Imagine a Cool title here

Ro she/her ~27

[fangirlingbookworm1]

MASTERLIST

Fem reader. Fluff. Sfw. Slow Writer.

**Requests welcome but no guarantee will do them. Request only characters I've done please.

☆ One Piece ☆

Law x reader

Stay with me | Part 2 Complete

365 coming soon

☆ Jujutsu Kaisen ☆

Gojo x reader

The silence you left behind | Epilogue Complete

Nanami x reader

Miss you One-shot

Geto x reader

TBA

☆ Genshin Impact ☆

Xiao x reader

TBA

[fangirlingbookworm1]

a yandere law with a very cheerful and sunshine like reader who was in a relationship with law but due to some events the crew thinks they died nd after a year they come back pretty confused with a very touch starved law who may have had a breakdown back when they had received the news that their dead now they are back with the same goofy expression (law gonna have another breakdown 😭

Ouu my first request! Working on it now 😌🥰

[fangirlingbookworm1]

I didnt forget about this btw😩 I know its been months😭😭the first half is done but been stuck on the second. Writers block been beating my butt but it SHALL GET DONEEE.

*comment if you'd like to be tagged in final fic whenever I get to post 😬

[jung-koook]

jungkook and taehyung after their performance ♡

[yes-itisautumn]

[xchosos-wifex]

BIRDS OF PARADISE

in which you're sent to help a bird hybrid through mating season and find them a proper mate, but it has the complete opposite effect 😥

starring: vulture!toji fushiguro, phoenix!ryomen sukuna, peacock!satoru gojo, crow!choso kamo, swift!takuma ino, owl!kento nanami, swan!suguru geto, cockatoo!megumi fushiguro

contains: birdhybrid!jjkmen x reader, porn with little plot, your girl did research for ts I have infinitely more knowledge on birds now than I used to, chasing in the forest 😍, doggy style, outdoor sex, mating press, mirrors, air sex??, missionary, lots of hickeys, creampie, sweet tooth 👀, underwater, fingering, riding, nipple sucking, brat taming, and all the other good stuff!

All because I dreamed of Satoru as a peacock... look what I've created 💔💔 I couldn't just choose normal hybrids like puppies or cats or bulls nooo I had to make them BIRDS

TOJI FUSHIGURO

Age: 30

Species: Coragyps atratus

Information: Is currently on a rampage. Approach with caution.

Mating: Vulture hybrids are monogamous. The birds generally do not need nests and usually breed outdoors. Courtship begins when the male chases the female either aerially or on the ground, and they can only breed once they have caught their preferred mate.

Your legs burned.

You'd long abandoned your lab coat somewhere in the forest, knowing that it was a bad decision, since it would just lead him closer to you, but what could you do? Your shirt had been torn up and discarded too, and your pants were covered in mud from when you'd crawled on the ground. Running for four hours through the thickest fucking forest you'd ever been in wasn't an easy task.

It was for him, though.

vulture!toji was having the time of his fucking life.

It had been your mistake, really, for rejecting him in the first place. He'd been nice to you, threatening your (now ex)boyfriend only two times in total. It was only today, when you lost it and shouted at him, telling him that he was supposed to mate with a hen, not a human, that he had finally snapped. Your job was to help him find a potential mate, not be his mate.

Bless the heart of the poor scientist who let him into the forest for "hunting." He was probably going to get fired now, by the looks of how he had been hunting you for the past four hours.

vulture!toji who scoffed when a few of the scientists had tried to lean down from the huge netted wires of the enclosure, telling him to just get back in the facility, that it was useless, that you used to be a track runner.

Bullshit.

He'd never been so happy that the enclosure he'd been taken into was filthy rich, because no normal company could afford such a huge forest all for the hybrids. And all for the hybrids, it ought to be used, so he didn't see any problem in conducting his very valid mating rituals here.

Especially when he caught you.

"That's not fucking fair!" You shouted in the air as Toji flew towards you. He'd decided to fly up above the trees and had found you much easier and faster than you could hide yourself. The bastard was cheating; it wasn't like you could fly away from him.

You felt dread as he landed on the ground near you, stretching out his shoulders. "Nothing in life is fair, ma."

