your village alike, so desperately dreaded.
And when he finally woke up and caught you one fateful night, panic overrode your senses, leaving you with only one frantic insane lie to spill from your trembling lips:
this content is the intellectual property of the author. do not repost, translate, or claim as your own. strictly no unauthorized boarding after hours.
synopsis . Zuko rewarding his favorite servant after a long day of obedience and loyalty. content . afab!reader, forbidden relationship, pet play(?), dirty talk, degradation, servant!reader, face fucking, petnames, power play, switch dynamics, praise, oral sex (m!receiving), mentions of his honor (lol), etc.
“Does the mutt want a treat?” There's a certain warmth that comes with Zuko's words, no matter how harsh they may be.
And as you're sitting on the floor beneath him, you can't find it in yourself to be concerned with being addressed as such a degrading term. If anything, you'd been begging for the fire lord to treat you like this for months. Ever since your little scandalous relationship began, the two of you have steadily gotten more and more debauched with your private acts of pleasure.
Right now was no different.
“I’ve had a long day, and I’ve been thinking about this since earlier." Zuko's hands are at his belt and you're struggling not to drool from the sight presented before you.
He stands over you so tall and proudly, royal garments shrugged off only moments ago as his sculpted chest remain bare for your hungry eyes. The average servant could only dream of finding themself in such a position. You were instructed to keep your eyes up on his, but it was hard to follow orders once he tugged his cock free from the pesky fabrics in the way and then let it lightly tap against your face.
One hand was taut at his thick base whilst the other moved to palm the back of your head, forcing you to angle your face upwards as his hips worked to push his dick along the curve of your devastatingly gorgeous face. It nearly pained Zuko to see such a beautiful woman living the life of a servant. And to make matters worse, he simply despised how he couldn't have you in the traditional sense.
Even the fire lord had certain rules and traditions he couldn't break nor bend. Apparently, taking a lowly servant as one of his concubines was one of them.
Though, it’s not as if that truly changes whether or not he gets what he wants.
The head of his cock drools profoundly against your skin, leaving a nasty trail of need against you as he reels his hips back and lets his tip draw something sinful across your face. The people of the court would shudder if they knew of the things he did to you when no one else was around.
A hum vibrates lowly against his throat before he moves his cock to smear against your lips. "You were running your mouth so much-, mmh.. talking to—oh, who was it again? Sokka, right?” His brow pushes inward to scrunch and you nearly whine for him to enter your mouth already.
Containing yourself—just barely—you nod in response to his question, which ultimately causes his dick to slide to the right of your face.
Zuko smiles, “Yeahh, and like a good, loyal girl you turned down that offer of his. I’m so-," He pauses to let out a huff, smacking his cock against your cheek all crudely before finally dragging back over to your lips and then pushing past them. "Shit.. so proud of you.”
“Mnngh,” You're humming around his length as soon as it fills your mouth and you couldn't be more happy with yourself.
Earlier that day, Sokka had made a comment on how diligently you work and offered you a better serving position within his tribe. Loyal to a fault, yet not blind how stupidly handsome Sokka may be, you begrudgingly declined.
Which is why you’re being rewarded now.
“Tastes good, right?” He asks rhetorically, his throbbing shaft busy gliding down the center of your tongue and deep into your throat. It was rare that Zuko wanted to give your mouth a proper fucking, yet given the events of today, he simply had to grace your mouth with his presence. “Nod if you like your treat.”
You do exactly that, stupidly moving your head up and down whilst tears prick the corners of your eyes. He filled your throat up entirely and stretched your mouth open wide enough to bring pain to your jaw.
Then one of his hands move to pat at your head and his hips buck forward rudely, “Atta’ girl. What would people think if they saw how I stretched your mouth open like this, I wonder. Calling you a mutt…” He feels the way you moan around him as the term is thrown your way again—leading his mouth to quirk up into a smile. “…feeling how you moan around me because you like it so much. Hah.”
You began to swallow around him at the perfect moment and his nearly cocky expression breaks into the one you usually receive from him—one of pure, utter submissiveness.
“T-Tell me something, my loyal servant,” He tugs his cock out of your mouth for only a few seconds just to adjusts his hips and dangle the girth over your face. “Even as I debauch you like this, do you still think I’m an honorable ruler?”
Precum and spit drips down onto you, but you hardly bat an eye. Gulping shyly before whispering, “Of course, my lord.”
Zuko nearly rolls his eyes at the title, “Speak freely.”
You grin, leaning up and moving your mouth to his tip so you can suck at it—then your tongue rounds his head only once before you release a light pant against his feverish skin.
With your hand lifting to wrap around his base, you let his cock smack against the tongue you soon stick out before saying, “I think it’s most honorable how you treat me like this simply because I’ve asked you to. You call me a mutt,” Your tongue laps along the side of his dick and he shivers, “And then feed me like one with your cock. All whilst looking at me with those cute, apologetic eyes—as if you don’t really mean it.”
Zuko’s resolve breaks completely right then and there, and he whines upon watching you plant kissing across his every inch.
“I think you’re an honorable ruler because no one else in the Fire Nation knows how you submit yourself into the whims of some servant girl who’s mouth you can’t seem to keep your cock out of,” The moment you finish with your explanation, you’re taking him down your throat with quick, needy bobs of your head.
The fire lord’s footing shifts and he nearly stumbles with you, both hands flying to the side of your head to brace himself for how perfect your mouth feels. It’s in moments like this where he wonders why he doesn’t do this more often.
“T-That makes-, fuck.. no sense,” He refutes baselessly, a whine flopping off of his tongue mere seconds later.
You tug your lips and tongue away from his cock—drool spilling down onto your thighs and the floor below—and your lashes bat up at him. “Zuko,” his name from your throat makes him shudder again. “You’re an honorable ruler because I say so.”
Now his lashes were batting back at you and he found himself at a loss of words. He couldn’t quite argue with you when you were right. Had you said no, he would’ve agreed anyway.
People would be of great shock if they knew the real power you hold over him.
“Now,” You roll your tongue out once more, then place your hands behind your back, “Be a good boy and keep rewarding me, won’t you?”
The fate of the Fire Nation’s future could be found somewhere in your demands and Zuko hadn’t a single argument against it.
He’d do anything for you—even thrash his cock through your throat as you’ve asked him to, despite this being a severely forbidden relationship.
ㅤㅤ𝐀𝐕𝐈𝐒𝐎𝐒 .ᐟㅤㅤ❛ㅤㅤconteúdo sexual explícito, niki!hard dom, dirty talk, brat taming, breast worship, nipple play, spanking, hair pulling, choking, degradation, praise kink, teasing/edging, niki!big dick, muito uso de: "vadia", "puta/putinha", "cadela", "gatinha", sem proteção (não façam tá bom?).
ㅤㅤ𝐍𝐎𝐓𝐀𝐒 .ᐟㅤㅤ❛ㅤㅤisso não é um especial de dia das mães, mas feliz dia do amigo ^^.
O calor do corpo dele queima através da sua pele, como se o ar entre vocês dois tivesse sido sugado para fora do cômodo, deixando só o cheiro do perfume cítrico do Ni-ki, misturado com o suor leve do esforço de te segurar no colo. Você está ali, sentada sobre as pernas dele, as coxas firmes do Ni-ki servindo de assento, enquanto os dedos dele, calosos dos treinos de basquete, afundam na sua cintura nua, puxando você para mais perto, como se quisesse fundir seu peito no rosto dele.
A boca dele é quente, úmida, insistente. Os lábios do Ni-ki se fecharam em torno do seu mamilo com uma precisão que te faz tremer, a língua traçando círculos lentos, como se ele estivesse saboreando algo que pertencia apenas a ele. Você sente o ar frio do ventilador batendo nas suas costas nuas, contrastando com o fogo que se espalha pelo seu peito, descendo em espiral até o seu ventre. Cada sugada é um pulso elétrico que acende algo entre as suas pernas, e você morde o lábio inferior para não gemer — mas o som escapa de qualquer jeito, abafado, rouco.
O short jeans está justinho, a costura central pressionando contra o tecido fino da sua calcinha, e a cada movimento involuntário do seu quadril, você sente ele ali, duro, grosso, pressionando de volta. O Ni-ki não perde o ritmo, mas você jura que ouve o risinho cafajeste dele vibrar contra a sua pele, como se ele soubesse exatamente o que está acontecendo na sua cabeça: a turvação, a preguiça de pensar em qualquer coisa que não fosse aquilo, ele, o jeito que o pau dele parece pulsar sob o tecido, como se estivesse implorando para ser libertado.
Os dedos dele sobem pela sua coluna, arranhando de leve, e você estremece, os mamilos ficando ainda mais duros com o ar. O jeito que o seu quadril se mexe de novo, esfregando sem querer contra a coxa dele, já diz tudo. O Ni-ki ri, baixo, e volta a chupar com mais força. E você sabe que ele está sorrindo. Sempre sorri. Aquele sorrisinho de canto irritante.
Tudo começou no primeiro dia da faculdade, quando o inferno resolveu se sentar do seu lado.
Você estava ali, com os fones no ouvido, tentando ignorar o burburinho da sala, quando sentiu um cutucão no braço. Levou um susto, tirou um fone, e lá estava ele: Nishimura Riki, o Ni-ki, com aquele sorriso de quem já sabe que vai te irritar pelo resto do semestre.
— O que você tá escutando? — ele perguntou, como se fosse da conta dele.
Você suspirou, mostrou a tela do celular. Era uma música do seu artista favorito, uma daquelas que você gosta, e ele torceu o nariz como se fosse lixo.
— Isso é gosto musical? Parece som de elevador.
E então, como se não bastasse, ele começou a listar as músicas favoritas dele, como se você tivesse pedido. Como se você quisesse saber. O pior é que, contra a sua vontade, você ouviu. E, pior ainda, algumas até que eram boas.
Mas você não ia admitir isso. Não para ele.
A partir daí, ele virou chiclete no seu sapato. Não desgrudava. Não importava se você ignorava, se revirava os olhos, se xingava. O Ni-ki era aquele tipo de garoto: o que te cutucava na aula só pra te irritar, o que ria quando você tirava nota baixa, o twitter dele só tem piadas de carência extrema e só fala que ama peitos. O tipo de cara que você odiava — ou pelo menos dizia que odiava.
Até o dia que ele conseguiu pegar nos seus peitos.
Foi num daqueles momentos estúpidos, depois de uma festa chata que você não queria estar, e ele, bêbado, te encurralou no corredor do prédio da sua amiga. Você ia empurrar ele, xingar, algo, mas os dedos dele já estavam ali, quentes, ousados, e antes que você pudesse reagir, a boca dele já estava no seu decote, chupando como se fosse a coisa mais natural do mundo.
Você deveria ter ficado putassa. Deveria ter dado um tapa. Mas, em vez disso, você congelou e deixou o momento acontecer. E quando acabou, ele se afastou, com aquele sorrisinho de quem sabia que tinha cruzado uma linha que não tinha mais volta, você só... fingiu que nada tinha acontecido.
E continuaram amigos.
Até hoje.
Hoje era dia das mães. Você tava em casa, de pijama, sem fazer nada, quando o celular vibrou. Era ele. Claro que era ele.
Niki:
já chupei os peitos vou desejar feliz dia das mães sim
E embaixo, uma figurinha breguíssima, daquelas com Feliz Dia das Mães escrito em letra cursiva, com um monte de coraçãozinho vermelho.
Você não quis rir. Jurou que não ia rir.
Mas ri.
E jogou um pouco de conversa fora, só para fingir que não tava morrendo de vergonha e, ao mesmo tempo, morrendo de vontade.
Você:
que nojento
Niki:
Riu, não riu?
Você:
Não.
Niki:
Mentira.
quer receber presente de dia das mães?
E agora.
Aqui está você.
Sem blusa. No colo dele. Com a boca do Ni-ki no seu peito, como se fosse o lugar mais natural do mundo.
Os dedos dele são implacáveis: uma mão segura o seu seio esquerdo com uma possessividade que beira a violência, os dedos afundando na carne macia, apertando até você sentir a pressão doer, como se ele quisesse marcar você por dentro, deixar um hematoma que durasse dias. O outro seio está entre os lábios dele, e a língua do Ni-ki não tem pressa: ela explora, traça círculos lentos e úmidos em torno do seu mamilo, como se estivesse brincando com a comida antes de devorá-la.
— Tá vendo como você é fácil, gatinha? — a voz dele é um rosnado, vibrando contra a sua pele, e você sente o bafo quente dele no peito. — Só eu encostar que já tá molhadinha, né? Que vergonha...
A língua dele de repente acelera, movendo-se em zigue-zague sobre o mamilo, como se fosse um chicote molhado, e você estremece, os dedos dos pés se curvando dentro das meias. Ele sabe o que está fazendo. Sabe que cada movimento arrasta um gemido da sua garganta, mesmo que você morra de raiva por isso. E é justamente por isso que ele faz: para te ver perder o controle, para te ver ceder, mesmo que seja só com o corpo.
— Ah, mas não adianta segurar, não, não... — ele murmura, e então morde de leve o seu mamilo, só o suficiente para você soltar um som agudo, entre o prazer e a dor. — Eu vou te fazer gemer igual uma cachorrinha no cio, e você vai adorar.
De repente, a boca dele se fecha com força em torno do seu mamilo, sugando com uma intensidade que faz os seus olhos se encherem de lágrimas. Não é mais brincadeira. Não é mais provocação. É dominância. A dor é aguda, quase insuportável, e você grita, o som saindo da sua boca como um animal ferido, as unhas afundando no couro cabeludo dele. Os fios grossos do cabelo do Ni-ki se enroscam nos seus dedos enquanto você socorre a cabeça dele, empurrandoe o tapeando com desespero.
— Não... morde, filho da puta! — a voz sai raivosa, trêmula, e o Ni-ki ri. Um riso sujo, que parece vir do fundo da garganta dele, como se a sua fúria fosse o melhor afrodisíaco do mundo.
— Que boquinha gostosa você tem, hein? — ele diz, a voz rouca, enquanto solta o seu seio com um pop úmido. — Fala de novo. Fala que eu sou filho da puta. Eu amo quando você me xinga.
E antes que você possa reagir, a mão dele puxa o seu cabelo, forçando a sua cabeça a tombar para trás, expondo a sua garganta. O movimento é brusco, dolorido, e você solta um gemido de incômodo, os lábios entreabertos, ofegante.
— Eu deixei você me xingar — ele rosna, a boca agora perigosamente próxima do seu ouvido, o bafo quente fazendo arrepios descerem pela sua coluna. — Mas não deixei você me bater, não.
E, como punição, ele age.
Com um movimento rápido, o Ni-ki segura os seus dois punhos e os empurra para trás das suas costas, imobilizando você contra o peito dele. A posição é humilhante: você está aberta, vulnerável, os seios expostos e pesados, o quadril latejando com a falta de atrito. Você odiava isso. Odiava se sentir tão pequena, tão controlada, mas o seu corpo trai você, as paredes internas se contraindo em vão, como se estivessem procurando por algo que ainda não tinham.
— Assim, gatinha — ele murmura, a voz um comando. — Assim você fica mais sensível. Mais... minha.
E ele sabe que é verdade.
Os dedos dele agora brincam com o seu outro mamilo, rodeando, beliscando, enquanto a boca volta a trabalhar no primeiro, sugando com uma força que faz você tremer. Cada movimento é calculado para te quebrar, para te fazer implorar, mesmo que você nunca fosse admitir.
— Vai, vadia — ele provoca, a língua traçando um caminho molhado até o seu pescoço, onde ele morde de leve, só para te ouvir gemer. — Grita pra mim. Deixa eu ouvir como você é putinha quando eu mexo com você.
O ar entre vocês dois está elétrico, carregado com o cheiro do suor dele, como se o próprio cheiro do Ni-ki fosse um aviso: você não tem escapatória. A boca dele é implacável, alternando entre os seus seios como se fossem um banquete que ele não pretendia dividir com ninguém. A língua dele, úmida e quente, traça caminhos sinuosos: primeiro no seio esquerdo, onde ele suga com uma força que faz você arquear as costas, os dedos dos pés se curvando mais. Depois, sem aviso, ele abandona aquele e ataca o direito, os lábios se fechando em torno do mamilo com um pop audível, como se ele estivesse reclamando o que era dele.
— Tá vendo como você é fraca, putinha? — ele rosna, a voz vibrando contra a sua pele, enquanto a mão livre aperta o seio abandonado, os dedos afundando na carne até você sentir a marca dos nós dos dedos. — Não consegue nem se soltar, né? Burra pra caralho...
E ele ri. Um riso sujo, que parece rasgar o ar, enquanto a língua dele gira em torno do seu mamilo, beliscando de leve antes de morder. A dor é aguda, repentina, e você grita, o som saindo da sua garganta como um animal acorrentado. As bochechas formigam, não só pelo esforço de segurar os gemidos, mas pela vergonha de saber que ele está certissimo: você não consegue se soltar. Os punhos dele são como algemas, e cada movimento seu — o rebolar do quadril, a tentativa de atingi-lo de alguma forma — só faz ele rir mais.
— Para de rebolar que nem uma puta desesperada, caralho — ele diz, e a mão livre desce com um estalo seco contra a sua coxa. A dor queima, espalhando-se pela pele como fogo, e você solta um gemido agudo, os olhos se enchendo de lágrimas. Mas não adianta. Você não para. O seu corpo trai você, o quadril procurando algo, qualquer coisa, para aliviar a pressão que lateja entre as suas pernas.
E o Ni-ki sabe disso.
— Ainda não aprendeu, não é? — ele murmura, e outro tapa atinge a sua coxa, dessa vez um pouco mais forte. A área já está sensível, dolorida, e a dor se mistura com algo mais profundo, mais sujo. — Vou te ensinar, então.
Os tapas continuam. Um. Dois. Três. Cada um mais forte que o anterior, e a cada um, os seus gemidos ficam mais altos, mais descontrolados. As lágrimas escorrem pelo seu rosto, mas não é só dor. É tesão. É a vergonha de saber que você está gostando disso, que o seu corpo está respondendo a cada humilhação, a cada prova de que ele é mais forte.
Até que, de repente, ele cansa. Ou pelo menos finge que cansa.
Com um movimento rápido, o Ni-ki solta os seus punhos, e antes que você possa reagir, ele te joga no sofá. O impacto faz o ar sair dos seus pulmões, e você olha para cima, ofegante, os seios pesados e doloridos balançando com o movimento. E lá está ele, por cima de você, o peitoral nu à mostra. Magro, mas definido, cada músculo um lembrete de que ele é mais forte. Você nem sabe onde está a blusa dele. Quando você chegou, ele já estava assim: nu da cintura para cima, como se soubesse exatamente o que ia acontecer.
— Gostou da vista, puta? — ele pergunta, a voz rouca, enquanto afunda o rosto nos seus seios novamente. A boca dele é voraz: ele chupa, morde, aperta com as mãos, como se quisesse deixar marcas que durassem dias. E você não segura mais. Os gemidos escapam, altos, descontrolados, principalmente quando ele força uma perna entre as suas, o joelho pressionando contra a sua intimidade, friccionando com uma constância cruel.
— Isso, vadia — ele murmura, a voz abafada contra a sua pele. — Geme pra mim. Deixa eu ouvir como você é minha.
E então, como se não bastasse, ele se afasta. Só um pouco, o suficiente para admirar o estrago. As marcas vermelhas dos dentes dele nos seus mamilos. As mordidas que já estão inchando. Os hematomas começando a se formar onde os dedos dele apertaram com força. E, com um sorrisinho sádico, ele pega os dois seios com as mãos, apertando até você gritar, e então... sacode.
— Minha obra de arte — ele diz, a voz cheia de orgulho, enquanto começa a estapear os seus seios. Primeiro fraco, como se estivesse testando você. Mas a cada tapa, a força aumenta. E os seus gemidos também. As lágrimas escorrem pelo seu rosto, mas não é dor. Não só dor. É tesão. É a vergonha de saber que você está aguentando tudo isso por ele. Que você quer mais.
— Até onde você aguenta, putinha? — ele pergunta, a voz baixa, perigosa, enquanto os tapas continuam. — Vamos ver...
Os tapas nos seus seios queimam como se fossem chicotadas de fogo, cada um mais forte que o anterior, a pele já ardendo sob o toque brutal do Ni-ki. A dor é aguda, mas se mistura com um prazer proibido, sujo, que faz o seu quadril tremer a cada impacto. Você soluça, os olhos enchendo de lágrimas, mas não de tristeza — de tesão, de frustração, de uma necessidade que cresce dentro de você como um animal acorrentado. E o Ni-ki sabe. Ele sabe que cada tapa, cada gemido abafado que escapa dos seus lábios, é uma prova de que você é dele.
— Tá gostando, não tá, puta? — ele pergunta, a voz rouca, provocadora, enquanto a mão direita desce e aperta o seu seio esquerdo com uma força que faz você arquear as costas. — Parece que tá, pelo jeito que tá babando...
E então, sem aviso, ele volta a chupar. A boca dele se fecha em torno do seu mamilo direito, a língua girando em círculos lentos, torturantes, como se ele quisesse saborear cada gemido que você não consegue segurar. Você soluça, o corpo tremendo, porque não é só prazer — é tortura. Uma tortura deliciosa, que te deixa louca, desesperada por mais.