That was the last time you felt your legs for the next week.

vulture!toji was blowing out your back like it personally owed him money, though you weren't complaining. You had long gotten past the point of whining for him to stop, head hanging low as he grabbed your hips and just kept on pushing inside of you. The fucker had bent you over in a stream, cold water lapping at your shins and palms from where you were precariously balanced. Every time the current threatened to waver, the hunk of a man would pull you even closer and hold you steady.

"Why the fuck are you still so tight?" He grumbled into your ear, bare chest pressing against your back, skin sweaty and sticky from the past rounds.

"I don't fucking know, maybe because you give me no recovery time at all," you bit back, arching further when he pressed against your lower back violently.

"Recovery time is for the weak," he retorted, groaning when you squeezed around him once more, reaching your umpteenth orgasm of the evening. Hell, even the sun was setting, painting the sky a deep orange.

"Mgh-" Your eyes rolled back as he changed the angle, driving his hips to hit the spongy part inside of you till it bruised. His balls smacked against your clit with every thrust, and you felt another orgasm build up again. Toji reached over to rub tight circles on your clit, the sound of skin slapping turning faster and faster. "Yes, right there, please-"

Driving his hips to the hilt, he bit at your shoulder as he came, grinding in small circles. You couldn't prevent creaming around his cock even if you tried, leaving a frothy ring around the girth. He pulled out slowly, leaving space for the white to drip out onto the water below.

You all but collapsed, welcoming the cool water of the stream on your heated skin. Looking over your shoulder in dismay, you saw his length start to harden once more.

vulture!toji smiled, the cut on his lip, curving evilly. "How far can you run?"

RYOMEN SUKUNA

Age: unknown

Species: no current scientific name

Information: Very aggressive, will only talk to Scientist [redacted]. Do not try to feed.

Mating: No information has been collected on the mating of phoenix hybrids. No current mates. Only one of its species.

phoenix!ryomen who was the meanest of the meanest hyrbids before you had arrived as his caretaker. He would snap at all the other scientists, and he'd completely given up on finding a mate. You'd given up after ten failed attempts as well, watching all the other birds run away the moment they even saw the fiery wings on his back.

You could see him get more and more agitated each time another day passed without any relief. It must have been torture to him, too- there were only so many times the poor man could jerk it.

There was a reason phoenix!ryomen only allowed you to enter his enclosure, and that reason was on display right about... now.

"You lasted six minutes," you glared at him from where your head was mashed into the pillows, lifting your legs to wrap around his lower back and pull him closer. How you managed to do that lying on your front, Sukuna would never understand.

You'd been sent to help coax hybrids to mate with Sukuna. At least, that's what your fellow scientists thought you were doing in his enclosure so late at night.

"Give me a fucking second, woman," he panted, flipping you over so you were on your back instead of your front. You were greeted with the pretty sight of his tattoos and spread wings, fire that warmed the room till the two of you were sweating. You had the disadvantage of not being able to peg him, because you would unfortunately get burnt 😔 Oh well, some things stay in the imagination. You were just a girl, after all.

Bad decision, really. Now that you were on your back, you had enough hand space to reach over and slap him. He groaned at the sting, hardening inside of you once more. "If you don't last for at least ten minutes, I'm not visiting you tomorrow."

His eyes flashed with anger, wings fluttering, and a few sparks landing on your skin. The twinge of a burn was familiar, welcome. "You've been milking me dry for four fucking hours, and you want me to go another round? Are you even hearing yourself?"

"Yes, I am," you nodded wisely, rolling your hips upwards to meet him halfway. The fire-resistant cloth of his bed burned warm underneath your skin, more sweat lining your hairline. "I think it's a very fair statement."

He groaned, watching you lift your ankles to lock around his lower back, dangerously close to his wings. You wrapped your arms around his neck to pull him face to yours. "Listen, Ryomen," you said sternly. "There's no other hybrid willing to help you through mating season, because they're all afraid of you. The scientists are all aghast at how you've managed to last this long. Do you really want me to stop visiting you? What are you gonna do then, huh?"

God, you were mean. Sukuna growled at your words, shutting you up by capturing your lips in a violent kiss, begrudingly starting to move once more, though it was more teeth than tongue. You moaned as he hiked up his legs to pummel into you at a new angle, returning his kiss with the same anger. "You're such a bitch."