E então, o movimento rápido.
O Ni-ki abaixa a calça jeans, deixando à mostra a cueca preta que mal consegue conter aquilo. O volume é impressionante, a forma inchada da cabeça do pênis dele transbordando pelo tecido, como se já estivesse implorando para ser libertado. Você engole em seco, os olhos fixos naquilo, uma mistura de medo e desejo te dominando por completo.
— Vai ser só a cabecinha — ele avisa, a voz baixa, ameaçadora, enquanto os dedos ágeis abaixam o seu short jeans junto com a calcinha, deixando você totalmente exposta para ele. O ar frio do quarto queima a sua pele sensível, mas não tanto quanto o calor do olhar do Ni-ki, que devora cada centímetro do seu corpo como se fosse um banquete.
E então, ela está ali. A cabeça do pênis do Ni-ki, inchada, grossa, de um tamanho que você nunca tinha visto tão de perto. É intimidante, ameaçadora, e quando ele se encaixa na sua entrada, você sente cada milímetro estirando você, preenchendo você de uma forma que faz os seus dedos afundarem no sofá.
— Caralho... — você gemer, a voz trêmula, sofregida, porque não é só a sensação de cheio, é a pressão, a promessa de algo maior, algo que você sabe que vai te destruir de prazer.
Mas o Ni-ki não se move. Não ainda.
Em vez disso, ele volta a abocanhar os seus seios, a boca quente e úmida sugando o seu mamilo esquerdo com uma força que faz você gritar. E é justamente nesse momento que você esquece do orgulho. Esquece de tudo, menos da necessidade que lateja dentro de você, desesperada por mais.
— N-Ni-ki... por favor... — você gagueja, a voz quebrada, desesperada, mas ele finge que não ouviu. A língua dele continua a brincar com o seu mamilo, os dedos apertando o outro seio com uma possessividade que beira a violência.
— O quê? — ele pergunta, fingindo inocência, enquanto morde de leve o seu mamilo, só para te ouvir gemer de novo. — Fala mais alto, cadela. Não tô ouvindo.
Você odeia isso. Odeia ter que pedir. Odeia a forma como ele te obriga a suplicar. Mas o desejo é mais forte.
— Quero mais... — você repete, a voz trêmula, vergonhosa, e o Ni-ki sorri. Um sorrisinho sádico, vitorioso, porque ele sabe que ganhou.
— Mais o quê? — ele provoca, a mão descendo para apertar o seu quadril, os dedos perigosamente próximos da entrada onde a cabeça do pênis dele ainda pulsava, te provocando. — Fala, putinha. Pede pelo meu pau. Pede pela pika toda.
E você sabe que ele não vai te dar nada até você suplicar.
— Quero a sua pika... toda... por favor... — as palavras saem da sua boca como um veneno, mas o Ni-ki só ri, satisfeito, enquanto aperta os seus seios com mais força, como se quisesse punir você por ter cedido. — Por favor... me dá o seu pau... todo ele...
Você solta, as palavras saindo da sua boca como um segredo sujo. O Ni-ki ri. Um riso baixo, sádico, que vibra contra os seus seios.
— Assim que eu gosto — ele murmura, enquanto aperta os seus seios com mais força, os dedos deixando marcas que vão durar dias. — Pede de novo. Pede como uma putinha que não aguenta mais.
E você pede.
— Por favor, Ni-ki... eu preciso... eu preciso do seu pau todo dentro de mim...
E a cada súplica, o sorrisinho dele fica mais largo. A cada pedido, os dedos apertam mais. E a cabeça do pau dele continua ali, brincando com a sua entrada, prometendo mais, ameaçando mais.
O Ni-ki te olha com aquele sorriso. Aquele que diz, sem palavras, que ele sabe que você está entregue, que ele vai fazer apenas o que ele quiser, e que você não tem escolha a não ser aceitar. E, como sempre, ele cumpre a promessa.
A mão dele segura o seu pescoço, não o suficiente para estrangular, mas o bastante para controlar a sua respiração, para limitar o ar que entra nos seus pulmões. A pressão é firme, dominadora, e você sente o pânico misturado com o tesão subindo pela sua espinha, como um incêndio. Ao mesmo tempo, a boca dele abocanha o seu mamilo direito com uma vontade que beira a violência. A língua gira em torno do bico sensível, sugando com uma força que faz você tremer, enquanto a cabeça do pau dele se move — não entra, não penetra, mas esfrega, fricciona a sua entrada de uma forma que é quase insuportável.
— Tá vendo como você é minha, putinha? — ele rosna, a voz rouca, abafada contra a sua pele. — Não consegue nem respirar direito sem eu deixar. Que vergonha...
As palavras dele queimam mais do que a falta de ar. A humilhação se mistura com o prazer, e o seu corpo responde, esquentando cada vez mais, como se cada palavra suja, cada xingamento, fosse um carinho perverso. Você sente o calor subindo, se acumulando, e não há nada que possa fazer para parar isso. Não com a boca dele trabalhando nos seus seios, não com a cabeça do pau dele brincando com a sua entrada, não com a mão dele controlando a sua respiração.
— Você é só minha, não é? — ele continua, a voz cheia de deboche. — Uma putinha que não consegue viver sem o meu pau. Admite.
E você não consegue. Não consegue negar. Não consegue mentir. Porque o seu corpo já está pronto, à beira...
E então, você explode.
O orgasmo te atinge como um trem, violento, inesperado. Os espasmos vêm em ondas, fortes, descontrolados, e você sente o seu corpo tremer contra a boca dele, contra a cabeça do pau dele, contra a mão que ainda segura o seu pescoço. O Ni-ki sente tudo. Sabe que você gozou. E, como se fosse uma recompensa, ele solta o seu pescoço, permitindo que o ar inunde os seus pulmões em um gole desesperado.
— Isso, vadia — ele murmura, a voz cheia de satisfação, enquanto deixa a saliva escorrer pela sua pele, marcando os seus seios. — Goza pra mim. Goza todo pra mim.
O ar inunda os seus pulmões, queimando como fogo, mas não é só alívio. É vergonha. É a certeza de que ele te quebrou. Que ele te fez gozar sem nem te penetrar direito.
E o Ni-ki não para por aí.
Ele deixa um rastro de saliva pelos seus seios, molhados e sensíveis, antes de tirar a cabeça do pau da sua entrada. Você sente o vazio imediato, a frustração de não ter tudo aquilo dentro de você. Mas ele não te dá tempo para reclamar.
Com um movimento rápido, ele pega o próprio pau, duro e brilhante de excitação, e começa a punhetar. Você observa, hipnotizada, cada detalhe: o movimento dos dedos dele, firmes e rítmicos, a velocidade com que ele trabalha o próprio membro, os gemidos que escapam da garganta dele, baixos e roucos. Os fios de cabelo suados caem na testa dele, o peito sobe e desce com a respiração acelerada, e você sente o seu próprio corpo respondendo de novo, como se só de ver aquilo já fosse o suficiente para te excitara mais uma vez.
— Tá vendo como eu tô duro por sua causa, cadela? — ele pergunta, a voz tensa, cheia de prazer. — Isso tudo é por você.
E quando ele está perto, muito perto, ele posiciona o pau sobre os seus seios, apertando os dois com uma mão para criar um caminho para o seu gozo. Você sente o calor do corpo dele, a tensão nos músculos, e então...
O sêmen escorre sobre você, quente e grosso, melando os seus seios já sensíveis, pingando pelo seu peito, pelo seu pescoço. A sensação é nojenta e deliciosa ao mesmo tempo, e você não consegue evitar um gemido quando o líquido queima a sua pele.
O Ni-ki ri. Um riso travesso, sádico, enquanto admira o estrago que fez. Os seus seios cobertos de gozo, as marcas dos dentes, as mordidas, os hematomas dos dedos. Tudo dele. Tudo marcado por ele.
Ele passa um dedo pelo gozo nos seus seios, espalhando ainda mais. Ele pergunta, com a voz cheia de deboche:
࿔. 𝑤𝑎𝑟𝑛𝑖𝑛𝑔 : size kink, dirty talk, ni-ki namoradinho manhoso, reader manhosinha, relacionamento estabelecido, cowgirl, ni-ki big dick, apelidinhos, muita melosidade, slow sex, sexo sem proteção (NÃO façam), sexo molhadinho e ACHO que só.
࿔. 𝑛𝑜𝑡𝑒𝑠 : oi gente eu amo ele a ponto de dedicar todas as músicas de romance bobinho do one d. pra ele.
— Mô, ‘tá gelado… — A reclamação rouca veio acompanhada de um sorriso sonolento e uma risadinha arrastada ao você se aconchegar contra o loiro e enterrar a pontinha do nariz no pescoço branquinho, entrando no bolinho de cobertas que o namorado estava enrolado. Mesmo reclamando, ele não perde tempo em fechar os braços ao seu redor e puxá-la para se grudar mais a ele, até não existir praticamente espaço algum entre vocês.
O cheiro confortável do amaciante misturado ao cheirinho docinho do sabonete que exalava da pele quentinha dele criavam uma sensação tão aconchegante que parecia impossível imaginar qualquer lugar melhor para estar senão essa bolha de carinho recém-criada.
Você solta uma risadinha abafada contra o pescoço dele; os dedos longos dele deslizam preguiçosamente por suas costas no mesmo tempo em que um episódio do anime preferido de ambos roda na imensa televisão da sala. Perdem a noção do tempo ali, depois de horas juntinhos no sofá, dividindo cobertores, canecas de chocolate quente e comentários aleatórios sobre uma cena aqui ou lá. A companhia um do outro havia se tornado muito mais interessante do que a próxima batalha do personagem principal da trama colorida.
— Você roubou toda a coberta, amor… — você acusou, baixinho, a voz recheada de uma manha arrastadinha.
— Eu? — ele respondeu com falsa indignação, apertando você contra o peito. “Isso é uma acusação muito séria, gatinha…”
— Mas eu tenho provas! — entra na brincadeira boba.
— É? E cadê?
Você ergue o rosto e dá de cara com o sorriso divertido dele a poucos centímetros do seu. O olhar do namorado carregava aquele brilho travesso que sempre aparecia quando ele estava prestes a iniciar uma sessão de provocações brincalhonas com você, mas, antes mesmo que você pudesse responder alguma coisa, ele inclina a cabeça e despeja um selinho leve em seus lábios, soltando com a voz risonha logo em seguida: “Prova rejeitada.”
— Juiz corrupto! — você entreabre a boca, um meio sorriso misturado a uma falsa expressão de indignação.
— Completamente — ele rebate.
As gargalhadas baixas de vocês preenchem a sala. Do lado de fora, uma chuva ralinha começa a bater contra os vidros das janelas, criando um som constante e relaxante que somou a toda a aura quentinha do refúgio de vocês. O apartamento parecia isolado do resto do mundo, como se apenas vocês existissem naquele universo acolhedor entre almofadas, cobertores e meiguice.
Riki estava deitado no sofá; você estava praticamente encaixada sobre ele. De vez em quando ele passava a mão pelos seus fios meio desgrenhados ou desenhava formas aleatórias em sua cintura por debaixo da enorme camiseta dele que cobria seu corpo, gestos tão singelos e até mesmo cotidianos para ambos, mas que faziam seu coração acelerar como o de uma pré-adolescente descobrindo o amor pela primeira vez.
— Eu poderia passar o dia inteiro assim, você… — ele murmura de repente, rouco. A voz emitindo uma preguicinha palpável.
Você ergue os olhos, admira o rosto masculino de olhos puxadinhos e a boca carnuda com afeto, quase se perdendo nos detalhes lindos que residiam no rosto do Nishimura. “Ah, é? O dia todinho?”
— Uhum… — Um sorriso apaixonado se abre imediatamente. Quase ronrona contra você, se aproximando de seus lábios. “O dia…” deixa um selinho preguiçoso ali. “A semana…” Mais um. “O mês…” E mais outro.
Você não contém o sorriso bobo que repuxa no canto da boca a cada palavrinha que era sussurrada, toda aquela demonstração de carinho fazendo seu peito aquecer, quase explodindo de tanto afago. Você leva a mão livre até o rosto dele, arrasta a pontinha das unhas bem feitas pela bochecha recheada de pintinhas marrom escuro e clarinho, num carinho singelo, ao passo que observava a forma como os olhos brilhantes dele a admiravam.
Num ato recheado de ternura, ele vira o rosto, só um pouquinho, e então deixa um beijinho estalado na palma da sua mão, que abriga a própria bochecha, voltando toda atenção para você logo em seguida. E ah… aquilo fez seu coraçãozinho apaixonado derreter mais do que em qualquer declaração que ele já tinha a direcionado.
O silêncio que se seguiu após isso foi completamente íntimo. Os rostos foram se aproximando sem pressa, mas com uma necessidade tangível um do outro. As bocas se colam num selar moroso, repleto de carinho, volúpia e uma necessidade gritante de estarem completamente grudados um ao outro.
Os dedos de Riki deslizam por sua cintura novamente, inicialmente num carinho singelo, que foi progressivamente substituído por apertos, mantendo-a perto ao passo que o beijo se tornava mais urgente. Ainda havia ternura em cada toque, em cada movimento; o mundo ao redor de vocês se tornando cada vez mais distante, reduzindo-se a apenas o calor das cobertas e à forma como vocês se encaixavam naturalmente, feitos um para o outro.
Quando se afastam minimamente, você apoia a testa na dele e admira devagarinho o rosto do namorado, esse que mantinha a expressão totalmente entregue. Os olhinhos estreitos, perdidos, junto daqueles lábios cheios e vermelhentos que tanto lhe atraíam, entreabertos, buscando o ar que o ósculo tinha levado.
Merda, ele era todo seu. Todinho, cada pedacinho lhe pertencia.
Sua mente viaja, o sentimento de posse faz algo arder profundamente em seu interior, esse que corre diretamente para sua bucetinha. Poxa, não tinha como não ficar toda molhadinha sabendo que tudo aquilo era de apenas uma pessoa, e essa pessoa era você. Não perde mais nenhum minuto e gruda as bocas novamente, apertando de levinho os dedos contra o maxilar marcado do Nishimura, soltando um gemidinho arrastado pelo deslizar lento e completamente gostosinho das línguas.
Riki capta a sua mudança de postura quase no mesmo instante, sorrindo de canto contra seus lábios ao sentir seus toques se tornarem mais firmes e decididos. Ele não passava de um namoradinho bobamente apaixonado, incapaz de resistir a qualquer coisa que viesse de você. Nunca precisava de muito para que ele já estivesse completamente duro e cheio de vontade de se enterrar fundo em sua bucetinha.
— Amor… — ele ronrona. Os lábios se roçando contra o seu devagarinho, num carinho moroso, preguiçoso. O quadril subindo de levinho para que o volume roçasse em seu meio, coberto pela calcinha pequena. Você estica a perna esquerda, passando por cima do corpo forte para então a deixar contra a lateral dele e o estofado vinho.
Os olhos se encontram novamente, de pertinho; olhar faminto e cheio de desejo se fazendo presente. Escalona rápido. "Preciso meter em você", ele sussurra, a palma grande correndo de suas costas para sua bunda, firmando os dedos longos na carne rechonchuda, a forçando contra o volume ainda coberto. Te arranca um arfar baixo pela ponta da pica grossinha bater bem em seu clitóris durinho.
Ele te ergue de levinho, apenas para abaixar a bermuda molinha, o pau duro e soltando lubrificação, se encaixando em seu meio coberto, o paninho da calcinha já completamente úmido da sua lubrificação. As mãos grandes do namorado deslizam devagar pela curva dos seus joelhos, passando por sua bunda redondinha até alcançarem seus seios por debaixo da camiseta. Aperta o indicador, estimulando o biquinho, ao passo que estoca para cima, esfregando a rola rígida em seu meio.
Começa um roçar moroso, te deixa molinha, vulnerável, entregue a cada toque que é deixado em sua pele, essa que parecia queimar, explodindo em febre. Não demora nem meio tempo para alcançar o pano que separava as intimidades e arredar de lado. Ele penetrou em você lentamente, o cacete abrindo e acolhendo cada cantinho das paredes que os esmagavam.
Começa a se mover; no início, foi lento, como se ele estivesse permitindo que você se adaptasse a ele, mas isso não durou muito. As estocadas ainda eram lentas, porém a cabeça rosada da pica graúda batia com força em seu final, arregaçando cada cantinho interno da sua bucetinha.
— Porra, você é tão gostosa... — gemeu, seus quadris se chocando contra os seus. Ele se inclinou, capturando seus lábios em um beijo antes de se afastar novamente. "‘Tá gostoso meu pau atolado em você, amor?..."
Você só conseguia gemer, suas paredes se contraindo ao redor dele enquanto suas unhas se cravavam ao peito nu do loiro abaixo de si. "Riki... caralho, eu vou..." você ofegou, o prazer se acumulando em seu estômago, sem nem mesmo registrar o que ele disse. "Isso, amor…" você sussurrou, com a voz trêmula. "Mete, não para… Por favor."
Ele afunda o quadril no seu. As mãos grandes e fortes escorregam para sua bunda redonda, trazendo seu corpo para mais perto ao passo que a fode com manha, tentando ao máximo perdurar o momento.
Porra, ele fazia tão bem, tão gostoso... Iriam finalizar o diazinho preguiçoso de vocês da melhor forma. Dando uma foda recheada de tesão e uma ânsia desmedida de estarem cada vez mais grudados um ao outro.
— Nini… M-mais… Fode mais… — pede cheia de manha, os dedinhos se perdendo nos fios loiros ao você os agarrar, descontando um pouco do tesão avassalador que as arremetidas do pau grosso em seu meio lhe causavam.
Riki geme rouco; o gemido e a lufada necessitada batem contra seu rostinho entregue. Ele impulsiona o quadril para cima, estoca certeiro em seu fundo. Rebola lentinho com tudo dentro de você, abrindo seu canalzinho até o talo devagarinho, mas intenso. “Caralho, princesa…” Divaga de olhos fechados e cenho franzido, suficientemente perdido no próprio prazer. “Porra… e-eu amo você…”
— Hnmmf! Eu também... Ah, caralho! — se perde. “Também te amo, porra!” O corpo tomba para frente, sendo acolhido pelos braços de Nishimura, que a rodeiam pela cintura, te deixa deitadinha sobre ele, ao passo que ainda mete fundo em seu buraquinho, com seu rostinho contorcido pelo tesão se encaixando na curva do pescoço dele.
— Vai, amor… — Estala um beijinho em sua bochecha. “Goza gostoso no meu pau, hm?” Puxa seu rostinho para o encarar, recebendo um selinho molhado nos lábios entreabertos. “‘Tá perto, não ‘tá?” E você apenas concorda com um balanço de cabeça, grudando as bocas num ósculo bagunçado ao sentir o orgasmo possuir seu corpo, gemendo completamente manhosa contra a boquinha rechonchuda do namorado.
— Isso, caralho! — ele se perde quando a sente apertar a extensão, quente, encharcando tudo. A pressão sendo completamente devastadora para a própria sanidade. “Porra, eu vou gozar dentro, amor...” E, com mais exatas três estocadas em seu fundo, o garoto chega ao seu limite.
O gemido rouco que arranha o peito se mistura ao seu, completamente manhoso, o corpo inteiro do japonês contrai, no tempo em que ele sente os espasmos intensos ao se derramar até a última gota. O calor o consome por dentro. O quadril sobe e desce devagarinho agora, devagar, prolongando o êxtase, deixando cada gota se misturar à sua, uma batida de gozo completamente imunda dentro da sua bucetinha.
Ele ri baixo, ainda em êxtase. A palma grande desliza por suas costas em movimentos lentos, massageando, acalmando os músculos ainda meio trêmulos. Com a outra, ele alcançou a pequena manta que antes os aquecia e jogou sobre os dois, protegendo o ambos da pequena brisa gelada que entrava pela frestinha da janela.
— Coisa linda… — deixa um beijinho em sua testa, ajeitando seu tronco sobre o dele, o peito servindo de travesseiro.
Mesmo ainda tontinha do orgasmo, faz questão de subir um pouquinho o rosto e encaixar na curva do pescoço dele, sentindo o cheiro da pele quente misturado ao suor do ato recente. Amava o cheirinho da pele dele, natural, sem nada, apenas ele.
Riki beija sua têmpora, lentinho, logo movendo o rosto para roubar um beijo lento, demorado, cheio de ternura. Quando larga sua boquinha, distribui outros pela testa, nariz, canto dos lábios, bochecha… Era como se não conseguisse parar de provar cada pedaço seu, te fazendo soltar um risinho apaixonado a cada toque dos lábios em seu rosto, trazendo de volta a bolha manhosa, repleta de carinho, em que estavam anteriormente.
Permanecem assim, grudadinhos, sujinhos um do outro, trocando beijos preguiçosos e suspiros apaixonados, até os corpos relaxarem de vez e, no silêncio confortável da sala de estar, terem a plena certeza de que nenhum lugar seria melhor do que o cantinho de vocês.
. ۟ 🍥 ⃞░ curtiu? deixa um comentáriozinho, uma curtidinha ou um rblog. até a próxima história ⟡﹒🐺
⤷ mdni, explicit content, dom!riki × sub!reader, rough sex, wrist pinning, doggy, unprotected p in v (wrap your willy), clit stimulation, dirty talk
𝒘𝒄:: 687 ﹒💬 wiv's note. . . craving this rn. send me recs guyss
You moan loudly into the sheets, pushing your body back against his because, fuck, it feels way too good and you need more. "Riki, fuck… deeper."
He lets out a mocking laugh and stretches one arm forward, grabbing both your wrists and pulling them behind your back, pinning them there so you can’t move while he keeps fucking you hard.
"Fuck, this pussy’s squeezing me so tight," he growls, his free hand sliding down to smack your ass — hard enough to sting in the best way and make you clench even harder around his cock.
His balls slap against your clit with every thrust, sending sparks of pleasure shooting through your body.
It’s hard to think straight with him buried so deep, hitting that spot inside you that makes your toes curl. He tightens his grip on your wrists, pulling them back to arch you even more, completely at his mercy as he picks up the pace, fucking you faster and harder.
"You like being my little sex toy, huh? You like when I use this pretty fucking pussy." He smacks your ass again, then rubs the spot before grabbing and spreading you wider, so he can watch his cock disappear into your soaked pussy.
Every inch of him drags along your inner walls, the friction so good it makes you moan and whimper nonstop. Your arms strain against his hold, but you don’t really want to get free; being completely at his mercy only makes the heat burn hotter, and your pussy pulses around him.
"You’re dripping down my balls, baby… so wet for me." His fingers find your clit, rubbing it fast and hard while he keeps fucking you deep.
"Riki… ah, fuck, I’m gonna cum if you keep doing that," you moan, your voice cracking as the pressure builds fast in your belly.
He lets out a satisfied laugh and rubs even harder; his cock slams all the way in at the same time, filling you completely.
Your whole body tenses, thighs shaking, and then the pleasure hits you hard. Your pussy clenches and pulses around him as you cum, letting out a loud, shaky moan.
He doesn’t slow down at all, keeping up those brutal, deep thrusts as he chases his own pleasure. "Fuck, your pussy’s milking me so good."
You feel hypersensitive, but in the best way — that kind of overwhelming sensation that makes you want even more, even right after cumming.
You turn your head further, looking back over your shoulder at him as best you can. "Keep fucking me like this, don’t pull out… I want you to use me until you cum."
"You sound so good when you beg like that." He keeps pounding you hard, his hand slapping your ass as he speeds up, the wet sounds of skin slapping filling the room.
A second wave of pleasure starts building fast — he’s hitting every perfect spot and his fingers never stop working your sensitive clit.
"Riki, fuck… I’m already so close again." You push your body back, bouncing against him while he grips your wrists even tighter.
"You're such a good girl for me," he says, voice strained as he gets closer to the edge, his cock pulsing inside you. You clench around him on purpose, trying to drag him over the limit with you.
"Cum inside me, Riki… fill me up." Your voice, thick with desire, is all he needs. He groans loudly, thrusting deep a few more times before burying himself to the hilt and cumming hard, hot spurts of cum filling you.
The sensation pushes you over the edge too. Another orgasm crashes through you, making your pussy pulse and squeeze him tight as you moan his name, voice shaky.
Once you both catch your breath and the spasms start to fade, he slowly pulls his cock out so you feel every inch. His cum leaks out of you onto the sheets, and the sight makes his cock twitch — already starting to get hard again. "I’m not done with you yet… this time I want to see your face while I fuck you.”
˚₊· When her best friend finds out she’s an anal slut…
ೀ⋆｡˚ CW—: NSFW, no genuinely please be careful reading this because I wrote this in rebellion to the lack of non vanilla Enhypen smut, fem!reader, mentions of drinking and alcohol, ur both in college, non!idol au, best friends to lovers, cursing, tension, bickering, teasing, kissing, smut, refers to ur p✩ssy as ‘she’ and ‘her’, f♪ngering, hair pulling, an✩l, spanking, p✩ssy spanking, dirty talk, praise, degradation, teaspoon of humiliation, drooling, this entire thing gets wet and messy tbh, begging, dom! leaning Riki, he’s a cheeky asshat about it though, biting, an✿l play, hick♪es, making out, he’s kinda feral, but it’s not his fault he’s just a bit obsessed, hand k♪nk, finger sucking, thigh-job, dirty talk seriously😭, he respects women you two are just freaked out, with that being said— cl♪t bullying, he literally fucks the lashes off you, possible size ki♪nk, multiple ✿rgasms, squ♪rting, one of which happens an✿lly, u like butt stuff and he likes ur butt, petnames, Heeseung dada cameo, hand kisses, cuddling and casual confessions, aftercare, FLUFF at the end
₊·—̳͟͞͞ ꒰ঌᰔᩚ໒꒱— Pairings— A Chrome Hearts boy and his high maintenance best friend that looks like the song “Love Potions”.
˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚wc. 6.7k (sorry)
˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ A/N>>> Please read the tags carefully. English is not my first language. So sorry if this is bad and if there’s any mistakes. Also, this was HELL to edit so any hate and ur fav will be next 😾
A/N.pt2– I wasn’t gonna say anything but it’s getting a bit— if ur gonna reblog, say something comment or something😭like I’m alr embarrassed😭💔
“Bullshit! You’re lying!” You gasp, leaning up off Riki just enough to smack his arm, your lips parted in a buzzed smile.
“Swear on Jay’s life I’m not! And any guy that tells you otherwise is lying!”
After hell week of classes, this is just what you needed. Fruity drinks, ridiculous conversation, and much missed downtime as music plays loudly in the background while your other friends drift about just as (if not more) plastered than you.
It wasn’t necessarily rare for you to be at parties but it was for Riki as he was always the more introverted one in your friendship. Not like anyone would be able to point that out as fact right now if they payed attention to you two tucked away on the couch as he passionately pleads his case.
Usually instead of drinking out, he’d rather drink in. It was simpler that way. Nobody trying too hard, nobody misconstruing everything and anything he’d say— just you, his interests and his peace. How you managed to drag him out with you tonight is a mystery that will remain unsolved.
The smell of his cologne and one too many shots permeates the warm air and the faith you have in your dress is nothing short of astounding as you fold one of your legs under you, the other resting on top of Riki’s foot while he finishes your drink for you— scrunching his nose before smacking his lips.
“Too sweet.” You stick your tongue out at him before swiping his drink— downing the bitter liquid out of spite.
To others, you both probably come off as more than what you are because of how close you are. Touchy enough to raise more than a few eyebrows. You aren’t though and you two never have been , it’s just how things have always been— it’s the way you’ve always been.
Close.
You both learned to ignore the stupid questions and side eyes from a society that just didn’t understand. Assumptions that because you’re both hot and tall and are basically always together that you must be fooling around.
You weren’t.
Comfort plus proximity shouldn’t be demanded to equal sex.
Cutting Riki off with a dramatic groan, you stand by your own argument.
“I’m saying guys who don’t have one exist! And that style is completely valid.” Scoffing, he doesn’t say anything for a few beats, content with massaging your leg hes pulled into his lap. Your head starts to swim as you lean back against the couch.
You’re not giving a second thought to the warm rings on his fingers wrapped around your calf, Riki’s thumb stroking your ankle absentmindedly. So used to his touch that you don’t even flinch. He’s never given you reason to. Just when you think you should’ve ate more before drinking so much, he asks— low voice full of curiosity and something that could be dangerous; plump lips tilted in a lazy grin.
“Then do you have one?”
“Huh?”
Riki laughs, jerking his chin up at you. “You heard me. Do you have one? A thing.”
In the long course of your friendship, you’ve talked about everything. Anything. Even the nothing in between but this was uncharted territory. It was also fun. The sudden intensity has your nerves going haywire— making you almost giddy as another drunken giggle spills out of you.
“Why do you wanna know?” Riki shrugs.
“Following your logic so humor me.” You roll your eyes as if contemplating before shaking your head at him, barely holding back a smile at the way he honest to god pouts.
“Come on! Pleaaasee? I’ll be your best friend?” You snort at that and the sound widens the grin on Riki’s lips, hands moving more incessantly as he whines and whines until you give in.
Motioning him closer with pretty nails that he paid for, he comes. Breathing in the sugar of your perfume as blown eyes stare into his lidded ones. The sound of partying around you has you dropping your voice to a conspiring whisper against his parted lips with how close to you he is.
He’s pretty. You think not for the first time but anyone with eyes can tell that Riki Nishimura is objectively gorgeous.
“Promise not to tell anyone?”
Still, nothing more than platonic interest as he nods, face flushed from the alcohol, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat as he whispers back,
“Yeah. ‘S our secret.”
Taking a deep breath that’s more his air than your own, you tell him.
“I’ve always thought anal was hot.”
Your smile is way too bright for what just came out of your mouth and more importantly, you two shouldn’t even be having this conversation as hammered as you are and yet—
Riki chokes, brows raising higher by the second. Jaw dropped like he can’t believe it once what you said truly registers. Looking you over one more time and he realizes he definitely can. “You ever done it before?” You shake your head no as the playful atmosphere shifts.
Heated but not quite on fire.
“Then what do you like so much about it if you’ve never done it?” His focus is completely zeroed in on you and it’s intense. Shifting to feign some sort of normalcy, you reach up to play with his hair.
“I mean I’ve done— have toys and stuff but I guess I just like the completely taken-ness of it? Of someone fucking both of my holes because they own both of my holes and—“,
“Because you’re a slut and you’d let them?” The low rasp is whispered directly in your mouth and the sharpness of the jab short circuits you. Riki’s called you names before and you never minded but the way he was doing it now made you want.
Earliers warmth begins to simmer low in your stomach, temperature rising. Still, you beam back at him, shameless as ever as you bat pretty lashes.
“Exactly. You know me so well.” Burying his face into your neck, he growls in your ear— rough and primal and you gasp; holding his shirt that much tighter. Moving to look into your eyes again, this time it’s there.
Neither of you say anything.
Riki’s head is still reeling from inebriation and the image of you fucking your asshole with toys you bought and never told him about while you’re fighting unconsciousness with wet panties and a content smile when—
“Yo, Niki!”
Turning his head, his friend James walks in the room. He notices the position you’re in but doesn’t say anything because he’s long since come to terms with the fact that you two aren’t like that. To him it’s unbelievable because if he had a pretty girl best friend with great style and an even better ass, he’d be all over that but to each their own.
“We’re about to go get into a couple rounds of flip over, wanna be on my team?”
Riki breaks into a grin. “I’m there, hold on”, he turns to you; kissing both your cheeks until you whine in tired irritation, pushing his face away.
“There she is— where’s your phone?” You’re ready to pass out or pee but you’re nice enough to reach inside your dress and hand him your cell before you do. Typing in your password, he sends a quick text to your other close friend Esther telling her to come pick you up because you’re clearly done for the night.
Meanwhile, his other friend Heeseung has also come to see what the hold up is as Riki helps you to your feet.
“Hey— I’m gonna go play a few games with the guys but Esther is on her way to come pick you up. Be good, okay baby?” You pout, clearly displeased by the very one sided choices made.
“I’m leaving?” Riki puffs out an amused laugh.
“Yes, I’d take you home but I’ve been drinking too so it’s not safe.” Another huff, this time you push your hair back too, lashes fluttering sweetly as you whine out,
“But I haven’t even been fucked yet.” James head snaps up, jaw dropped at the same time Riki’s eyes widen but Heeseung is quicker than the both of them, moving to you with his lips curved in an entirely too tempting smile.
“I could definitely do that for you if you’d like baby—“,
“Hmm! And that’s enough”, Riki cuts in and has you over his shoulder in record time. Sending a look to Heeseung that says ‘don’t push it’.
“Life already has her covered in that department— slow music and everything but thanks.” Walking out of the room, you wave bye to Heeseung. Wasted, tits threatening to come out any second and missing an earring while your dress has ridden up to the point where your bare ass cheek is on Riki’s jaw and Heeseung?
He waves back.
A couple minutes later Esther is there to get you, you go home while Riki stays and your earlier moment is forgotten as a fireball induced episode.
Weeks go by.
You two still hang out, you still go shopping, Esther still tells you you can ditch him at any time to bump coochies eternally with her but Riki still hasn’t forgotten what you told him that night you were so drunk that you swore you were 30 feet tall. The way you looked, the way you smelled— glossy lips parted in a devastating smile as you whispered,
“I’ve always thought anal was hot.”
Sends blood to his dick every time. It’s like your voice haunts him along with that short strapless dress and the soft plumpness of your ass when you were hoisted over his shoulder. Hes reluctant to admit that he did not like Heeseung or anyone hitting on you for that matter. Which is strange because you’ve told him about your hookups before and he’s mentioned a few of his own but he’s never seen you in that way so why?
He thinks he’s subtle trying to figure it out but he’s not.
In other words, you notice.
Riki has always had a staring problem but these days it’s become a chronic condition of his. Not just the staring but the touching.
He’s always touched you, but now he touches you like he’s looking for something, large hands constantly feeling over you. Palming your thighs, waist, neck, shoulders, hips and even your ass before smoothing up your back.
Stepping back a bit so you can look at him, the silent pressure baring down on you from the weight of his stare is unnerving.
“Niki”, you swallow down your nerves, “Is everything okay?”
You two just got back to his place from the mall, there was a new drop he wanted to get and you needed a place to show off your newest heart-shaped heels. And it had been nice but something just felt stilted.
You don’t know it but looking into your eyes, all he can picture is you on all fours playing with both your holes as you writhe dazed and needy trying to cum.
He’s touching you again, standing so close he can count the glitters scattered on your skin from your perfume. Wordlessly, he pulls you back into the hug, face buried in your throat. You shiver when he inhales, warm breath tickling you as you cautiously return the embrace. He’s touchy but he’s normally not so…clingy. Maybe something happened that he’s not ready to talk about? Or maybe it’s just been a rough wee—
“I like this top.” He mumbles, fingers brushing the hem of your arguably indecent shirt. That was just your style though. Where he was baggy, you were skimpy.
“Thanks—“,
“Like the skirt too. Where’d we get it?”
“Ed Hardy.”
“Mmm…”
Now, you’re worried.
“Okay— what’s up?” Moving back again, you’re quick to put out your hand to keep the distance when he tries to move in again.
“What are you talking about?” He’s immediately defensive. You huff.
“I mean what’s with you?” Riki stays quiet so you persist. “You’ve been so… I don’t know— weird lately. Like there’s something you’re holding back and I know”, you keep going but louder when he opens his mouth to speak, “I know I’m a lot of things but I am not dumb.”
He calls your name but you’re so fed up you’re shaking. You know that he knows how much you hate being purposefully kept in the dark.
“What is it you aren’t telling me?” Your faces crumples when he stays silent, shaking his head.
“Do you not want to be friends with me anym—“,
“No!” You jump at his sudden volume, some of the hurt easing off your face and you let him pull you in again, dropping his head on your shoulder. Overly aware of the way he can’t seem to keep off of you.
He breathes out something like a tired laugh, low and raw with hunger.
“Baby.”
Your breath hitches.
“Do you really not remember?” Goosebumps break out along your arms when you feel him nose up your jaw to your ear, kissing it with all the slow heat of a starved hellhound finally allowed to eat. Your voice comes out shaky, nothing like yourself as your heart pounds wildly.
“R-remember wh—“,
“Exactly.” What little bit of your bearings you were trying to gather scatter again when you feel tongue, sloppy and hot lapping at your throat before plump lips suck at your jaw.
“And here it’s all I’ve been able to think about.”
It’s like being struck by lightning, how fast arousal burns through you. Igniting every nerve with a wicked heat. You squirm, trying to fight the way you’re actively melting against your best friend of all people. Riki groans when you say his name. A breathy, confused little thing that has him chubbing up in his pants.
“That night”, he pauses to breathe you in again. Moving like he’s drunk— he’s all over you, “At Suihiro’s party”, you admittedly remember close to nothing about that night but wait for him to continue.
“You told me you like getting your ass fucked.”
Your central system drops. Malfunctions more like.
“I— t-that’s—“, words scramble and fall apart on your tongue. So much was happening. This is your best friend. Why does he know about one of your more taboo fantasies? You’ve talked about sex but for the most part kept it brief.
This shouldn’t be happening but it is.
You shouldn’t be letting it but you are.
Nothing’s changed right?
He’s the same best friend that’s seen you wax your stomach and free-bleed when you were at the end of your rope during your period. You’ve seen him snot cry over his first kiss accidentally being a guy instead of the girl he was nuts about when you were in 8th grade.
You were the first to defend him in anything. The first to include him when he was excluded and the only to stand by him when he’d get exiled as the quiet weird kid until he developed and got hot. Then suddenly all his imperfections were chic.
You were there for each other through it all.
“It’s okay”, he purrs, hands greedily kneading your waist before smoothing up your sides, thumbs caressing just below your breasts.
“I’m not making fun of you— I think it’s hot too.”
More wet kisses rain down on any skin he can reach, mouth open and ravenous when he slots it against yours. It’s filthy, your tongues sliding and curling around each other while you hang onto him like your life depends on him.
Riki’s lips feel so good on yours it leaves you breathless. Ridiculously plush lips pull and suck at yours and the pleading moan you sigh into his mouth drives him off the edge of reason. He needs to have you.
One hand leaves your waist to grab the hair at the back of your head, holding you harder to his mouth as he moves his head to deepen the kiss, sucking on your tongue until you feel it in your clit and distantly it dawns on you.
You’re wet.
“Niki…”, you breathe. Barely more than a whimper but the pure need in it has him sliding off your lips with a harsh suck.
Panting against his mouth, he rests his forehead against yours, swallowing your taste as he breathes in another lungful of you. The fingers wound in your hair tighten, making you bare your throat and the even the sting feels good.
“Fuck, don’t say my name like that”, starving eyes take in the picture you make. Eyeliner starting to smudge because of your teary eyes, lip color smudged to all hell on your kiss-swollen lips, stiff nipples poking through your shirt.
“You’re so fuckin’ sexy”, surging to your mouth again, Riki kisses you until the breath you inhale— he exhales. He kisses you with the encompassing desperation of the voice screaming in his head mine, mine, mine.
“Thought about you for weeks”, he confesses. “Please,”, kissing his way back down your throat, teeth grazing your pulse, holding his tongue flush to it long enough to feel every quickened beat. He’s never been this out of his mind and he can’t seem to stop and what’s worse?
You don’t want him to.
“I want to sooo bad— but only if you want to-“, you cup his face to slow him down a little, ground him even though yes, you do want to but it’s affection. Affection from you. Don’t you know what that does to him? Picking you up, your legs instinctively wrap around his waist.
Your eyes widen when you feel how hard he is but Riki doesn’t pay it any mind, too busy sucking countless bruises into your neck. Moaning high and needy when his full lips brush over that spot that makes you shiver.
“Niki…” you start but in all honesty you don’t know where to. You can’t believe you missed the budding attraction between you two. How one little spark could turn into a house fire.
“Yeah, pretty? M’here.”
And he wasn’t making things easier for you.
“You’re— hard…”, voice trailing off almost shyly but to him it’s cute. You’re normally so bold, cheeky and now? Raising his head level to yours he smiles like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“Of course I’m hard— been hard for weeks. Ever since you told me that you like to fuck yourself, toys and all in—“, another slot of heat slams through you so strongly it makes you gasp, slapping a palm over his mouth before he can finish.
“Riki Nishimura!”
The smug look doesn’t go away as you slowly move your hand, silently daring him to run his mouth one more time. He doesn’t have to, you do it for him when that last bit catches up.
“Wait, I told you about the toys?” He shouldn’t revel in your obvious embarrassment so much but your reactions were so, so good. Instead, he simply nods, going back to smooching slow, heated kisses up your jaw.
“And the worst part is you don’t even need ‘em”,
“I’ll fuck you wherever you want, baby.” His voice is coated with honey, sweet enough to make you dissolve into him like a sugar cube in tea. Shifting you in his hold, he grinds against your pussy. The wet fabric clings deliciously to your clit, a perfect friction that has you keening needily into his mouth.
“Jus’ gotta let me…”, Riki drags your bottom lip out with his teeth before letting go, kissing it when it pops back into place and blood roars in your ears. Then, you’re nodding. Handing over your willing and eager consent to the one person you thought you’d never get with.
Faster than you can keep track of, you’re thrown over a shoulder and then on top of a bed.
Riki moves fast.
Clothes fly.
First his, then yours. You can’t help the way you stare— from his pretty face down the toned contours of his body and the tattoo he wound up getting of your lips one night when a friend of yours asked if you two were dating.
“She’s my best friend, no we’re not a couple.” When he got asked why not, you simply bent down, lifted Riki’s shirt and pressed your lips tight against the flat of his pelvis. Winking at him when you were done, you pranced off with the next dummy that wouldn’t last a week with you.
His friend was stunned but Riki was all too used to it.
“Too busy being a sex symbol.” Shooting him a sleazy grin, he points to your fresh lipstick. “See?”
Your eyes trail lower to the concerningly large bulge; whining low in your throat when you imagine it inside you. Pulling Riki to your lips he’s practically falling over to kiss you. Lips move firm against each other, fruity smelling breath coasts across his mouth in hot puffs making him groan.
He’s so hard.