"You like it." With the way his cock had turned rock hard once more, pressing against your walls and causing you to whine, you knew your words were true. You scratched at his shoulders, burning the tips of your fingers every time you came too close to the junction of his wings with his back.

phoenix!ryomen hissed at the feeling of your nails, but he wasn't complaining. Whenever you weren't in his enclosure, he would admire the wounds like they were trophies. He came embarrassingly quick, but you couldn't reprimand him too early, since you came at the same time. He was pretty sure he just shot a fucking blank, too. You, however, seemed to be always ready to create the filthiest rings of white that dripped down to his clenching balls.

"...That wasn't ten minutes." You muttered out stubbornly, throwing a hand over your eyes. Sensitivity, unfortunately, went both ways.

"Shut the fuck up."

It was true- no other hybrid wanted to mate with a fire hazard. But why would phoenix!ryomen care when he had you?

SATORU GOJO

Age: 22

Species: Pavo cristatus

Information: The peacock hybrid refuses to display its fan for any female provided to it. Scientist reports that it acts "arrogant" and "extremely cocky." Really likes mirrors?

Mating: During mating, peacock hybrids will fan out their display feathers as wide as they can. They will fan these feathers roughly 25 times per second to create an optical illusion and attract a mate. They are extremely self-conscious and take care of their feathers to appear as the most attractive to a mate.

peacock!satoru who was a real piece of work.

peacock!satoru who truly did not believe that there was a female worthy to be his mate. Every peahen they sent into his nest ended with her leaving sad or angry, a few even trying to slap him. How rude- who would try to ruin such a pretty face?

He tried to make them understand that just because a peacock doesn't mate for life didn't mean that they could keep pushing him onto different peahens each mating season like he was a machine. Sure, he didn't have to stay faithful, but that didn't mean that his entire existence was his cock.

He rolled his eyes haughtily when his caretakers took him to his mating room, telling them that this time they had a specialist to help fix him. As if he needed any fixing! It wasn't just any lady who could have a part of him.

"Oh, who is it this time?" He muttered sarcastically. "Doctor Utahime already left last week. Or maybe it's just a peahen in a doctor's disguise. Do you think you can fool me?-"

peacock!satoru who immediately shut the fuck up the moment he laid his eyes on you, heard the lock click as the staff left the soundproofed room. You stood in front of him with a clipboard, presumably a list of all the peahen hybrids that he should have mated by now, and a stern look on your face. The hundreds of mirrors that were stuck on the walls of his room reflected your pretty hair, your lab coat, and your skin in multiple angles that still weren't enough.

You, who apparently had quit two months ago, leaving Satoru to fall into great despair that his human had left. Surely you had been born the wrong species, but fear not, because he was not an orthodox bird. He would have been glad to accept you into his nest if you hadn't avoided him on every turn.

"Still no mate?" You asked, scribbling something down on the paper with your pen. Probably striking or ticking names, arranging the most convenient to the most hostile peahens. You looked like you wanted to be anywhere but here, and the tiredness in your eyes told him you weren't going to take shit from anybody, especially him. You were far too familiar with his antics.

Unfortunately for you, Satoru was a peacock, and bullshit was his speciality. Especially when there was a potential mate just a few steps in front of him.

peacock!satoru who couldn't stop himself, his tail starting to twitch. Before you could even process what was happening, his large feathers had already spread wide, blue and green and oh so pretty.

"What on earth are you doing?" You groaned, running a hand down your face in dismay as Satoru craned to his full height, his tail feathers starting to rustle. If you weren't so pissed at him, you would have been mesmerized by the pretty patterns starting to form.

"What does it look like?" He walked closer to you before you could change your mind. "All you scientists keep asking me to mate, so I'm going to do it. Aren't you happy?"

"I've been gone for two months!" You spoke aghast, watching him start to strip off his shirt already. "Surely you've gotten over your childish crush?"

"It's not a childish crush!" He scoffed, his fan starting to quiver in anxiety. At the end of the day, he was just a peacock, and his ego was as fragile as glass. "Don't you think I'm amazing?"

"No, not exactly," you tried to be cruel, tried to push his tail down. Even if it hurt his feelings, you couldn't risk the lab's prime male falling for a human. He was the only male who had proper statistics, healthy enough to help a new line of descendants. "You could... be prettier."

"Could..." His eyes narrowed as he froze in his tracks. "...Could be prettier?"

So this was how you found yourself in the meanest mating press of your entire life.