The low sound rouses something inside you as you lick across the seam of his mouth, taking his bottom lip in your own mouth; sucking before pulling away with a wet moan— looking up at the remnants of Riki’s sanity with hazy ‘fuck me’ eyes.
Oh it’s like that?
Wordlessly, Riki flips you onto your stomach, ignoring your indignant huffs as he arches your back nice and high— ass perfectly displayed. The sight makes him groan, brows furrowed in restraint. Your cunt looks good enough to eat, darkened fabric hugging your pussy lips because of how soaked you are.
“Damn, look at her— so sloppy f’me…”
Your breath stutters so hard you choke, cunt clenching around nothing when you feel him drag your underwear down your trembling thighs. Partially because of nerves and because you know any moment now, he’ll see it. And he does.
Right when he deepens your arch, hips tilting when he catches a glimpse of it.
There, above your sopping wet pussy is your other hole and snug inside is a crystal clear plug. Your hole is stretched around it, giving your asshole the prettiest fucking gape but what really gets him is the sound you make when he tugs it juuust a little.
Riki freezes, cock twitching almost violently.
Slick drips steadily out of you now, making a mess on his sheets when he does it again, feeling the way your hole grips the intrusion.
“You really are a little anal slut”, squeezing your eyes shut, you shake your head no against the pillows but the proof is right in front of him.
Cooing, Riki cracks a heavy hand down on your ass and you jerk— bleating out a sharp cry as he does it again to your opposite cheek. The pain feels so good. Your watery eyes glaze over while your swollen pussy leaks.
“No? Then why is she so wet, baby?” You don’t have an answer and you both know why.
“Has this been in the entire time?” It’s too embarrassing to say. Makes you feel called out, exposed— like a pervert but you don’t wanna stop.
Riki keeps you spread and arched for him as he brings his hand lower, flicking your clit with a sudden brutal kind of precision as you scream. You know what you have to do if you want him to ease up but you stay silent until the flicks turn into slaps— sharp, direct and punishing on your poor nub.
The sounds are disgusting.
Sloppy and vulgar and everything that’s been consuming him as he watches you smear your makeup drooling into his pillow. Heat flashes inside you in waves, smashing your sense onto the shores of shameful desperation.
More slaps hail down on your puffy folds when you don’t respond, strings of your wet slick stick to his hand every time he brings it down on you. On one particularly harsh hit, his warm ring catches on your clit nearly sending you into convulsions as you break— voice wrecked and pathetic.
“Mmmph— y-yesss! Fuck me, yess-! s’ been in the whole time”, your voice cracks in a way that sounds nothing like you as you beg. “Please— Niki!”
The hand between your thighs goes from punishing to rewarding, swirling your clit in nasty circles. You’re so wet it’s obscene, audible. Riki presses himself flush to your back, biting the mark he left over your pulse hard enough to make you writhe while your pussy cries all over his hand.
You spread your legs wider when he backs up a bit just to look at you. Asshole stuffed, folds swollen and enflamed after being spanked raw, slick dripping in rivulets because your cunt is still empty as you present yourself for him so prettily.
“Look at you”, his timbre pours over you like warm velvet. “She’s drooling so much— s’like she’s starving.”
His other hand smooths up the soft curve of your ass, tracing the base of your toy before tugging— the first flared ball pops from your rim and the result is instantaneous.
He watches your pussy convulse, spasming tight around nothing at the same time your clit throbs against his fingers as he strums the overstimulated nub faster. The cry that comes out of you is visceral, hardly passable as cute to your own ears but you’re so lost in the depravity of pleasure that how it all looks doesn’t matter.
“Such a messy little slut.”
And shoves it right back in, the force of pressure felt through that gooey spot near your bellybutton and for a second you think he’s killed you.
Your entire body locks before exploding. Eyes rolling back, drool pooling beneath your cheek as white-hot pleasure overtakes you. A wet noise between a moan and a scream belts from your chest before ending in a sob of his name seconds before your pussy starts to gush and he moans with you. Biting his lip at the absolute scene you make.
“Thaaats my good fuckin’ girl…”, he hisses through clenched teeth. “Pissing cum all over me, just what we needed, yeah baby?” Jesus fuck.
You wail. Riki doesn’t stop.
So you keep cumming. Harder than you ever have— hard enough to make your head begin to hurt, legs shaking as you begin to cry in earnest, fat tears streaking your once perfect makeup. Every wracked sob is met with a burning heavy spank. When you try to get away, move up the bed to catch some type of break, large fingers wind around your neck to hold you in place.
“C—“, your voice cracks. “Came already! M’ done!”
Riki hums, as if contemplating the validity of your statement before fucking two fingers in your empty hole with a damningly loud squelch. She immediately tightens, sucking his fingers like it’s exactly what she was crying so much for and he can feel it.
The way she clenches in greedy pulses.
Scoffing out a condescending laugh through his nose, he grinds the heel of his palm on your still throbbing clit.
“No you’re not, not even close but you’re gonna be good for me until I say you are. Okay?”
And you nod. Because you’d let him do whatever he wanted to you and he knows that.
You’d always let him.
Times when you were out together with your friends and you’d get overwhelmed and ask to be alone and when they’d leave he’d stay because he knew you’d let him. The constant in your life.
The constant exception.
You’ve loved him since day one.
You gasp when he twists his fingers inside your sappy walls and his name escapes your lips needy and unbidden. Draping himself over you, he’s there— leaning over to meet you in another wet kiss. Shudders wrack your body as he licks into your mouth, tongue undulating against yours in the nastiest movements and more heat washes over you making you twitch around him as you get wetter.
There’s 3 fingers now, stretching you out something utterly sick. Chest heaving, there’s no time to catch your breath when his thumb is back on your clit— strumming in mean, heady swipes.
You lose it.
Thick, wet trills shred your throat— pressure building until you can’t take it. Riki watches you fall apart again for him, hypnotized by the way your cunt swallows his fingers. His entire hand is covered in you as your breath quickens. Your raw, teary sobs has his cock aching as they take on another pitch entirely. “You— fuck-! ‘S always you!”
Something darker than possessiveness rolls over him at your confession, pupils widening with a frightening kind of hunger when he curls his fingers— knuckling into that gooey spot that turns you to static as you drool.
You were so lovely like this—sweaty and overwhelmed. All for him; pretty face contorted in agonizing bliss as you cum with spread legs in his lap— drenching you both in your juices. Dipping his head, he takes your mouth in another melty kiss, grinding his leaky erection against your ass, groaning when he feels your slick walls pulsate.
“Gonna cum again, sweetness?” Riki purrs lowly against your lips, lapping a hot swipe across the seam of your open mouth.
Stars dance in your eyes as you nod, letting out a weak hiccuping sob of what you hope sounds like confirmation. Heat coils tight and thick in your center— consuming you in its raw bliss. “Words baby, the ones you love mouthing off t’me with.”
Immediately, indignation sears across your face as you shake your head to deny it. Pointless because it’s true. You have a smart mouth— always had a smart smooth and because he’s always around you, he usually catches the worst of it. Riki hums, brow raising in mock belief.
“No? That couldn’t have been you”, he concedes, really fucking into your g-spot now as he fucks your sopping cunt with a vicious precision. “Not when all it takes to get you so sweet and obedient is a stuffed asshole and someone touching your crybaby pussy right?”
Oh god. He’s trying to kill you.
“You’re a good girl as long as you get these greedy holes fucked, yeah?”
“Y-yeah.. ‘m your good girl.”
A clear slot of arousal soaked in satisfaction, settles in his gut before pooling out, leaving him scorching from the inside out.
Thrusting harder, he switches from the heel of his hand to thumb— treating your clit like a fidget toy; moving the plug in tandem, your puffy rim squeezing and stretching. It’s entirely too much, your skin practically vibrating when he starts to batter that spot that has your teary eyes rolling all the way back.
Squirming, your swiftly approaching end is so piercing you don’t know what to do with yourself. Watery babbles pour from your swollen, spit-soaked lips, trying so hard to listen.
Riki hisses as you tighten like a vice, creamy squelching from your pulpy cunt echo in a spine tingling harmony with your moans.
You’re on cloud nine, body one raw nerve from the pleasure but he doesn’t stop. If anything, he goes harder; veiny forearms bulging as he works you stupid. “Just like that, pretty. We needed this sooo bad..” He breathes out, voracious want in his voice and you push out a hoarse cry.
“I know,” his low voice cooes— your toes point and relax as your body is submerged in wave after wave of numbing euphoria; your best friend watching you go brainless in real time.
“Can’t believe you thought I didn’t wanna be friends anymore…”
The idea of him ever leaving you before was ridiculous but especially now. Enamored with the lewd way your stuffed hole stretches around his fingers, clit fat with arousal, the next heavy strums are personal. “I wanna be everything, pretty girl”, you can hardly breathe anymore, mouth open in a choked wail as his thick digits pummel you.
“And you, gorgeous”, leaning over you again, he kisses you feverishly— filling your mouth with tongue as you suck on the wet muscle. Riki growls, letting you get your fill until he pulls away with a wet slop.
“You’re gonna cum for me.”
He slams your plug in to the hilt so he can hold you still; broad hand snapping around your windpipe to hold you to the bed— make you take it while he talks you right off the edge.
Truth is you couldn’t hold it if you tried. The first wave has your stomach caving. Ecstasy— brighter than you’ve ever known it burns a hole straight through your gut as you spin the fuck out.
Convulsing, grunting— the simmering heat boils over you and you cum so hard the sounds coming from you aren’t even human. Raw. Unfiltered. Ugly—as Riki fucks you through it making your empty head spin at the effortless way he holds you down.
“Yeahhh baby”, he husks lowly, “Let her make her slutty mess f’me..”
It’s hell at this point.
Every nerve seems to grow teeth, you feel like you’ve been dunked in lava as he crooks his fingers juuust right into that melty nook; your jaw drops in a silent scream— mind blank as he chokes you out with his thick fingers so deep you erupt.
The sound of your gushing pussy sets his blood alight so wickedly it borders on sickening. You’re too gone to notice as you squirt all over him. Letting go of your throat to bully your clit, the headrush intensifies your sensitivity. Utterly torn wails stream from your mouth when Riki strums the flat of his fingers fast over your pulsating bundle of nerves. “Keep cumming, gorgeous— squirt yourself to a headache f’me.”
You’re shaking, incoherent— countless orgasms bleeding into another as you burst. It’s unending. It’s hedonistic.
He doesn’t care and you don’t either.
He’s suffered wanting you and know he knows you want him too. You don’t know how long of a time you’re in for.
Fingers spread you out as he thrusts away, other hand beating your clit with light spanks. You don’t know if you’re dying or going crazy but it’s addictive— Riki. Your Niki. Indulging you and owning you until you break.
The sobs and cries turn positively shrill when he snatches your plug all the way out. Cursing loud when he watches how your asshole stays open like something’s in it even though she’s empty— used rim twitching as she gapes deliciously.
You’re nothing but a hoarse, broken down sob as you cum again from the continued stimulation— miserably soaking you both in your release as you gush deliriously, finally collapsing boneless on his sheets.
Panting, you try to catch your breath when wet fingers tap your lip. On autopilot, you suck them into your mouth, tongue curling around each one under Riki’s molten gaze.
“That’s it, clean yourself off my fingers like a good fucktoy.”
His rasped words send another twinge to your overstimulated pussy.
You’ve pretty much lost your voice at this point but he still hears when you ask,
“Gonna fuck me now?”
Slow kisses follow down your sweat slick spine, his fat tongue following the sheen and he hums at the taste of you. Before he can answer your hands are on your ass, spreading yourself and letting him get a good look at your sloppy, abused holes.
Riki’s mind goes blank.
You keep talking. Any lingering shyness having left sometime when he had you coming in rotation.
“Y-You,” you choke out, breath coming in short pants, “Every time I’d sit in your lap I-I wondered—what it would be like.” You look into Riki’s eyes, pretty eye makeup ruined, black streaks down your cheeks— even your falsies had come off but damn it all, you’ve never looked lovelier.
“You’re so big, Ki.”
And for the second time since he’s known you, Riki’s mind goes completely blank.
Raising your hips, he eyes the way you clench your thighs. Suddenly remembering something unfortunately important, he holds you still against him— sliding his flushed cock through the tiny hole at the apex of your thighs. Riki drops his head to your shoulder with a pained groan feeling syrupy wetness coat his length. Along with your clit throbbing against him and you whine when he doesn’t move.
“Inside”, you plead but it kills him to tell you—
“I don’t have any condoms on me, baby”.
The way you look back at him, like the waterworks are about to start any moment because you’re not getting the rest of what you want is as endearing as it is heartbreaking.
Rushing to console you, he adds,
“I know we’re both clean but you’re not on the pill either, sweetheart.” Fuck he’s right.
Shoving your face into the pillow with your lashes on it, you scream out a frustrated cry. Still, his hands roam all over your heated body, trying to think through the arousal deepening the red of his very blood to come up with a safe, suitable alternative but he can’t resist.
Rocking his hips through the tight space between your thighs. The hot friction against your clit is heavenly with the soft fat of your warm thighs squeezing his cock— your shaky sigh makes his ears perk up. Running his fingers down your back to your perfect ass, thrusting faster as she slobbers more each time his fat head catches on your engorged clit.
Taking your hand fisting the sheets, he raises it to his lips— kissing the back of it so reverently it makes your heart stutter. He leans down after and kisses you like he loves you because he does. Bossy, shameless and critical, easy when the mood struck you and more understanding than people would ever give you credit for but his. Difficult and teasing in short clothes— but his.
And you were close.
You’re getting close, this time with him. You were already so sensitive and he’s pent up with weeks of you running through his mind naked in every position imaginable. You writhe against him restlessly when he presses his pelvis flush to your ass, glancing below to look at his pretty dick— glistening with pre and you.
Riki goes faster as you throb against each other. Drenched, filthy and wrecked.
“Next time”, he rasps- voice ragged with promise. “I’m gonna fucking ruin you.”
Fingers brush the entrance of your pussy to your ass, circling more wetness along the rim— Riki moaning at the way you jolt, begging hole winking at him.
You’re a lunatic. You must be. That’s the only excuse you can think of when you use the one good deep breath you’ve been able to catch to say—
“I-I can’t wait”, you swallow. “Want you to ruin both your holes.” He already was going to but you just pushed up the deadline.
“You have no idea, baby. Gonna fuck you so stupid, just how you like.”
Your breath catches in that whiny bleat it does when you’re at your limit— it makes his balls ache when suddenly you’re creaming. The milky white painting his cock like gloss and it fucks him up so badly that he’s cumming right after.
Teeth sinking into your neck, molten cum spurts out in fat chords, thick and heavy and so much— frothy streams that just don’t stop, pumping in sopping grinds that nuzzle your slippery folds and the sensation makes you purr.
“Fuckin’ milking me— damn…”
The aftermath is hot. The lean muscle of Riki’s body, covered in each others release— his big hands steady on your waist to help you fuck yourself through it. The rush of adrenaline leaves your head dizzy, falling flat on your stomach with Riki on top of you.
You don’t mind the weight, in fact you welcome it. Humming with a delighted, thoroughly exhausted sigh. Closing your eyes, you feel him pepper kisses along your shoulders, kissing your cheek with a tenderness you rarely get to witness so earnestly. He was sweet like that.
“I like you. Let me be your boyfriend.”
And demanding.
Sleepily, you shrug— not even trying to hide your grin.
“Sure, I’d love to.” You peek an eye open at the stunned expression on his face.
“Don’t look so surprised, you know I love you.” For someone who was saying the raunchiest shit to your face only minutes ago with no shame whatsoever, now blushing because you just told him you love him back is—
“I know, I love you too just—“, you cut him off with a dramatic gasp.
“Then why’d you say you only like me?”
“I was trying to be nonchalant!” It’s so ridiculously him that you can’t help but beam, flipping over to hug him properly and he holds you just as tight; burying his face in your naked chest.
“Whatever, you’re my girlfriend now— no take backs.” A bubbly laugh shoots out of you as he scoops you up, heading to the bathroom so you can clean up— sighing contently in his arms while you agree.
⋅⋆ ──ೀ“Come here, I’ll show you.” {R. Nishimura x reader!}
ೀ Now that you’re together, there’s oh so much to get up to ♡…
ೀCW⋆｡˚ NSFW, no genuinely please be careful reading this because I wrote this in rebellion to the lack of non vanilla Enhypen smut, fem!reader, ur both in college, non!idol au, best friends to established lovers, fluff, you’re dating but in secret, some angst, mentions of mean girls at a certain infamous party, I had to for the one time😂, cursing, tension, possessive!Niki, bickering, “get ur fucking dog!” “He don’t bit—“ “YES TF HE DO” dynamic, teasing, some s7xting, kissing, smut, refers to ur p✩ssy as ‘she’ and ‘her’, f♪ngering, dirty talk my word, an✩l, along with an✩lf|ngering, spanking, spitting, dirty talk, praise, degradation, teaspoon of humiliation, drooling, this one is wet and messier :D, begging, dom! leaning Riki, he’s a cheeky asshat about it though, biting, an✿l play, hick♪es, making out, he’s extra feral, but it’s not his fault he’s just a bit obsessed, panty-sniffing, oral (f.rec), again please be careful reading because he eats the plate too, don’t ever let him near the box again, fuck whatever Roddy Rich said😭, dirty talk seriously, he respects women you two are just freaked out, with that being said— he takes you through there lmao, light mind break, cl♪t bullying, he literally fucks you till you pass out, possible size ki♪nk, bc his c0ck is stuuuupid fa—, multiple ✿rgasms, squ♪rting, one of which happens an✿lly, u like butt stuff and he likes ur butt, manhandling, choking, SAFE sword fighting (wink wink), petnames, hand kisses, cuddling, whiny Niki bc that’s my baby, aftercare, FLUFF at the end
˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚wc.7.9k (very sorry)
₊·—̳͟͞͞ ꒰ঌᰔᩚ໒꒱— Pairings— A Chrome Hearts boy and his high maintenance girlfriend that looks like the song “Love Potions”.
˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚ A/N>>> Please read the tags carefully. English is not my first language and editing this was hell so I better get some feedback or ur faves are next😾 and it’ll be BDSM smut
ദ്ദി(๑> ◕๑)~♡‧₊TAGS GO ⋅⋆ ──ೀ @tojiworshipper @quequoiqui @wellidksis
˚ ༘ ೀ⋆｡˚
Turns out going from being strictly close friends to dating wasn’t all that difficult.
You were still touchy with each other, still hung out, still play fought— but now with other stuff too. Now you kiss and it makes your heart beat faster every time you think about all of the kissing because Riki was such a good kisser. You did more than kiss too, of course but the point is that you’re dating.
It’s like going from regular Spotify to premium.
The two of you hang out but you also go on dates. Sometimes casual, other times you’re getting a cryptic intentionally nonchalant message to dress up and the time he’s coming by to get you and the next thing you know your being driven out over an hour to some extremely elaborate soirée with all kinds of people dressed just at intricately as you. The stars in Riki’s eyes are different now when he looks at you.
“Beautiful…”, whispered against your forehead right before he kisses it and biting your lip while you hold your breath is all you can do so you don’t scream.
There’s so many new sides to each other you see now that you obviously wouldn’t have when you were just friends.
For example, Riki who on the outside is cool and quiet is actually the complete opposite in a relationship. Whiny when you don’t give him enough attention, whiny when people give you too much attention (like the instagram fiasco). He’s even clingier now— going as far to have an attitude when having to go for long periods of time without you. Completely shameless, he is a man that is not above begging and guilt tripping to make you give in or stay.
“But the last trip was girls only! Why do you have to go to this one? It’s like you never miss me at all🥺😔…”
“I’ll be so lonely…what if I need a hug?” You pinch your lips in to help suppress the smile fighting to show as you look down at the top of his head. Riki lets out a pained groan, shuffling closer on his knees to nuzzle his face harder into your stomach as you wrap your arms around his head.
“Baby, it’s barely two days and you do have friends—“, another pained sigh and you can’t fight the smile anymore. “Ask Kai for a hug if you need one.” He shakes his head so hard, you’re worried he’ll give himself friction burn, long arms tightening around you.
“Noooo! I don’t wanna hug Kai”, he spits his name out like a curse. “I wanna stay with you…” Fuck. He’s too cute. You might lose this one. Taking a deep breath, you don’t say anything else because if you do, you’ll give and he knows it.
“Please, baby?” Resting his chin on your stomach after kissing it, big distraught eyes look up at your swiftly crumbling expression. “Stay— don’t make me miss you, love you too much…” You slam your eyes shut.
K.O. Flawless victory.
He knows he’s won when you cup his face, bangles cool against his cheek when you lean down to place a tender kiss on his lips, softly cooing.
“My poor baby— it’s fine, I can stay. For you.”
Soaking up your attention, he can hardly hide his victorious grin as your phone vibrates on the counter while you scatter lip stain all over his face; your friends waiting for a reply that won’t come until much later. The later being after you’re both in bed with him shirtless because it’s on you. You’re about to go to sleep and he’s wrapped comfortably around you when you gasp, finally remembering,
“I never texted the girls back!” Before you can think about texting them back now, Riki moves you tighter against him, voice low and melodic. “Wait until morning? It’s really late, what if we wake them?” He has a point so you agree to get back to them then.
But don’t you know the flight is in the morning? The same flight he’ll conveniently make sure you forget all about. It doesn’t matter if you already said you’d stay, there’s nothing wrong with some…insurance.
Whenever either of you cancel on your friends, you have to have a suitable excuse because while going from friends to lovers wasn’t difficult…
Keeping your relationship a secret was.
Now, it’s not like you’re ashamed or embarrassed about each other— just neither of you were in the mood to hear the “I told you so”’s from everyone who knew you. In the end, you just liked keeping each other to yourselves. Plus you got enough flak just for being friends with Riki from girls around campus who liked him and you really didn’t want a repeat of the incident from 2 months ago.
It wasn’t a party, per se but a loud social gathering with lots of people, loud music, dancing and drinks. You told him it’d be easier to call it a party even though the mass text said get together but Jackson said he was trying to work on his reputation. How calling the very obvious party a not party helped him? You didn’t have a single clue.
It wasn’t long after arriving that you and Riki split up. He didn’t particularly want to be there in the first place but telling you no was never his favorite thing to do so he tagged along under zero pressure when you mentioned it. He ended up upstairs, sipping the second drink he’s had all night talking to a couple of guys he was friends with on the team when he pulled out his phone and saw the time. 12:47. You got there at 11.
He hadn’t seen you since 11.
Immediately he’s up, drink abandoned on the table. Different people try to talk to him, unfamiliar faces, random girls with too wide smiles and way too much perfume but he brushes them all off— moving with single minded intent. As tall as he is, looking over a crowd is easy but his heart is starting to race because he still doesn’t see you.
Storming into the kitchen, he looks around. There’s a few girls who all turn to look at him when he enters. One even says hi. They’re not you so he can’t be bothered, walking right back out ready to start yelling your name over the music if that’s what it takes when someone bumps into his chest with all the force of a sinner trying to run out of hell.
Looking down, his heart begins to slow because it’s finally you. But now that he knows you’re safe—
“Where the hell have you b—“, when you look up, you’re crying. Thick tears stream down your face, streaking your makeup that he knows took forever while your chest visibly jumps from all the effort it’s taking you not to sob.
His heart stops.
“I-I’m sorry but”, you try to take a deep breath but it only ends in more tears. “We can go h-home now.” Big hands cradle your face, ignoring everyone around you as he tries to calm you down. You’d barely been here two hours and you wanted to leave? Not only was that unlike you but you were crying. Crying and you wouldn’t look him in the eye.
“What happened?”
You keep quiet.
Shaking your head while the answer stays trapped behind your bitten lips. He’d let it go and take you home straight away but something caused this. He can’t let that slide.
“Who did it?” He tries again, voice growing more desperate with each minute that passes where you won’t talk or even look at him.
“Baby, please.” Dark eyes search your face until your red ones look at him.
“Talk to me, look at your pretty face— you’re all upset.” Still nothing. He still tries.
“Who did it? Let me fix it.” Your voice is the smallest he’s ever heard it when you ask,
“Then we can go home?” He nods, thumbs brushing your tear-stained cheeks.
“Then we can go home.” After that, you tell him. There was this group of girls you met in the kitchen and you thought they liked you until one of them had suddenly switched up, telling you that you’re lucky to even know him; let alone be friends.
“A-and that you only hang out with me b-because”, the sob that you were holding back breaks as a fresh wave of tears fall down your face. “Because I’m a hooker..” as in anyone could pay to have you because you were only worth that much. The look on his face is crestfallen, waiting for you to finish. He doesn’t think he’s ever heard you sound so… embarrassed.
“I never said anything because you never made me feel bad but do you? T-think I’m a—“,
He stops you with a gentle kiss to your cheek before you can even think about repeating it.
“I think the world of you.” His voice is so soft, it’s hard to hear over everything but you do. “Dressing sexy, being a flirt, wearing makeup— doesn’t make you easy and none of it makes you a hooker. I never say anything about your style because I love it. Fun and cheeky and a little irresponsible”, that last part makes you laugh.
“But it’s all you, baby. You’re fine as you are.”
You kiss his thumb brushing your lip in silent thanks. It’s way too intimate and affectionate for people who are just friends but looking back it was probably repressed denial.
“Who told you that anyway?” Riki sounds calm—casual. Absolutely concerned too but little do you know his heart is pounding in his chest ready to go find to whoever the fuck made you cry. You shrug, it’s hard to remember her name but you tell him what she was wearing and it clicks when he gets her face in his mind.
The girl in the kitchen. The one who said hi to him.
He hands the keys to his car over so you can wait for him while he goes to grab something he “left”. You don’t find out until weeks later that not only did he tell that same girl that she couldn’t be further from his type; and that drunk and high off of every pill on the planet, he’d still never go for her—but he also told her if she ever so much as looked at you wrong that he’d stop at nothing to ruin any social life she’ll ever have.
To this day— whenever you would manage to see her in the hall, she’d already be turning back around.
That whole scene was a completely new side of Riki you’d never even glimpsed. Such intense protectiveness while staying calming and sweet to you. Then again, he was always sweet to you…except the week he finally had time and remembered to get condoms after promising to fuck you stupid as soon as he did.
That week you were convinced he seriously was trying to kill you.
You were walking back from mess hall when Niki texts you. Short, simple but vague enough to make you pause in your stride.
Come to mines. There’s something I wanna show you.
Heart beating faster, you look around to make sure nobody sees the wide-eyed look you’re staring your screen down with before you make a mad dash out the main entrance. Panting, your fingers fly across the screen as you text back.
Is it for me?
There’s a ping less than a minute later. The first is a photo attachment that makes your breath catch and the next is the message.
Only for you, baby. All of it.
By the time you get to your car, you already feel a mess. The tight burn of arousal simmers in your lower abdomen as you start to drip. It’s embarrassing how you’re hardly able to text him that you’re on your way, fixing your makeup at every red light until it’s even more perfect. After last time, you decided to do lash extensions instead of falsies that wouldn’t make it past round 2 with Riki.
Squeezing your thighs together the whole ride there, by the time you actually arrive you’re soaked through. Puffy, wet and so so warm— clit throbbing with need against the seam of your tight jeans.
Hand to his door, you only get to knock once before it swings open in your startled face and you’re being yanked inside. After toeing off your shoes, he quickly crowds you against the wall. Neither of you say anything right away while Riki takes a slow, good look at you and how gorgeous you look all dolled up the way you always are. He wants to appreciate it a little before he reduces you to the simplest form.
Nerves turn the blood under your skin into an electrical current, pupils steadily dilating as you look at each other, tension thick. Riki breaks first, stepping close to wrap his big hand tight around your throat. Heat slots through your core fast. Slamming into your gut like a cannonball— heavy and unforgiving. You even start to feel dizzy with how suddenly you catch yourself slipping.
His name leaves you in a breathy plea.
You almost trip over your feet when he drags you even closer— directly to his mouth to whisper against your lips.
“Didn’t I promise to fuck you up as soon as it was safe?”
Riki doesn’t wait for you to answer— laving his tongue hotly across your jaw before suckling open, wet kisses up to your mouth. Cushioning your bottom lip between his lips, his mouth deliciously flush to yours– suckling softly before doing the same to your top lip.
It’s slow. Deliberate.
Tilting his head, he deepens the kiss. Tracing his tongue sloppily across the inseam of your parted lips, dipping inside to lick at the corner of your mouth before moulding his tongue against yours when you moan— Riki’s mouth swallowing the sound whole. His other hand caresses down up and down your waist; teasing the underside of your tits with his thumb. Your body is thrumming, livewire as he kisses you like this is the last time you’ll ever want him.
If only he knew how much you always did.
When he pulls away, there’s a thin string of spit connected to your mouths and his lips are tingling because of your plumping gloss. He’s also hard. Well, he was hard 45 minutes before he even texted you to come over simply because he knew you were coming over. Earlier that week he got hard on a random Wednesday because he knew you were coming over Friday.
Loosening his hold a bit around your throat, the quick rush of oxygen makes you throb. Riki lets out a low purr of approval, relishing the way your eyes glaze over.
“Oh you’re gonna be real good f’me…” Your pulse spikes. Hard.
“Just like you were the first time. Remember, baby?” You nod because you would never be able to physically forget. It took your body days to completely calm down after; your pupils would get huge whenever you’d so much as smell a room he’d recently been in. You’d feel him when he wasn’t even around— dripping wet each time.
Riki smiles when you nod, kissing you one more time before swinging you over his shoulder, ignoring your squeal in favor of taking the familiar route to his room. Feeling giddy, you kick your legs just to annoy him. He huffs out an amused laugh, cracking his hand down hard on your ass to still your squirming, making you gasp.
There’s no time to catch your breath though when you’re promptly dropped on the bed, Riki yanks his shirt off—on you right after. Fingers wrap around your ankles as he yanks you down the to the edge where he’s kneeling. Heart pounding, hot puffs of air dance teasingly across your skin with every barely there brush of his pink lips. You shiver at the feeling.
“Y’know”, A harsh suck to the sensitive skin just above the waistband of your pants has you cutting him off with a needy whine. Riki slots his mouth over each bit of skin he exposes as he peels your jeans off.
“I’ve been wantin’ to kiss her forever, baby…”, he rasps.
Nosing down to the center of your wet panties, Riki groans when he sees how wet you are. Arousal darkens the color of your pretty underwear as the fabric clings so much he can see the swell of your clit. Appetizing. You’re all slick and puffy and you smell so fucking good. Pressing his nose to your cunt, he takes a deep lungful of your scent— eyes fluttering closed while his cock throbs in response. Yanking his pants down to relieve some of the pressure, he takes another deep drag of your arousal.
“N-Niki! What’re you-!” Your voice gets higher in your embarrassment but he can’t stop. Even when your fingers twist in his hair, trying to pull him away he stays. Mouth watering, his tongue falls out to lap a hard stripe up your pussy. Pleasure burns hot in your gut, the weight of his tongue dragging your panties against your clit. In a daze, you grind your hips up mindlessly into his face. Hiccuping moans break into a sharp gasp when your panties are torn clean off you so Riki can eat properly.
The effortless show of strength makes you that much wetter, spreading your legs wider as his tongue slips between your slick folds— lapping against your drooling hole.
“Ooh! F-fuck!”
Your fingers in his hair reflexively tighten, Riki hooking your legs over his his shoulders. He’s trying not to get too carried away but you’re so addictive. The most delicious wet dream under his hungry mouth as he teases your clit between his teeth before sucking it into his mouth until you’re arching off the bed. Sucking until your pussy is enflamed and sopping.
Gasping cries blend in with the carnal sounds of him actively trying to lick you into a coma. Your head is spinning. You don’t know if you want to get away or stay right where you are, body writhing in pleasure. It’s not like it doesn’t feel good— the problem is that it’s too good and a possible threat to your sanity.
“Niki!” His name is ripped from your throat in a visceral cry. Body shaking, you beg as coherently as you can to get a break or at least get him to—
“N-not“, your voice cracks, “Don’t suck so har—ah!”
Separating from your bud, Riki kisses the string of spit connecting him away…riiiight before his fat tongue forces its way inside you, writhing and probing against all the right places. Fuck. Your brain turns to mush. A choked moan gets trapped in your chest, thighs quivering. It feels like you’re going crazy. Tensing then relaxing, involuntary bleats escaping when you try to grit your teeth and withstand it.
You can’t tell which is louder; Riki or your pussy. Riki’s sure it’s more than likely him. He’s always been a messy eater on his best day but when he gets his mouth on something he’s been craving? Good luck, babe. Big hands tighten around your waist as he burrows his face deeper between your thighs. You wail, pleasure racing through you when he slips his tongue out your hole only to run devastating long strokes up your slit before lapping at your perky clit in hungry licks before plump lips wrap tight around it.
His earlier vow not to get carried away is nothing but a distant memory now. Hardly a notion.
The taste and smell of you is addicting. You as a whole was another type of hypnotic entirely and that was before he even knew how you looked falling from the highs of vicious ecstasy. But now, ever since having taken you into himself, it’s through you that this new season has unlocked inside of him. You darken the black of his very pupils.
It’s why he’s so starving— so hungry even though you’re pooling into his mouth, sensitive everywhere throbbing beneath his tongue. It’s primal, Riki eats you like he’s trying to tear you apart but he can’t help it. He just wants you so bad and now he’s drowning in you.
Wrecked moans taper into pleading sobs. Hot tears stream down your face as your cunt tightens— pulsing wildly against his ravenous tongue until all the pressure just gives, soaking his mouth when you cum.
Obscene moans and the wet smacking of his lips fill the room but you barely hear it over the ringing in your cotton filled ears— cumming so hard you think you pull something. Each struggling breath prolongs the storm of melting bliss, coating you inside out in a thick haze of heat until you go boneless.
Pinpricks of over sensitivity kick in when he slows down instead of stopping entirely. You’re a gasping sweating, limp mess on his bed as you try to catch your breath and get your limbs to remember their functions. Whining, your fingers in his hair pushy weakly.
“O-okay…”, another lazy lick up your folds, “Enouggghhh—“, Riki looks up and you and falls all over again. Panting through bitten kiss-swollen lips, your hair is mussed, hard nipples poke through your top while your chest heaves and your makeup has started to run a bit. In a rush of heady musk and sugar, your beauty spirals into disarray. He’s purring at this point, kissing your lips one more time before actually separating. Nuzzling your inner thigh contently, he rasps,
“S’ just licking her clean…”. You hold back a scoff. For him to sound so docile like he didn’t just almost lick her off your body is crazy.
Warm pillowy lips make their way up your body in succulent kisses— pausing just long enough to strip your shirt off then his mouth is back to it. Brushing across your collarbone, you pull him into a kiss, tasting yourself with a needy hum. Reaching down, you’re not surprised to find him rock hard but…
“Why’s your dick so wet? Wait, d-did you—!”
Riki doesn’t let you finish because yes—he did but he’d rather be stretching you out then explaining how he came from sucking you off. He doesn’t answer, making sure your earlier question is forgotten; lost to your moan when he slips two fingers in. Thick digits curve up on every sloppy thrust inside you— bullying spots you had trouble even grazing. The wetness is audible, echoing in the room with your whoreish moans.
He wasn’t sure before but as his fingers brush between your cheeks to your other hole— wet from your cum and his spit—he is now. Grinding his fingers in dizzyingly hot pulses, Riki’s voice is wicked. Low and smooth when he purrs out,
“No plug today, pretty girl?”
Your mind goes blank.
“That’s fine, I know exaaactly how my sloppy holes like bein’ stretched out…”.
A third finger squeezes inside, spreading you wonderfully. Shivers wrack your body, wet babbles stumble over your tongue— trying to say something, anything. What that something is, you can’t remember with the way Riki is abusing that aching spot inside you. Greedy eyes take you in, hissing when the hand around his cock tightens, jerking him in uncoordinated strokes.
You’re forced to let go when Riki takes his fingers out to maneuver your legs over his shoulders, pants taken completely off sometime earlier. Tapping the fat, dripping head of his dick on your clit, he almost forgets to reach above you to grab a condom from the small table closest to the bed. Your mouth goes a little dry because he’s big. You saw earlier but it’s still a bit intimidating.
“Pick a hole, baby.” Riki husks down at you, ripping the foil open with his teeth, he rolls it over his length— moaning in unison with you when he slaps it against the heat of your drooling cunt again as you scramble to decide. Unfortunately and unproductively, your lunatic tendencies kick in. The same ones that had you talking back before emerges to pant out—
“Why don’t you pick?”
Teeth flash in a ravenous grin— downright wolfish as he leans down to suck a kiss to the inside of your left knee. Somewhere between the gleam in his eye and the grin should have been your first warning.
“Because if I do”, he kisses your right knee, “I’m picking both and lickin’ em clean when I’m done.” The shocked look on your face is adorable but he’s being serious. You will be absent for the rest of the day and a few of the ones after if you let him pick. That’s the general warning. To you? It’s a challenge.
“Pick then.” Looking at him daringly through your lashes and smeared eyeliner that had been a taste of the ruin to come. Riki has to close his eyes, take a deep breath.
He’s in the middle of counting when you rake your nails down his chest, cooing breathlessly at the red streaks left behind. His eyes snap open when he hears a whiny moan, looking down to find you playing with your nipples. Flicking and squeezing until it almost hurts, staring into his blown pupils with your own. Closing his hand around your throat, Riki feels the racing of your pulse while you squirm.
“Nuh-uh, none of that. Keep talking”, positioning himself at your twitching hole, he squeezes harder. “Get it all out right now, baby— before your messy cunt does all the talking for you.”
Again, you can’t seem to help yourself. Don’t give a second thought to the last straw you trample over with the next sentence.
“Y’want me to beg? Beg for you to fuck me so hard that I’m squirtin’ all ov- nngh!”
Maybe it was your voice, or the way your softness felt underneath him, smooth hands running over him or how he felt sliding between your swollen pussy lips getting wetter with each rock of his hips while you messed with him like the spoiled little thing you are. Whatever it was, it didn’t matter. Not when he’s slamming into your crybaby pussy in one merciless thrust.
He might as well have pressed a reset button on you. Jaw dropped open in a piercing wail, your spine arches at how full you are so fast.
“O-oh god—!” That’s all you can get out through your choked sob when Riki grinds his pelvis that’s flush to yours against your clit while simultaneously kissing that spot inside you that makes you tighten more. Slick dripping onto his covers. You’re so cute— struggling to take him and talk your shit even while your cunt cries around him. He’s almost inclined to take it easy on you. Key word is almost.
“That’s right, baby…”
Pulling out a little more so there’s more of that spine tingling pleasure when he slams back in, setting a heavy pace.
“Go ahead and cry for him…”, The grip on your throat tightens as he uses it to slam you down with each thrust before folding you in half so he can kiss you. Needs to kiss you. His mouth is as devouring as it always is, nipping your lips before licking into the wet space to suck your tongue feverishly— pulling away with a filthy grin as he reaches down to strum your clit.
You really start making noise then. Hot, twitching walls squeeze him like slick fist making him growl against your drooling gloss smeared lips, wearing half of the glittery stuff on his own face but most delightfully—
“There you go— there’s my good girl”, The praise is breathed in your gasping mouth; heady sweetness dripping of his words as you lose your mind.
He’s so fucking deep.
You’re completely incoherent when he decides to latch on to one of your puffy nipples and sucks— broad tongue swirling greedily around the bud. Chest caving, a sharp moan bolts from your lips at the stinging bliss and the sound makes Riki suck harder.
Rolling the puffy nub between his teeth, he closes down to bite— searing pain sweetens the lightening racing up your spine as you cry out. You’re so soft, so wet and lovely beneath him; sensitive body jerking spastically while he fucks you until you can’t tell if you’re one person or his entirely. Sobbing out almost tortured groans and whimpers as he gives your other nipple the same treatment. Sucking it like a pacifier before teasing it between his teeth and biting— soothing the leftover sting with generous laps of tongue and another disgustingly deep grind in your pussy.
“I-I…!” You try. You try like hell to tell him that you’re gonna fucking cum but fail because of how tight he’s choking you. The lack of oxygen heightens your sensitivity as your voice breaks and it’s music to his ears. He shifts inside a little and can tell where you end immediately. Weak hands grab his wrist before he watches your eyes roll back, blissed out. The sight drives him crazy.
“Bein’ so fuckin’ good”, lean hips move faster as your nerves scatter. “My good, pretty little slut letting me fuck her just how we need—! S’fuckin tight…” Each pulpy slam of his hips becomes stickier and stickier so he looks down and curses, almost blows his load at the sight. You’re creaming. Hard. Milky slick bubbling around the base of his cock, making a mess on him as you gasp and cry for him.
Words can’t touch how good you feel— floating as Riki’s fat cock carves you out, absolutely battering that gooey spot inside you. At this rate, you’ll cum until you faint from the way he makes you take it.
Riki groans, rutting into you harder as he looks at your fucked out expression.
“Goddamn if you could see you right now- fuck-“ he curses as he feels another wave of slick pour out of your cunt. This time he’s generous enough to let go of your windpipe so you can rasp out his name through wet keens.
“N-Niki!”
“Yeah, baby? Talk t’me”, He’s being an ass with how he talks down to you this time. You both know the chances of you responding coherently are slim with your eyes fighting not to roll back into your skull in bliss but he keeps it up anyways.
“I’m listening….”, and you know that but he’s fucking into that little nook and— “Gonna cum?” A gurgled moan and dead weight is his answer.
“Yeah, you are.”
Grabbing your hips, he moves your legs higher on his shoulders as he slams you down to meet his thrusts, reveling in the way you warble his name— using you like a cock sleeve and you’re pulling him to your mouth because you really are at your limit. Meeting you in the middle, Riki gives you a sloppy kiss, heat burning through his gut while getting closer to the edge with you.
“Sooo deep—”, you slur out, hearts in your eyes as he rolls his hips in a nasty grind that ends up being the final nail in your coffin. Eyes finally fluttering back and before you can warn him— hot squirt is suddenly splashing against Riki as he fucks you boneless. “Oh, good girl..” Fingers move faster against your poor clit. “Theerrre you go, sweetness—“, Baby names pending…
Despite hitting the eject button on your soul, Riki doesn’t stop.