You were so glad that this room was soundproof, because you were letting out the loudest sounds as Satoru's hips smacked against yours. You had been pushed onto his pillows before you could try to reassure him that he was, in fact, the prettiest bird you had ever seen, and now you were in a huge mess. A huge mess, you didn't know whether you wanted to get out of or stay in happily. You were currently leaning towards the latter.

Your knees were pressed against your shoulders tightly, and Satoru was stretching you out on his cock so deliciously that you had started to see stars. His tongue had captured yours in a filthy kiss, tangling as he pummeled into you. His tip had managed to find your sweet spot scarily fast, and he'd continued to hammer into it, feeding off your reaction.

Your cheeks burned red as your eyes scanned the mirrors on the roof of his room, showing you the clear image of your fucked out face. Damn this fucking peacock, there were mirrors everywhere. You had no choice but to take in the embarrassment if you wanted to continue being fucked dumb.

His train was still spread, somehow wider than before, fluttering with each burst of pleasure he felt. A few feathers floated down with the force at which he was fucking you, landing on your skin and tickling you.

"Could be prettier," he spat out pettily, pulling away from your mouth and leaving a thin string of spit between you. "I'm the prettiest fucking peacock here."

You couldn't believe you were getting bred because you insulted a guy's looks.

If you weren't getting your brains fucked out, you would have probably rolled your eyes and given him a groan. What a huge fucking ego. However, all you could currently manage was a whimper, biting your lips harshly as the string of spittle snapped. "Oh my god-"

His feathers fluttered once more as you tightened around him, moaning loudly and moving to suckle on your neck. His forearms pressed incessantly on your calves in a way that you knew your legs were going to be sore tomorrow.

"Tell me," he mumbled against your neck, sucking to form dark purple blemishes before lathering them in spit to soothe them, repeating the process over and over. "Say it."

"Fuck, fuck, please don't stop-" You reached a hand up to tangle in his pale locks, arching as you came with a blinded vision, squeezing around his cock. He clearly felt the difference in the way he struggled to keep up his pace, your pussy tightening like a vice. "You're the prettiest, Toru."

His hips stuttered, eyes shutting as he buried his face between your tits, driving himself to the hilt before shooting ropes deep inside you. His fan seemed to cover the two of you like a shield, quivering in time with the pulses of his cock. You could feel the warmth of his seed settle heavily, his breath coming in short pants.

peacock!satoru looked up at you from your chest, the tips of his feathers still caressing the crown of your head. He bit lazily at the side of your breast.

"Can I stop meeting peahens now?"

CHOSO KAMO

Age: 22

Species: Corvus moneduloides

Information: Though part of the smartest crow species, the subject still acts dumber than needed in front of their caretaker. Assumed sign of submission.

Mating: While crows do not have any significantly different tactics for mating, their hybrid counterparts are more likely to bring shiny objects for courtship or to show affection.

crow!choso was widely gossiped about as a dumb crow.

"No."

"Pleeeeeeeeeeaseee," the teary-eyed boy looked up at you from the ground, hugging the plush of your thighs and resting his head right between them.

Okay, how did we get here?

Maybe you should start with the massive pile of pretty, shiny silver that was just lying in the corner of crow!choso's enclosure. Maybe you should start with the fact that you have been trapped in said enclosure for almost two weeks, sitting in his large, twig nest with the soundtrack of a bird begging you to accept his courtship. Maybe you should also start by saying that you are not a crow hybrid, yet Choso doesn't give a flying fuck.

"No, I will not be your mate!" You tried to reason with him, attempting to pull his hands off your thighs to no avail. You didn't know his knees could bear to drop to the twigs day in and day out, simply to beg you over and over for a question he knew the answer to. But the fifteenth time's surely the charm!

"Why not?" He sniffled, and for a second he looked more like a puppy than a crow, black hair frazzled and lips pouting. "Are my gifts not good enough for you?"

Well, that definitely could be the issue, given that one side of his gifts were metal soda cans and broken needles, but the other side was heaps of silver. If you tried to trade all the silver he'd given you for cash, you probably wouldn't have to ever work again. Where did he even find that much? Silver watches, necklaces, rings. Hell, he'd even managed to find a silver pair of fucking glasses. "No, that's not it, but-"

"Then why not?" If it wasn't directed to you, you would have found his true frustration hilarious. "Is it because I'm not pretty enough? I preened my wings every day!"