“Shhh, m’not too deep”, the rough drawl has a warm jolt of electricity light up your spine. Pressing a heavy hand down on your stomach until he feels that familiar hardness and you jerk hard, biting your lip to keep from screaming but what kills is the cooing lilt his voice takes on.
“See?” Riki teases against your lips, drilling your sweet spot raw with syrupy cockhead kisses.
“I’m juuust right for her…” Pressing another juicy kiss to your lips, Riki cooes at the hearts in your eyes as you fight to stay with him.
“Bet it feels real good, hmm baby?” He purrs, hips continuing to pump against yours while he puts you through the mattress and you cry out. High and wrecked, the cockdrunk need in the sound makes his cock throb viciously inside you. “Bit of a— ah! t-tight fit but it’s exactly what she needs, pretty”.
Your body is almost vibrating under all the stimulation— pressure building up like a valve wound too tight and Niki rails you like he’s trying to release it. He growls as another gush of wetness bubbles around his length where you’re connected.
“Mmm, is it good?” Groaning with a sloppy kiss in your ear, Riki eases up on your throat so you can answer and when you do, you sound as wrecked as you feel. Words sappy and weighted,
“Feels-“, you smuggle in more air, raspy whine sweet as cotton in his ears. “Feels good”, You sound foreign even to yourself and the pure want— “So big— hurts so good!” It’s uncensored and unrefined and it’s so fucking hot he pummels you even harder— makin’ sure to get niiiiiiice n’ deep, rubbing himself against your spot until he feels your pussy kiss around him.
“Just don’t know when to keep that pretty mouth shut”, Riki grunts. You watch pleasure pull him apart at the seams through tearily glazed eyes, creamy cunt gripping him deliciously. Each twitching pull of your impending orgasm brings him closer to his own end. Heart pounding, it’s like you can’t get close enough— just craving him. You’ve gone limp now in your blissed out delirium— eyes rolled to the back of your empty skull letting your best friend and boyfriend knock every screw you have totally loose before he’s laying himself flat on top of you, body weight luscious and crushing as he’s molding the hard contours of his sweaty body against your soft ones.
There’s a bit of maneuvering but Riki manages to hook your legs even deeper over his shoulders— rocking his hips forward to hit somewhere deeper, tender, hotter and—
How you wail will leave his ears ringing for days.
Wet muscle of your sodden walls push and pull as liquid jets out of you with a force so strong you nearly blackout.
Ears ringing, the lack of oxygen doesn’t make the overwhelming euphoria any easier to deal with. Your moans are nothing short of feral. Visceral and gripping— hungry pussy leaving rings of sloppy cream around Riki’s cock and that’s the last he can take.
His consuming mouth is back on yours with a vengeance as his heart races, hips slamming into yours in a filthy rhythm. Even with his tongue down your throat, mouth suctioned to yours— carnally feral moans still bleed through, engorged cock throbbing violently inside the syrupy hole he’s shoved into when he lets go. Ballooning the condom inside you with how much he cums.
By the end of it, you’re floaty, sweaty and breathless and you’ve never felt better while he’s thinking about whether Blue Nile or Jared Jewelers has the better engagement rings. He also wonders if he should tell you before or after you catch your breath to tell you he’s not done with you yet.
He still remembers all that showing off you did the last time. Spreading yourself before winking your sloppy holes at him, begging him to fuck you dumb. It got him so bad he was taking consecutive cold showers for almost four days until he finally got a break between the team and classes to go shopping. Thoughts drifting to you while he was out on one of his rare days off when he remembered right there in the ramen isle: condoms + hot girlfriend who likes anal = endless opportunities.
He’s pretty sure he scared the cashier from how happy he looked buying 6 boxes of XL condoms with a starry grin on his face but honestly he was just happy he didn’t pop one in target. It was all worth it though because it got you to now— thoroughly enjoyed on his bedsheets.
The next couple minutes are heavenly as Riki loves all over you— soft lips and sumptuous kisses until you’re melty and pliant. Easing your legs down from his broad shoulders, Riki eases himself out of you to slip the rubber off and toss in the bin next to his nightstand. Laying fully on top of you and you purr— arms coiling around him in a soft embrace. Yet as pleasant as the moment is— Riki has to (affectionately) ruin it. Kissing your pulse point, he nips your ear, whispering lowly.
“Turn around…”
Huh? You look at him like he’s crazy. Brows furrowed in disbelief.
“I-“, you don’t even have the capacity to articulate properly. “I didn’t hear that.” Riki laughs, breathy and dangerous, sucking more hot kisses all over your jugular. You sigh to hide your moan, trying to at least look inconvenienced but your traitorous pussy clenches.
“You heard me the first time cause I’m not telling you again, baby— turn around.” Holy shit.
It’s no surprise that you find yourself on your knees, ass raised and back arched with your chest to the bedding. Behind you, Riki lets out a starved groan, looking at the wetness dripping off your everything deliciously. Like a reflex, he brings his hand down on the soft fat of your ass, biting his lip at the jiggle.
“So beautiful”, he whispers against the stinging skin. “Gonna fuck this hole so good…”
Your stomach drops to the chasming heat in your core. Riki eats up every little reaction you give him as your back arches when his fingers press against your asshole. Fingering at the wet, pink little pucker just above your stretched cunt, already dripping with the juices from your pussy— hole yielding perfectly beneath his fingers. Tiny and tight and eager.
Riki eyes it hungrily, cock pulsing when you ask nervously,
“Think it’ll fit?”
Oh, he knows it’ll fit. He’ll make it fit. You’re his mouthy little anal slut and he knows you’ll be begging for it like a bitch in heat so he pushes in a cum slick finger; right up to the knuckle, then another one, pulling them both apart so he can see your twitching wet insides. “So sexy,” he rumbles, a distinct heat rising in his neck. His entire body is on fire with the need to fully claim each one of your holes. He takes his time fingering you open, marvelling at how soft and gooey you are to the point where he has to know.
“Did you play with her today?”
You shake your head.
“Only prep— Just lube a-and my fingers— didn’t have time for toys”, your voice is wrecked from everything he put you through earlier but the hoarseness suits you, especially now.
“Mmm”, he murmurs, twisting his finger inside as he brings his thumb back to your clit, “Can’t go a day without something up here, huh?”
You gurgle incomprehensibly against pillows, eyes rolling and tongue going slack as Riki adds yet another finger. The arch in your back deepens; pushing out your ass begging to be filled with more than just fingers, even though you’d been screaming barely a few minutes before. “F-fuck me…”
“What’s that, sweetheart?” He says it like that on purpose, cocking his head to the side and shoving his fingers in as deep as they’ll go, watching in delight as your asshole stretches around the intrusions, cunt quivering. “What do you want?” Oh that little jackass— he was going to make you say it. You knew he’d get you back for smart mouthing him earlier. However, your want to cum from your ass outweighs your pride.
“Fuck me, pleaseee Niki…”
Unable to hide his satisfaction, Niki smirks. “Tell me where you want it.” Hissing, he hooks both thumbs into your hole and stretches it open, spitting into it as if marking his territory. It’s dirty. Depraved. So why are you handing him another condom and spreading yourself for more?
Riki doesn’t make you wait any longer once the condoms on. With a feral groan, he directs his cock to your asshole and pushes in— the tight ring of muscle yielding under his force. The mouth watering blissful pain of something so big splitting you open shorts your brain as Riki sinks in with one long, deep thrust.
Distantly, you both remember that he’s the first person to get to do this to you. Possessiveness settles deep and crushing into his chest as he grips tighter. Deliriously, you feel so full with Riki’s cock in your ass that you melt. Moaning shakily with a mouthful of pillow.
“Ready f’me to fuck you stupid?”
He doesn’t wait for you to answer because he knows what the answer is. Gripping your fat ass in both hands he draws out his cock, greasy and dripping in a mix of your juices, until only the head is spreading your deliciously raw hole open. Then he slams in, hard, sending the most gorgeous shriek rolling from your tongue. Body shaking with dry, heaving sobs— your insides flutter and clench impossibly tight.
“I’m gonna die,” your slurred keen drawls listlessly. Your mind fades. As soon as Riki’s cock had slid into you your brain had switched off; leaving you vulnerable to the most carnal sensations. Your body is trembling, burning—each organ churning and each bone rattling like trees in the wind. Fingers twitching weakly at the covers.
Gone.
You’ve been utterly and completely wiped blank.
With enough effort you might be able to go on with life after this, but you know it will never be the same. You’ll spend your days daydreaming about eternity in this moment. Reliving flashbacks until your body reacts and your knees go so weak with pleasure you almost collapse.
Niki rears over you, hips starting up an unforgiving pace. With each brute thrust you grow limper, melting like warm honey beneath his hands and it’s beautiful.
“Told you it’d fit,” Niki groans, feeling you choke his dick like a vice. “Told you it’d fit and now look at you”, he pants, “Loving it…”
He has you in the palm of his hand, perfect and sweet and hes pumping and thrusting— pounding until you’re dripping and destroyed and as succulent as ripe fruit ready to burst.
Gripping your hips, Riki bends himself over the your pliant form, once again using his weight to drive the full force of his thrusts deep into you; licking a rough, wet stripe from mid-spine to the nape of your neck. At the shift of angle you let out a weak scream, shoulders shuddering.
“Probably gonna cum too, yeah?”
You choke on something that doesn’t even sound whole, dripping messy rivulets of slick all over his balls.
“That’s what I thought…”
Muscles draw tight as he feels you cum beneath him. You cum on a scope so intense he half expects you to begin foaming at the mouth but all that spills from between your lips is thick, viscous drool. Your sweet face is contorted in pleasure, hair glowing and dishevelled, body shining and slick with sweat and cum as it thrashes. Soft hips hump back wildly on his cock, spraying that same liquid as before— drenching you both to the point where the bedding is soaked through.
A sound leaves you – some sort of sound – but it’s foreign to his ears; almost animal in nature, something inexplicably deep and primal. It’s a noise that sets his entire body alight, a deep rumble echoing in his bones.
“F-fuck, baby”, He’s so close. “Take it…”
Riki’s grip is iron as he fucks himself in the tight, sucking grip of your ass until release breaks through. Throwing his head back with a ruined groan, molten heat washes over him as holds himself deep inside you and cums. Heavy ball draw up tight as he releases load after load, flooding the condom to the point it’s leaking out the sides and dripping in thick white globs onto the unsalvageable sheets. It’s so good. You’re so good. Each tendon in his neck is taut, each vein pulsing against the skin. You cum again at the sensation, jerking weakly beneath Riki, half sobbing into the wet pillows pressed against your face.
The room is sweltering by the time you’re officially done. Consciousness dips in and out while you try to stay awake but it’s a swiftly losing battle. You can’t feel your legs or your back. Riki’s still nuzzling into the back of your shoulder blades until he notices how still you are.
Turning you gently onto your back, he takes one look at your face and decides he’ll tell you later you’re spending the night. Peppering soft kisses to your cheeks, he calls your name until your eyelids flutter back open and his heart soars in relief.
“Oh god there you are”, he’s like a big dog as he smooches wet kisses all over your face. “I thought I killed you.” A punched out wheeze slips free. You don’t even have the energy to muster sarcasm.
“I thought you were trying to.”
He at least has the decency to look sorry, hands massaging down your body to check— “Does anything hurt?” You shake your head slowly, another wave of dizziness hitting you before your eyes slip shut on his panicked expression.
•
•
•
When you finally wake up, you’re clean and dry on a soft surface that’s also dry in a huge shirt with a sizeable weight on top of you. Moving, a sharp twinge races up from your lower regions making you hiss. The sound alerts the one on top of you as your face is suddenly being held and you find very big, very guilty eyes staring back at you.
“Baby!” You feel bad for thinking how cute he is all worried like this. “I’m so sorry”, squirming on top of you, Niki is practically in your lap apologizing as he scoots back a breath to hand you a cold bottle of—
“Orange Gatorade?” He nods, kissing your forehead before nuzzling back into your neck.
“Yeah. It’s supposed to help with electrolytes and stuff.” The confused look doesn’t ease off your face so he continues,
“Y’know…since you lost a lot of flui—“, slapping a palm over his mouth you nod sharply.
“Yep. I get it.” He watches you expectantly and that’s when it clicks. He’s waiting for you to drink it now. Handing the bottle back so he can open it, you take a few sips, humming at the light taste before leaning up to kiss him, voice soft and soothing.
“It’s good. Thank you for taking care of me, Niki”.
Riki’s heart does that strange thing it does when he’s around you. Like it flips before bursting into a cloud of butterflies and he’s so glad you like him back like this. You scared him so bad when you just passed out— unresponsive no matter how many times he called your name and the only thing he had to soothe him were the deep, rhythmic rises of your breathing.
Your hands rake through his now clean hair as he tightens his hold around you, suddenly sleepy in the warmth of your company. His voice is uncharacteristically vulnerable when he asks, pressing a similar tender kiss to the back of your other hand in his.
“Can we stay like this for a little bit?”
You nod but you can’t help but wonder…
How long should you date before you tell him that he’s welcome to stay forever?
! Didn’t like this as much as I thought I would so genuinely apologizing bc I might delete soon(like very soon) wait nvm I just didn’t like the colors lmao
˚ ❄︎⋆｡˚ —CW—: NSFW, as per usual; please be careful reading this because this too was written in rebellion to the lack of non vanilla Enhypen smut, fem!reader, mentions of drinking and alcohol, non!idol au, one sided frenemies to complicated potential lovers with one being in denial, oddly specific I know, cursing, tension, insults, emotional vulnerability, emotional insecurity, Heeseung respects women— with that being said, concerningly filthy dirty talk, he spits in ur mouth😭, multiple times umm, dirty talk, kissing, brat taming, praise, teaspoon of humiliation, fingering, edging, hair pulling, pussy bullying, dacryphila, begging, dom leaning Hee, corruption kink I think?, degradation, he’s also lowkey very possessive, bondage, crazy pussy eating, flirting, edging, disgusting kissing, consent, sneaking around, dirty talk, blindfolds, restraints, K I S S I N G, toe sucking, he really is undercover pervert in this lmao, multiple sex scenes, spit k+nk, multiple orgasms, squirting, slight mind break, aftercare of course, petnames— baby, sweetheart, good girl, you get it.
❄︎.° •w.c (10.6k) I’m so sorry😭💔
❄︎!!A/N—English is not my first language, so please forgive any typos or mistakes. Also, this was hard to write because I kept picturing him blonde and I was notttt fw it😭 and let me know if the font color is hard to see and I will change<333!
❄︎.° •tag gooo ദ്ദി( Ò 3 <)~♡ @tojiworshipper ‧₊
—
First you’d like to start by making it clear— you love your friends.
They’ve been there for you through most things that would send other people running for the hills. Embarrassing crushes, the eventual drift between you and your parents, getting your heart broken then holing up in your place until they came to pull you out, blackout drunk party nights and even the failed job interviews.
They’ve seen, supported and loved you through it all. That’s why when they invite a new person into your group, you’re wary.
Enter Lee Heeseung.
He’s pleasant enough. Not just to be around but to look at too and in a perfect world, he’d be your exact type, just—
“You sure you guys are going to be comfortable in that? Bring a jacket. It’s gonna be cold later.”
“Don’t eat all that sugar— you know it’ll upset your stomach.”
“Here. I’ll put it in my phone because I know you guys will forget.”
He’s the mom friend.
Never taking more than one drink because he needs to be the designated driver, always checking everyone’s location when you’re out together and if you haven’t moved for too long then he’s there to check in. The one who always has extra things that you all would typically forget but wind up needing later.
Tissues, hair ties, he even found Riki’s best friends earring when she had lost it at a party with him. It all just rubs you the wrong way.
He’s always so pleasant. Too pleasant; cool toned even and neutral about absolutely everything but gets along just swell with everyone. To them that’s ‘just how he is’. Easygoing, charming, charismatic and mature. You’ve never so much as seen him annoyed, let alone pissed off, like he’s above the drama of baser emotions.
Anger, jealousy, embarrassment, arousal, etc.
Call it curiosity or trauma; your unwillingness to relax with someone who only has one dimension and risk sipping tea with someone who could potentially be the enemy. Yet, as you stated earlier: you love your friends and you didn’t want the cliché cataclysmic ending of your group because of the new guy so you kept your suspicions about Heeseung to yourself.
What those suspicions are, you’re not entirely sure. Just that you want see for yourself that he’s not as above everything as he acts.
With that, you decided to make it a personal mission to get under his skin. Heeseung was so cold…
What would he be like burning?
•
•
It was Wednesday night.
Wednesday nights were the unofficial check in night of the week at your place. You’d lay around, fill each other in on stuff that happened while you were apart like gossip, hyperfixations, possible beefs, airdropped thirst traps and the like. Heeseung listens and comments but he wouldn’t talk much about himself. He knew almost everything there was to know about your friends but you all knew next to nothing about him.
“—and I know it’s a stupid thing to cry about but I told them 4 times that I didn’t want mustard.” Chie flops onto the carpet with a groan, retelling the lunch break from hell. “The first bite I took? Mouth full of it.”
“That’s what she said”. Jungwon chuckles from on the couch, high-fiving Kai when he laughs too. It’s so stupid you smile, shaking your head while Chie protests that this is a very serious topic and not the time for ‘that’s what she said’ jokes, looking to you with a pout so you can come to her rescue.
“Technically that wouldn’t be what she said— unless guys like teeth?” Your words turn their laughter to a pained hiss just imagining it. Chie comes to put her head in your lap, snuggling against your thighs like a cat as you coo, petting through her hair and Mina scoffs.
“You spoil her too much— s’ why she acts like such a baby now.” You hush her, throwing the pillow behind your seat at her head.
“That’s okay, she’s my baby and Won if you say ‘that’s what she said’ with your single ass—“
“Okay, okay! No fighting tonight, please guys?” Kai cuts you off only to space out before blurting, “Wait—do some guys like teeth?” The room sighs and you seem to be the only one willing to answer.
“I think so. Ask my new co-worker, apparently all he dates are piranhas.” Jay shifts in his seat uncomfortably.
“That can’t be fun.” You shrug.
“I don’t have a penis so I wouldn’t know.” It’s that sentence that has a new set of eyes, silent and intense searing into you.
“You could find out.”
You blink—warm weight settles in your chest and you try to blink away the quickening of your heart. Snapping your head in his direction, your breath catches when you find him already looking at you. Heeseung. Brushing off the increasing of your heartbeat as a newly developed condition and nothing more, you scoff.
“Oh? How would I go about that, Einstein?”
His dark eyes seem to stare right through you from beneath his hood. He’s wearing all black today— a baggy relaxed fit that shouldn’t look so good for a guy that carries around iron pills in his backpack for his friends.
He doesn’t flinch at your tone. Instead his words are slow, unhurried and unashamed.
“You know… guys eat pussy. They could use teeth too.”
It’s not telling at all the deep breath you suck in, eyes widening half a fraction as your lips part. Heeseung notices it all but you’d never know that as he leans closer; expensive cologne cloying your senses when he whispers,
“You don’t have a dick but your clit is just as sensitive—if not more, yeah?”
His voice is low, amused and controlled. As if he didn’t just send you spiraling by saying such a vulgar statement in the calmest tone. Even as your friends hum and debate it in the background. Teeth or no teeth, if there’s such thing as too wet, how Kai doesn’t like piranhas but a mean girl could be the death of him, even Esther’s boss who looks like he bites. Heeseung still hasn’t taken his eyes off you— completely unaffected. He might as well have been talking about the weather and the urge to provoke something from him shoots through you.
“Are you a biter then, Heeseung?”
He lets the lilting accusation in your tone roll over his broad shoulders, facing your scrutiny head on when his voice drops half an octave.
“Oh, sweetheart..”, he croons, “I’m a lot of things.”
You don’t say anything back but he catches the quick clench of your thighs when Chie moves.
He gets along with your friends the way he gets on with everyone else. People just tend to like him. You’re different.
On the surface you tolerate him— not saying anything that would indicate otherwise or fuss when he comes around. In exchange, your eyes are constantly narrowed in suspicion whenever they’re on him. He isn’t stupid. Heeseung knows you don’t like him. You’re careful not to bring the mood down but you don’t share more with him than you absolutely have to; keeping him a maintainable distance at all times. As for why, he doesn’t have a single clue.
It’s okay, he doesn’t let it bother him but it doesn’t occur to him how irritating that trait can be.
The hangout continues as normal, your other friends oblivious to the undercurrent of tension thrumming between you two as Kai complains that Riki is never around.
“He even went to the Michael Jackson movie without me!”
“Because he went with his best friend, remember? The tall girl with the pretty everything.” Mina supplies and Won groans.
“How can we forget? They’re always together— it’s crazy they’re not dating at this point.” Jay shuts him down so fast it makes you feel bad.
“Not in a million years and don’t even think about saying that to them. You know how defensive he gets. We’d be hearing about it forever.”
Everything is the same as it always is.
At least it should be.
You spend the rest of your time together in a daze wondering just what he meant by that— the warmth from his whispered ‘sweetheart’ lingering on your skin like a dusting of powdered sugar. It’s both thrilling and irritating for you.
You’re supposed to be getting under his skin not the other way around but you’ve never heard him speak like that. He’s never been anything inappropriate or suggestive around you or your friends so perhaps that’s why it’s so jarring?
Eventually late becomes too late and one by one they all leave. Quick hugs and goodbyes along with a possible girl get together this weekend. As usual Heeseung is the last to go, having stayed to make sure everything is tidy enough and no one leaves behind anything important.
Walking him to the door in the name of being a good host, you can’t help but eye him as he puts on his boots, watching his long fingers tie the laces before standing back to his full height, locking eyes with you.
“You’re staring, sweetheart.” Immediately you bristle.
“Don’t call me that.”
“Why not? You don’t like me?” He asks calmly, breath warm against your face. Even his posture is languid— like he’s got all the time and patience in world. It sharpens your tongue something fierce when you snap at him, pretty face twisting in disdain.
“No! I don’t like you.” He hums softly, a slow smile growing on his lips; cheeky.
“I’ve noticed.”
His leaving becomes less going and more of a heated stare down. You’re so aggravated you don’t know what to do or how to put the lid back on something you’ve kept bottled up for months now. You dread thinking about how your friends would react if they ever learned you didn’t like Heeseung the way they did— and all over some hunch. Your stomach flips at his words, narrowing your eyes even more.
“You… noticed?” He hums again.
“It’s fine, though. You have the right to feel how you want about me.” He says oh so soothingly and you get that familiar urge, sicker than before to just push him. Drive him off that cliff that you know he has.
That feeling agitates your pulse with each passing beat of silence, rationale flying out the window as you give into it, lips curving into a mean sneer.
“And if I feel like you’re a fake little bitch who couldn’t develop a personality if it fucked him in the ass then what? That’s fine too?”
It’s a low blow but it gets you to glimpse it. The twitch of his eye— something hard flashing beneath their depths.
“Of course”, his voice is lax as usual but the force lingering behind it makes you grin. “If that’s why you don’t like me.” You tilt your head, shrugging like he bores you.
“It is. That and the fact that i don’t like empty things.”
The way the air seems to still should’ve been your first warning to shut your mouth. You feel it, makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand but you don’t listen. Heeseung doesn’t say anything, drawing his brows together in disbelief as he blinks. He’s got that look he only makes rarely when scolding your friends, stepping closer to you while that underlying tension is back— electric now.
“What did you just say to me?”
He doesn’t sound as coddling-ly soothing anymore and the rough timbre of it makes your heart hammer. With what? You don’t know anymore.
“You heard me”, you swallow, staring back defiantly.
“There’s probably no real you to even dislike. You’re like a dummy with painted on emotions because you don’t have the depth for your own—”,
“Take it back.”
Hes not angry but he’s certainly getting there. You don’t know because nobody know but his expression of himself has always been a soft spot for him. Heeseung always felt awkward growing up when trying to get closer to his peers. He would often question if he was expressing certain things correctly to the appropriate degree before he’d get shy and just give up altogether. In the end, it was the vulnerability of expressing those emotions that would embarrass him so much; not that he was feeling them.
And here you are calling him nothing more than a canvas for others primary colors since his are too monotone when they’re everything but.
He’s not annoyed, he tells himself.
Even as his hand drags up your stomach, up between the valley of your breasts to wrap his hand heavily around your throat, humming deep at the feel of your racing pulse. You glare through wide eyes, doing your best to act tough like the looming feeling that you might’ve gone too far isn’t storming over you.
His hands are big— one fitting around you like a collar. Not choking just yet, but telling you to tread lightly. Heeseung’s voice is deceptively calm as he flexes his fingers, testing his hold.
“Let’s not piss me off”, your thudding pulse skips a beat when his hand tightens in the slightest. Adjusting his grip and he’s standing so close you can feel his body heat. “Take it back.”
Doesn’t he know that’s exactly what you’re after?
Jerking your chin up, you hum. He watches your eyes roam, as if considering his request.
“No.”
Request denied.
Heeseung takes another deep breath, mentally counting to ten before he does something he regrets but the way you’re talking to him is starting to grate on his nerves. It doesn’t help that you were always sort of like this with him. Constantly doing the opposite of what he suggests, refusing his help out of sheer spite and disappearing acts that made him worry but these days you seem to enjoy fucking with him even more and every time he takes it with an easy smile; a cool shrug.
That however, was in front of your friends.
The two of you are alone now.
You gasp as his grip becomes airtight, pinning you to the cold wood of the door and crowding flush against you. You aren’t scared but you feel something much worse— warmth, pooling in your core and seeping into your panties. That dull throb.
Momentarily, you forget to account that he’s so close, filling your air with his heat when you clench your thighs together. Heeseung catches it with a slow curl of his lips, grinning like a wolf with his perfect teeth.
“You act like such a bitch that I’m not even surprised you’re wet from this.”
Biting your lip, you shake your head no. Heeseung doesn’t buy it for a second.
“Don’t lie to me”, the low growl makes your nipples harden, shivers wrack your frame at the warm puffs of air when he brings his mouth to your ear.
“I can smell her fuckin’ drooling for me.”
A pulse throbs through your cunt so strong it blurs your vision, mouth dropping open in a whine.
You’re reeling from how fast you got here. Clearly you’ve been underestimating how much your little nudges have been bothering him. Now that you know he’s not impenetrable, the logical thing to do would be to stop.
Heart shaped lips burn thick, wet kisses up your chin to your panting mouth, tongue lazily sliding across your bottom lip, tasting your chapstick with a soft groan and you find that you don’t want to do the logical thing.
You want to see how far pushing Mr. Perfect’s buttons gets you.
“Is—”, you suck in a rush of air when Heeseung lets up on your throat.
“Is that why you’re so hard? ‘Cuz you like it?”
You really need to stop talking.
“Even though you know I can’t stand your ass.”
The look he gives you alone fights the validity of your statement. It takes your breath away; how intense it is — his eyes nearly black because of you.
“Me? What about you? Your eyes are already begging for it now I just need your mouth to do the same…” You aren’t even in your body when you nod, too caught up in his proximity.
“Good but if you hated me so bad then you wouldn’t be this wet saying ‘yes’ to me.”
And before you can argue out of principle, Heeseung’s taking your mouth in a kiss that’s all heat and threadbare restraint. The nerves under your skin light up, buzzing restlessly and you moan—burned by the feeling. He’s a good kisser, you think hazily. The hand on your throat leaves to wind in your hair, pulling your head back so he can kiss you deeper— filling your mouth. It feels good; numbingly good and you’re so wet.
Hazily, you suck on the tongue petting the roof of your mouth, groaning at his taste when the hand in your hair tightens— ripping off your lips with a hiss. The blood beneath his own skin turning to lava.
“See? You wouldn’t be wet at all but you are.” He catches your bottom lip with his teeth, slow and teasing before letting go.
“If you hated me you definitely wouldn’t be looking at me the way you are now.”
Self conscious, you try to blink away the lidded weight of arousal but it doesn’t work. It’s confusing. You don’t like Heeseung. Nobody knows anything real about him. You refuse to be gaslit like the others into believing that that’s simply how he is— a large castle with winding staircases and doors that all lead to nowhere. This is the most reaction you’ve ever gotten from him.
“I’m not looking at you like—”,
“Like you want me to tire you out? Make you my good girl? No more fighting me while I put you in your place?”
Oh god.
The mental image alone is debilitating as he brings his other hand to the waistband of your shorts, teasing with his fingertips in playful swirls to the skin beneath and your stomach drops.
“I really don’t fucking like you.” The trepidation is clear in your voice. Heeseung smiles.
“I heard you the first time, sweetheart.”
“Never hurts to hear it again, then.”
You jerk when his fingers dip shallowly beneath the band, brushing somewhere lower— hotter. Instinctively you arch towards the feeling. Heeseung watches you fight yourself just as hard as you battle him.
“What is it you want from me, hm? You don’t like me but I won’t accept that— not after tonight so what’s your actual problem with me?”
You don’t answer, you don’t want to. Looking to the side, you pinch your lips together and he knows you won’t spill— voluntarily at least. That’s fine.
He slots his mouth back over yours with a searing vengeance; hot, heavy and wet. It’s like he’s everywhere as you share breaths, his lips pressing and sucking at yours with teasing brushes of tongue. Brows pulling together, you whine into his mouth. While you’re distracted, the hand inside your shorts finally moves. Heeseung doesn’t let you twist away, licking into your mouth at the same time he cups your pussy from inside your panties, sliding his middle finger through your drenched lips when he pulls away to coo,
“Aww”, the mocking heat of his voice slides under your skin, paralyzing.
“You made a mess, baby.”
Your entire body jolts and your hand flies up to grip the hem of his hoodie. You might need therapy after this— you’ve never felt so many things at once for anyone let alone your sworn nemesis. It scares you but you love it at the same time.
Heeseung takes his time peppering slow kisses all over your face while he plays with your slick, hissing at the way you coat his fingers before circling your clit. It’s loud too— the steady shlick of your arousal through your pleasure.
“That’s it, sweetheart..”, a watery moan spills from your chest, lidded eyes looking at him as you crumble more with each sloppy stroke.
“Let her talk t’me…”
Eyes rolling, you melt.
It’s disgusting, shameful. Your pussy leaks despite it. His fingers are mean; almost cruelly indulging you as he presses harder, noting the way your legs shake when he applies pressure near the entrance of your sopping hole, making her clench.
It’s blissfull torture. The way he alternates between softer and harder, keeping you teetering on the edge with each pull but careful not to push you over by giving you what you really want. A cry rips out of you when the fingers probing your entrance thrust in, scissoring apart before he crooks them up, just grazing that spot that makes you scream — eyes whiting out — fresh spurts of slick jetting onto his hand.
“There it is… I barely brush it ‘n you and your slutty pussy go all dumb on me.”
The sound that comes after his words is one you didn’t even know you could make. Something between a grunt and needy cry injected straight into his veins as he watches you lose yourself to him. You’re so beautiful— his brat and unfortunately that’s exactly why you won’t be getting what you want. Grinding his fingers into your spot, the strums to your swollen clit turn relentless. Heeseung’s neck burns at the way you sob his name, legs shaking because he’s got you right fucking there—
Then he stops.
Your heart plummets as your rapidly approaching high fizzles out, leaving you with the uncomfortable embers of a maddening need running into a wall.
As if it needs to get out but no amount of force can break it through and the shock devastates your nervous system. With your breaths quickening, you struggle to deal with the whiplash. Glaring up at Heeseung, the look doesn’t have the bite it usually does with your eyes all glossy— trying not to cry because he goddamn edged you. His fingers remain lodged inside your slick walls but he keeps them still and his thumb off your little clit that he can feel throbbing.
Since he’s an asshole and he knows you don’t like him, the kiss he presses to your forehead is sickeningly sweet on purpose— to piss you off. He does it purely to mess with you because he knows it’s not what you need, cooing at your obvious frustration.
“What’s wrong, sweetheart? Ready to tell me now why you hate me so much?” You shiver at his voice, tears budding when he snaps his fingers forward— pressing hard against the ball of heat that makes those same tears spill over as you gasp but that’s all you get.
“Or do you wanna take back what you said earlier?”
You collect yourself as best you can, huffing in torn breaths as he kisses your cheeks. His dynamic is so confusing, making it so much harder to think through it all.
“I—“, you swallow your nerves, “I wanna cum.”
Heeseung’s jaw clicks.
Even now, you were still being a brat. Demanding and rude, you didn’t even say please. Kissing that pretty pout off your lips, the way Heeseung smiles when he pulls back lets you know that wasn’t the right answer and as you scramble to correct yourself before he does— it’s too late.
Squeezing a third finger past the tight ring of your drooling entrance, the stretch is mind-numbing and if it wasn’t for him holding you up, you’d have been on the ground when he curls them. Your blood rushes so hot that it hurts, heart hammering against your ribcage when his thumb beats your clit with each punishing thrust. Ashamedly fast, Heeseung feels your cunt spasm. Dipping his head, he licks the inside of your sobbing mouth just to taste your desperation. Looking down, he sees your wetness dripping down your leg onto the floor.
It sends a violent throb to his cock, wanting to bury himself inside you and stretch you out until you’re always this nice and sweet for him. That’ll have to wait because you’re trilling now; body shaking all over while your cunt sucks on his fingers when he fucks them into you knuckle deep and just like last time; when your breath starts to stutter from how close you are, he stops.
Then you actually do cry.
Fat tears spill down your cheeks when the hand in your hair fastens around your throat to hold you still when you try to chase his hand. Your chest heaves with every watery sob because it aches. You want to cum— need to cum but he won’t let you.
Heeseung watches your mind slip to shambles, bought to ruin by sheer need and it’s such a delicious look for you.
You were always pretty but you’re even better in tears. When he comes to kiss you, this time you thank him and it has a sickening shiver coiling down his spine. It’s like a victory. You did like him, you just needed his help to cope with it. Now while that doesn’t excuse your behavior earlier, the fact you want to be good for him is a step.
Shushing your cries when he pulls away, Heeseung brushes his lips across yours, voice sultry and entrancing.
“Apologize to me, baby. Say you’re sorry.”
Oh, and you’re so sweet when you do. Batting those wet lashes prettily at him, sniffling softly.
“M’sorry, Hee”, his heart stutters at the nickname everyone but you called him by, leaning up to press a kiss of your own to his lips. Tasting the want and tear-soaked desperation.
“…didn’t mean it.”
Kissing you back, you’re completely plaint for him. Mouth open as you let him take, take, take and it has him high. As a reward, his fingers pick up where they left off and you turn to mush beneath him. Incoherent babbles spill through puffy lips, apologizing and thanking him through keening moans, so pitifully wet now that you’re dripping little puddles on the floor but the tastiest thing is how you submit.
He’s got you out of your mind with everything he does to you right now; open and bared.
“I know you didn’t, pretty…”
He twists his fingers, forehead to yours while bullying your sweet spot with brutal accuracy, earning a shaky wail from you. You can’t think, there’s nothing but Heeseung up there. His perfect hands, perfect face, maddening voice all coming together to make a mess of you.
“Fuck, you look beautiful being so good for me.” The same Heeseung who could also be the death of you.
“My sweet, good girl…”
You’re close. He can feel it.
And he wants to let you come— let squirt your creamy mess all over his hand so he can suck it off and spit it back in your mouth.
He needs to get something out of you first…
“Tell me why you don’t like me”, Heeseung slows his movements so you aren’t being completely swept away by pleasure, kissing your lips to bring your attention to the words coming from his mouth.
“Good girl, baby— focusing on me. You wanna cum?”
The ‘C’ word gets you going as you nod eagerly.
“Y-yes please.” You’d build him a house and paint the entire thing with a q-tip if it meant he’d let you cum.
“Then out with it”, he sucks your jaw heatedly, undulating his fingers.
“Talk t’me, sweetheart.”
He sounds so patient, so soft— like he’s after the same outcome as you and don’t you see? He’s just trying to help. It folds you like fresh laundry on a Sunday morning as it all comes tumbling out.
“You-”, Heeseung watches a myriad of emotions in your glossy eyes.
“You never talk to us—to me…”, He blinks.
“We hardly know anything about you— you’re so neutral about everything and h-hard to read so it’s hard to feel close to you or trust you and it’s annoying because”, you pause and something suspiciously like embarrassment washes over your face.
“Because you’re like— nice I guess and really hot so we want to be closer to you but you never open up you’re just there and, and—”, You’re spiraling he realizes, so worked up your mouth is just running.
“You’re like this paragon of all things holy; you aren’t forgetful, always productive and grounded, you don’t even get mad! That’s why I try to annoy you because—!”
He cuts you off with a kiss that’s pure consumption as he fucks you until you’re delirious.
His hand is sure to leave a bruise with how tight he’s gripping you. It’s so dizzying, his thick fingers wreak havoc inside you, slamming into your g spot as he thumbs your engorged clit messily. Heeseung’s tongue laves over yours, spreading his taste all over your pallet, before sucking harshly on your bottom lip— pulling away with a throaty moan.
This entire time, you didn’t like him because you didn’t feel close to him—he didn’t let you in to feel close to him. Plus you thought he was hot but he’ll explore that later.
Distantly, he’s aware that’s you’re begging— for him not to edge you again, that you wanna cum, how you’ll be good and he knows you will with a high keen of,
“H-Heeseung pleaaase!”
Any and all traces of your little attitude problem are gone now as he turns you into nothing more than a thing.
His thing.
Your walls pulsate erratically, twitching wildly as he terrorizes your clit, fingers deep while they fuck away at the pulpy heat of your dripping pussy. Pretty eyes flutter back into your skull as your hiccuping wails rise in volume and it only makes him go harder on you.
“C’mon, pretty baby”, he purrs, nipping at your bottom lip.
“Lemme take care of it…”
He’s not even sure you hear him with how gone you look but your pussy gushing says you do. “Let me make her cum niiiice n’ sloppy— keep being my good little slut…”
Fucking hell.
The best way to describe what happens next is that you fall apart in pieces. It’s as if a torrent rips through you from how fast everything breaks and all you can do is grip his hoodie and wail through it.
A heat so overwhelming dunks over you— taking your breath away with its intensity, leaving you raw from the inside out. Heeseung watches at point blank range; you cumming so viciously that you drool when he pulses his fingers in mean ‘come hither’ motions that get you gushing. Through your shorts, on his boots— the floor; you make a mess everywhere and the debauchedness of it is beautiful.
“Mhmm…”, he rasps heatedly in your face,
“Just a dumb wet little fuckhole f’me, yeah? Only good at doing what she’s told?”
Your heart rate spikes.
Cocking a brow at you, he sticks his tongue out and you follow like a dog. Licking a fat stripe up it, riding the waves of your orgasm with his taste in your mouth when you pull away— eyes glazed over.
Heeseung bites his lip.
Oh, he’s going to have fun training you.
You never really considered him a friend so maybe he can become something else to you; something that lets him break you like this until you’re overstimulated and obedient. Pecking at his lips with watery whispered thank you’s just like you do now.
Each messy kiss is returned with a slow patience, steadily dialing you back down as he slips his hand out with a nasty squelch. He’s still surrounding you when he brings his wet hand to his mouth, a heady groan escaping at just how much there is before he’s lapping it up— sucking you right off his fingers, eyes molten as they stay locked on yours.
You taste ruined— taste like his too and it makes his blood roar.
His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat when he swallows and you can’t help but clench at the sight.
“Open your mouth, baby.”
You know what’s coming but it doesn’t make your heart race any slower when thumbs come up to stretch your mouth wide, playing with the mess on your lips before leaning over—
and spitting.
It’s like your body takes a screenshot with the way you freeze, arousal landing like a flaming arrow in your gut. You groan around the tongue now licking into your mouth, spreading the taste of your cum on your pallet, cock throbbing through his clothes as he’s pressed against you. When he pulls away, you whine; trying to chase his lips until he holds you in place,
“Stay.”
It’s firm, absolute— commanding obedience and to his immense pleasure, you listen. Body reacting immediately to the command, like a puppy showing its belly to appease their owner.
“Good girl.”
You nuzzle into his hand when he cups your cheek, basking in the dark warmth of his praise. So docile, Heeseung thinks with a subtle shiver of delight, almost suffocatingly affectionate with you now.
In the minutes that pass you wait for him to close up again— distract you while he distances himself like this never happened but he doesn’t. Looking at you like he’s unsure for the first time in his life when he blurts out—
“I like people watching.”
It’s random, makes you giggle dazedly as you shuffle to stand on his feet, wrapping your arms around his neck and it makes him a little breathless when you ask in that soft voice that was never aimed at him before when you’d use it,
“Why?”
It’s then he realizes that it’s simply you that takes his breath away. The lone star in the far end of his galaxy. It’s also why he’s making an effort now— a clumsy attempt at an invitation to his world.
“It’s a marvel”, he starts, arms wrapping around you to hold you tighter. “Seeing others show so freely the same things I feel but express naturally—unlike me. Guess I’m terrified of being that awkward kid again.”
You hum, feeling kind of bad now. You should’ve cut him some slack instead of assuming he was inherently evil. Not wanting to leave him hanging, you kiss his cheek— a soft apology as you offer,
“Well, for what it’s worth I think you’re doing amazing now.”
His eyes focus on you and you know you’ll never get used to their startling intensity from someone as attractive as him but you will yourself to stare back at the slow smile creeping on his lips. Less heat, more warm.
“Really?”
You nod, kissing him again because you can’t help it.
“Really.”
There’s something now. A quiet truce too charged for platonic friendship. You two can’t come back from this and neither of you want to. Whatever this is, is fragile so you’ll both be keeping this a secret from your friends for now…
“…I might talk too much,” He warns and you grin.
“That’s fine.”
•
•
•
In the following weeks to come, you learn a lot about Heeseung.
That he likes sweet/ floral scents and animated movies and chick-flicks with heart aching plots. He tells you about his big brother which surprises you the most because he gives off such strong only child energy. You learn that he’s a yearner— keeping his emotions buried close in his chest because that’s where he feels they’re safest. He likes company— someone hanging around even if they’re quiet, just existing around him while he does whatever.
He’s a silent overthinker. Both positively and negatively.
You both behave as you would normally around your friends but sometimes with heated glances and lingering touches when you pass by.
Then there were times like now.
The rope is harsh and tight over your skin, contrasting with the cool silk of your blindfold as it intricately restricts you. Your arms held up and together, shoulder-blades pressed back. It’s the farthest thing from what you’re used to; so accustomed to the teasing touches, the pressure that’s only a taste instead of the full serving as opposed to the overwhelming feeling of the new bindings while he touches you with no intention of stopping.
Heeseung likes many things but he loves control— tonight is your first real demonstration of how.
You’re trembling, he notices. They’re not bad tremors, no, your pussy is even wetter than it had been the first time he touched you weeks ago. Running a firm hand down the hemp rope suspending you, you gasp when you feel hands smoothing up and down your waist.
Since you couldn’t see, all you had to go off of was his touch and voice. It’s both exciting and nerve wracking because while you’re completely clothed, you don’t know if he is too and it only amplifies the power imbalance between you. Heeseung trails a line of hot, open mouthed kisses across your shoulder, his head bowed to your ear, fingers stroking over your belly.
“What do you think I’m going to do to you?” Gulping, your heart is in your throat— skin tingling when you answer.
“Whatever you want.”
A dark hunger, heady and consuming washes over him. It’s so strong that it dulls the restraint he normally has over himself so he doesn’t get carried away and drag you down with him. Yes, he’d do whatever he wanted to you but the real rush comes from you verbally acknowledging that you’d let him.
His mouth waters as he lets out a pleased hum, dropping his lips to your skin as a reward for answering correctly.
Your cunt pulsates when he bites at the crook of your neck, finding your pulse point and sucking at your jugular until you’re squirming against him— needy moans filling the space. It also doubles as a distraction because you jump when you feel thick fingers ghost over the slick wetness of your sensitive pussy.
They’re light— featherlight brushes as he watches you writhe. With your legs also bound, you’re left completely open so you can’t even create friction by clenching your thighs together like you do when he teases you around your friends. Instead, you have to take what he gives you when he feels like giving it to you.
Your heart is in your throat because with Heeseung you could either be edged for hours or forced to cum until you passed out. You’d take the second option any given day. It’s a task to suppress the sigh that builds in your chest— you just wished you could see his face, what kind of expression he’s making. As if sensing the incoming anxiousness, Heeseung’s hands wrap around your thighs at the same time his knees hit the floor with a muffled thump.
“Since you’ve been so good these days…”, you try to listen but your head is spinning from the feeling of him between your legs, warm breath tickling your skin.
“I won’t make you beg the first round. ‘Kay, pretty?”
He grins as your jaw drops, turning his face and presses a kiss to the inside of your knee. Your responding ‘okay’ is breathy and tantalizingly sweet as you submit to him. Little do you know he’s counting the first round as your first orgasm of tonight.
Slowly, he sweeps his soft lips across the plush fat of your inner thigh. You’re trembling is harsher now while he’s grinning like the devil. As he goes, his kisses grow more open, more wet— until your pretty painted toes pointe and your breath catches. Not being able to see amplifies your other senses to an almost uncomfortable degree, making you hypersensitive as a result. The hot sweep of Heeseung’s tongue in the hollow of your hip, teasing at the ropes edge, makes you want to beg for that mouth to be somewhere else instead.
Glossy and pretty, your pussy is soaked— lips shining from the wetness clinging filthily to her. You choke when he blows a puff of air straight on your clit just to see her twitch, letting out a hungry groan.
You feel beyond lewd, spread open like Heeseung’s personal plaything. Hands and lips are everywhere— but not in any pattern you can track and he knows you’re starting to get overwhelmed so your reaction to the sudden wet heat around your toes is 100 percent genuine.
“W-what—!” His cock throbs when you cry out, “Heeseung!”
The squirming starts up fresh, uncontrollable, as you feel the wet sensation of his tongue flickering between your toes. A hard shock crashes through you, ripping a sound out your throat that makes his nerves sing.
You feel like you’re running at least 100 degrees hotter, your teeth vibrating from it all. It’s a new experience— a cocktail of maddening pleasure and humiliation at all once. While you lose your mind to an alarmingly concerning rate, Heeseung is beating your clit with stinging slaps, black eyes devouring your every reaction.
If he wasn’t as sick of a man, he wouldn’t make it a habit to drive you to the brink of your sanity the way he does; with cruel accuracy. It’s really unfortunate for you that he has no interest in changing.
He pulls away with a crude suck to your middle, breath gusting across your wet toes.
“You’re so wet”, his amused huff makes your chest burn, more kisses pepper across the tops of your toes before he moves to do the same to your other foot.
“Drippin’ like a slut all on my fucking carpet…”
The harsh words are cooed, as if you’re little more than a puppy who hasn’t been housebroken and just can’t help it, adding to your arousal and embarrassment. A choked whine gets trapped in your throat when he slides his tongue across the tips of your toes, slipping his mouth over each one individually to suck.
He’s so gross.
Its debasing.
Your heart drops when you suddenly feel how close it has you.
Without missing a beat, the sharp spanks switch to quick swipes. Heeseung rubs the flat of his fingers side to side across your twitching clit, pulling your toes off his tongue in favor of biting your calf when you start to shake. He can see your leaking hole clench and unclench, even if he ordered you not to, he’s got you so wound up it’d be a dying mission from the first syllable. Jesus fuck, you’re loud now— making your own ears ring with viscerally raw moans.
How adorable. His little slut is in heaven, head tipped back, eyes more than likely rolled behind your blindfold in bliss, clitty aching as your messy cunt starts to convulse.
“Ooh— yeah, gooood girl…”
The the praise takes you to another stratosphere completely, sobbing as your orgasm hits. It’s crushing and you swear you’re dying and the blood in your veins is actually electricity. All your senses seem to hone in on your pussy as Heeseung drags you kicking and screaming to a squirting fit.
“There we go… that was big one, baby— don’t pass out on me.”
And you’d love to listen but he’s making it so hard.
When he finally stops, you’re hanging on by a thread. Sweaty body one raw nerve; exposed, wet and twitching.
The rope now feels good so tight around your body as you slowly start to slip and fuck— the headrush it gives him. It’s exactly how he wants you; plaint, sweet, eager to bark and do any trick he wants just to please him.
“Still with me, sweetheart?”
You don’t exactly hear what he says but you know he’s talking to you, sounding awfully patient for someone who just send your soul on a universal trip. So, you’re proud when you manage to answer him with a hoarse,
“Mh— y-yeah.” Good. Very good; and since you came that means…
“First round’s over. Know what that means?”
Heeseung watches you swallow but you don’t answer out loud not just because your soul is still stumbling its way back into your body but because you know.
“…means the real fun is about to start.”
You’d complain if you didn’t crave Heeseung so bad— from the first night and then all the ones after, you’ve been so strung out over him.
Your ears perk up when you hear the sound of a belt then some rustling, everything on your body standing at attention in anticipation as you lick your lips.
“Please”, voice shy, “I want it, need you—”
Spreading open your sticky swollen folds, making you feel even more exposed when Heeseung cuts you off with a starving lick up your pussy. A sharp gasp is punched through your lungs at the deep lap from your hole to your clit.
He French-kisses her like he’s missed her and she reciprocates by bursting slick on his tongue. He feels you out with eager licks, working over and between your folds like he’s trying to lap up all the mess that’s dripped out. Having just cum, the stimulation borders on pain but the sweetest kind. Just the slick, tickling warmth of his tongue already has you buzzed and tingly.
A sharp keen spills from your lips when he pulls away with a harsh suck to your gushy hole only to spit; the wad of saliva and cum landing hot and nasty on your clit as he moans.
“Fuuuck… slutty crybaby pussy always tastes the best.”
Your entire body spasms, like you’ve been struck by lightning. Heeseung doesn’t care, humming as he goes back to eating, tongue flat and greedy. Trilling sobs pour from your mouth, broken and cracked. When his mouth closes over you, blanketing your clit in heat, the last bits of coherency leave you with a tear-wrought wail.
No matter how you writhe or squirm, you can’t escape from the relentless pull of Heeseung’s lips. You’re completely gone as his cheeks hallow— sucking the fat of your poor, sensitive nub in sloppy voracious slurps that make the tendons of your legs strain within the rope underneath his palms.
He’s a messy eater, too.
The erotic sounds of him making out with your pussy are vile— wet and unabashed, sending vibrations through you with every pleased hum. You won’t last much longer like this. Your pussy is just too engorged, way past oversensitivity and again; he’d care if he was a better man but he isn’t and the taste of you is like heaven.
Nothing coming from your mouth is comprehensible, just a jumble of warbled begging and shattered syllables that make up his name. The heat from your intensely approaching orgasm makes you sweat as it builds in your core.
Sliding three fingers in, Heeseung is brutal— curling his fingers straightaway into that melty nook that has the next lap of your slick tasting thicker, creamier. His face is coated in you but he doesn’t stop; not even when you go limp, screaming as you cum so violently it gives you cramps.
Your noises mix with the sappy squelching of Heeseung’s mouth glued to your raw pussy, working you over until it hurts. There’s nowhere to go, no way to get away from the waves of agonizing euphoria— not with how tightly he’s got you tied up. His cock throbs when you clench tight around the thick fingers, shaking apart under his gluttonous mouth.
Every sound grows impossibly distant the longer he prolongs your orgasm. Your own desperate whimpers, Heeseung’s purring growls, the lewd slap of his palm as he fingerfucks you open. All that exists, all that feels real is the white hot pleasure shredding through you as you wail and beg as best you can before he makes you faint.
Thankfully, he’s in a merciful enough mood. Popping off your spent cunt with a satisfied sigh and one more kiss, sucking you off his fingers while you go boneless.
It takes a while for the shivers to subside.
It takes even longer with the next heavy blink to realize you can see. Blurry vision suddenly filled with the same handsome face you’ve started to see in your dreams lately, drenched heart-shaped mouth tilted in a satisfied grin. A hand brushes across your sweaty forehead and you realize with a dizzy giggle from his bare arm and all over that he’s naked now.
A beat passes before he’s kissing you. It’s softer, not as consuming but grounding because that’s what you need. Your face feels feverish as he cups it, nuzzling his nose against yours.
“You’re doing so good”, he praises warmly, “So perfect f’me, my pretty girl.”
Minding the time, he starts to loosen the ropes to bring you down. With you being new to all of this, he doesn’t want to risk hurting you by keeping you restrained and suspended in one position for too long. The rope slides out through the rig easily as you breathe deeply, letting him maneuver you this way and that until you’re free, massaging your limbs to help your blood flow when he lays you on soft bedding.
The cool sheets are lush and soothing against your heated skin, Heeseung kissing the marks left behind from the rope.
Eventually, those kisses trail lower— down your sweat slick spine, over the globes of your ass, the back of your thighs all the way to the soles of your feet as you melt into his bed. It’s all so nice, you can’t help but wonder if he’s gonna fuck you.
“Like you won’t believe…” He rasps, already tilting your hips up until you’re on your knees, back sloped in the most delicious arch.
You didn’t even know you were talking out loud but that train of thought is ejected when you feel him position himself behind you, sliding between your wet folds. Your mind goes entirely blank, clean slate.
He’s hard as steel.
And fucking big.
The thickness of it spreads your lips open, fat veins kiss your clit with every rock of your hips. Heeseung is tall but not bulky so you knew his dick being above average was a possibility but this? He grinds with you, following your rhythm as he grips the back of your neck, pinning you to the bed as you let out a shaky moan.
“Look at you”, his low voice taunts, all heat.
“Haven’t even put it in and she’s slobbering all over me, messy fuckin’ girl...”
Embarrassment floods your face as you turn your head to hide in a pillow but Heeseung is having none of it. His hand leaves your neck to fist your hair, yanking your head back. He hisses when he feels your clit throb against his length at the pain.
“No, be good and say it”, he growls, nudging the fat head of his leaky tip on your entrance, teasing you with the pressure.
“Tell me what my hole wants, baby.”
When you hesitate, he pops in with just the tip only to snatch it out before you can even enjoy the stretch. Reaching up for his hand, you keep your eyes locked on his as you put his palm to your throat, voice shaking with need.
“She wants”, you swallow, “she wants you to use her— fuck her till she’s gaping— ngh!”
He pushes in in one nasty thrust, pelvis flush to your ass, stuffing himself deep inside your spasming heat.
Somewhere between the way your blood immediately starts burning through your skin and the addictive pleasure of being stretched to the point of pain; you know Heeseung’s already ruined you. A guttural cry leaves your lips, strangled when he tightens his hand.
“Damn— y’little pussy’s choking my shit”, he hisses through gritted teeth.
You strain to hear him through the cotton filling your head. Heeseung pulls out as your cunt spasms around his dick so he can slam back in, hips snapping in a mean pace. Realistically, he knows he should be the responsible one that he always is and hold back a little but god he loves you like this too much to stop.
It’s a wonder of its own how you don’t even sound like yourself anymore, keening high and cockdrunk while your sloppy hole drips pathetically down his balls.
Everything becomes stimulation at this point. The air conditioning in the room against your hot skin, the sheets rubbing your puffy nipples raw— even the sting in your scalp when Heeseung pulls your head back until he can see your face. Sweat makes his hair stick to his forehead but he doesn’t even seem to care as he looks into your dazed face, pupils blown.
You’re looking at him like he’s something you’d spend the rest of your days worshipping and it quickly becomes too much, fingers winding tighter in your hair before shoving your face into the pillows.
“Don’t fuckin’ look at me like that”, he moans, jaw clenched. “Hearts all in those pretty eyes like you’re in love with my dick—”
As soon as he says it, your walls clamp hard around him and just like that any thought of going easier on you vanishes. Angling your position until he finds that sweet spot that makes you cry before absolutely pummeling away at it.
Your wails vibrate your throat, body fighting to keep the arch hes got you in, teary eyes rolling back with so much force it makes your head hurt. The pleasure grows with an intensity that threatens to tear you apart— leaving you in tatters on his mattress. Each sob takes you closer to your end and it’s too good to fight. Heeseung drags the edges of his teeth across the back of your neck, grinding balls deep just to feel your begging pussy throb around him.
Giving into the urge to eat you up, his tongue falls out as he tastes the salt on your shoulder. He lets out a greedy hum as he places a wet kiss to your ear but it’s too much and the next roll of his hips has your knees shaking as your cunt creams all over him.
“Oh fuck— hah, she cummin’ already?”
The way he says it makes you feel humiliated but you can’t help it. Your orgasm takes you completely by surprise as your stuffed pussy aches, leaking and twitching while Heeseung fucks you dumb. You try to collect yourself despite the shockwaves of overstimulation— a useless attempt because he’s suddenly thumbing precise circles on your swollen clit, sending your nerves into overdrive.
You’re trying so hard to come down but Heeseung won’t let you. He keeps your brain pooling out of your puffy wet pussy, moaning breathily as your walls spasm. Precum streams from the head of his fat cock, smooching slimy full kisses right up against your g spot. Chest burning, you swear you’re losing your mind, squirming enough to disrupt his pace.
Clicking his teeth, Heeseung lifts himself off you. He doesn’t pull out but instead large hands grip your waist as he flips you onto your back, hiking your knees up to your ears as he presses his toned body flush to yours and your mouth drops in a soundless scream.
He feels even deeper now and even better because now Heeseung is able to watch how debauched your face looks melting from being out of your mind with pleasure. Nipping your jaw, making you cry with vicious strokes.
“You’re such a slut, letting me fuck you like this.”
He hisses in your face as you sob in bliss. He’s so deep he might as well be in your guts but you still mange to keep looking at him like that. Y’too pretty to be staring at him though those wet clumpy lashes like he’s the best there ever is, was, and is yet to come.
“Fuck, baby—told you to stop with the looks.”
With a rough groan, his own eyes soften with furrowed brows as his mouth falls to yours, a new edge prickling at his senses. Your mouth is eager, plush lips parting at the first lap of tongue, welcoming him with your own swirling messily around his. You’re both raw for each other, getting out the intensity of your emotions in the most desperate way you know how. Physically. There’s so much, too much, and not enough but you’re close more than anything else and so is Heeseung.
The sloppiest sounds fill the room, headboard slamming against the wall as you part with an erotic smack.
Heeseung’s hand cups your jaw, cooing down at you with lidded eyes as he pets your tongue with his thumb.
“Good girl…so easy f’me,”
You’re sopping wet— not just your pussy but your mouth too and it sends shivers up his spine. Cock throbbing hotly, he swears the longer he looks at you, the closer he gets. Your warbled moans vibrate his thumb as he leans closer, warm breath ghosting into your mouth before he spits a wad of saliva down the back of your throat.
The way you tighten have his eyes fluttering back along with your sweet babbles that make his cock pulsate, full balls aching. You feel so good it leaves him desperate, impossible to think clearly. He could have you like this and worse a million times but it’d never be enough.
He’s started to become a habit you can’t kick and one you don’t want to either. So, you go boneless beneath him— let his pelvis grind your poor clit, wrap your arms around his neck, kiss him back like you wouldn’t be in therapy for months after this.
There was never a slow build, the heat festering inside him was there from the moment you showed up at his apartment. It burned hotter with everything you’d do— your cries, your begging, those looks you gave him, and how fucking delicious you looked at his mercy. Especially now, you’re still being so good for him. Trying to endure the filthy way he’s bruising your guts with each wet slap until the hairs at the base of his torso are slathered in your juices.
“Mmhm, that’s it baby— make a mess on my dick when you cum on it”,
The heated words add to your blissed out delirium, chest heaving in ruined, hiccuping bleats. Your ankles cross around the back of his neck with your arms, keeping him as close to you as possible because you need to feel it, him paint your walls. Each twitching pull of your impending orgasm brings him that much closer to falling off the same cliff.
“Yesss, your pussy’s too good”, he moans, slurred and hot. “I’m so close— where do you want me, sweetheart?”
“Insideee!” You choke out, begging for it with how you tighten around him. “It’s yours! C-cum inside— pleaaasee!”
Dropping his head against the pillows next to your head with a groan, Heeseung presses his weight into you, fucking you like your hole is his personal fleshlight. He makes you take it until you can’t anymore— reaching your limit as your jaw drops, limbs twitching as all the sensations trample over themselves.
You tighten so much that he can’t move, fat cock throbbing with your molten pulsing walls that contract, trying to push him out with the force but soak him instead.
“Ugh— fuck!”
The hot gush of your pussy makes his mind go blank, losing control as the tingling filthiness sets off his own orgasm, dick swelling to the point of pain before streams of thick cum join the obscene mess between your thighs. Yeah, you’re so fucked. Not just because the same guy who is in charge of keeping everyone’s ID is also the best dick of your life but because you like him. Feeling his cock shoot rope after rope against that gooey spot inside you for over a minute, Heeseung nuzzles against your now limp form.
The gentle kisses being sprinkled over your face don’t help you stay awake but they’re nice.
It’s quiet too, the charged air settling down after a few minutes. Heeseung eases your legs down slowly, massaging them like earlier. Moving consciously, he slips out of you as gently as he can. He’s still tingling when he looks down to see his cum drip out of your gaping hole.
Briefly, he gets the urge to lick it out but your pussy is completely enflamed— a sign that you’ve had enough for one night. With that, he hums softly, crawling over your body to kiss all over your heated skin, waiting until you’ve caught your breath a little to call your name.
Your responding hum is light and sweet from exhaustion and it makes him smile when you return a few of his kisses.
“Come on, baby,” you groan when he tries to move you and he feels the grin before it appears.
“We gotta get cleaned up.”
Another groan. It might be childish of you but you don’t care, you want a nap.
“And you have to pee—”, you groan even louder this time, turning your head too to show him you’re (very poorly) ignoring him.
Fine.
Pressing a kiss to your cheek, he gets off to grab your ankles, dragging you down to the foot of the bed where he picks you up.
The gasp you let out is a little too interested and your hope he doesn’t notice but those dreams are swiftly dashed when he quirks a brow, kissing your forehead with a telling smirk. Ugh, you hate when they know.
“Later—you need to pee and so we can take a bath, pretty.”
You sigh, still displeased because you’re tired but a bath with Heeseung sounds heavenly.
“Then we can take a nap?” He nods, setting you down in front of the toilet with a grin.
“Of course.”
You try to sound like you’re put out as you finally pee but your heart pounds at the care he’s dedicated to giving you. Embarrassingly enough though, he’s still standing there naked as the day he was born, watching you pee and fight sleep with a curious smile while you struggle to hide one of your own.
“Can I help you?” You sass.
He shakes his head, looking at you too fondly for fake frenemies before he goes to start preparing your bath.
It would be a lie to say you don’t fall asleep halfway through, laying back on his chest in warm scented water with his perfect fingers tracing mindless patterns on your arms. You feel like everything he’s ever been afraid to feel in his arms, light breaths leaving your mouth while you rest.
He doesn’t know what you two are just yet but he knows he’s not doing this with anyone else and maybe when you wake up, he’ll ask if you feel the same.
+
-
+
When you come to, you’re in bed alone and suspiciously clean. Even the bedding is different, light streams through the curtains as you look around but there’s no Heeseung. Frowning, you get out of bed, taking note of the large band t shirt you’re in to go look for him.
Walking through the hall, your legs shake with strain. A wave of embarrassment hits you for a reason you refuse to address without a professional present when you hear a soft noise from the kitchen. Feet padding softly, you slowly make your way down the stairs.
Nothing prepares you for what you see.
There— in the kitchen making breakfast is Heeseung…wearing nothing but an apron.
As he turns around at the sound of your scandalized gasp, he gives you a devastating smile, all mischief and cheek.