"No, of course not," your hand instinctively moved to pet his hair to calm him down, trying to prevent his tears. He cooed at the touch, leaning into the scratches. "I'm a human, Choso!"

"So what?" He mumbled grumpily, tugging you down till you were sat next to him and burying his face into your neck. You sighed at his behaviour, but you couldn't help but feel affection for him.

Contrary to popular belief, the crow hybrid that everybody mainly called creepy in the staff meetings was just a lonely guy. Most of the crow hybrids had chosen to move to a more vibrant enclosure, leaving him in the dark wood forest with no friends or mate. Being his caretaker, you were probably the only person who'd properly talked to him in months. He was sweet, and maybe a little bit empty-headed, but he sure as hell cared about you more than he cared about anything else.

It made you feel a bit special, finally being cared for by someone who wasn't just running for the shit ton of money you made in this facility. He actually liked you, and though his idea of gifts was… a bit different, they were still gifts all the same. Your tsundere act had also given up a week into being held in his nest, because you couldn't bring yourself to ignore him.

Also contrary to popular belief, crow!choso was not just a dumb fucking bird.

Would a stupid man be able to cage you into an enclosure even when he was gone for hours on end? No, you thought it was just a coincidence that the paths suddenly became too dark, the trees looked like you were going in circles, the nest seemed so much warmer than the rest of this cold forest. How he even managed to get out of the facility, nobody could understand, because there was no explanation of how he managed to get so many things to you that were so shiny. A stupid man would not make himself look like a submissive bitch in heat to slowly earn your love until you could feel nothing else for him.

What a smart crow would do was lean into your touch as you rode him, whimpering as his hands roamed your body. He bit onto your shoulder as your pussy gushed around his length, squeezing him for all he was worth.

"Oh my god," he whined loudly, hips thrusting up weakly to meet your grinds halfway, cockhead leaking profusely against your insides. You moaned as he rolled his pelvis against yours to rub against your clit, adding an extra level of stimulation.

You tugged on his buns, removing the two elastics that kept them tied up. He leaned his head down to take one of your nipples into his mouth, sucking harshly and kneading the other with the hand that wasn't gripping your ass. You arched against him, pushing your tits up into his face further and changing the angle at which you were riding him.

Your hips were starting to tire out, and he helped you subtly, single-handedly moving you up and down. Your body went pliant for him, hands stroking his cheeks as your pleasure coiled in a tight spring before bursting. "Y-You're going too deep, Cho," you moaned out, his thrusts getting sloppier and more sporadic. The squelching was as sultry as it could possibly get, a thick ring of white froth appearing every time he pulled out just enough before slamming back inside.

"I'm gonna cum inside," Choso mumbled against your nipple, spittle dropping from the skin down to where the two of you were joined. It was more of a warning than a request, fucking every webbed wad of cum into your womb like he would be personally affronted if you didn't get pregnant. The splattering of his seed pushed your afterglow onto another level, spasming around his cock while your clit throbbed contentedly.

crow!choso who knew he could have easily flipped you over into a mating press at any given moment of time, but he loved the way you struggled to stay on top once you tired, loved the way you doted on him with kisses and praise. He would gladly whimper as much as you wanted him to if it meant you would stay in this nest with him forever.

crow!choso was not a dumb bird.

He was just optionally submissive.

TAKUMA INO

Age: 21

Species: Apus apus

Information: Likes to fly around in the forest space often, trusted enough not to keep an eye on.

Mating: The female swift will position her wings in a V to signal she is open to mating, and the bond will last for a few seconds to minutes. Swift hybrids choose to mate differently than most, as they are the only birds to mate in flight.

swift!takuma was the most hyper bird hybrid to exist. When you'd been assigned his caretaker, you'd been a bit confused, wondering why the handsome bird hadn't already gotten a mate, but you quickly understood why.

The man wouldn't sit down for a single second before starting to get bored. You could barely finish telling him about the new swift hybrid he was going to see before he flew off, telling you he'd just had a genius plan, coming back only when the female had gotten bored and had decided to leave.

swift!takuma who didn't know any other way to make you understand that he really, really didn't want to mate with anybody else.

swift!takuma who was pretty sure he couldn't be more obvious than he already was. He avoided female hybrids like the black plague, and only stuck by your side to the point you couldn't go on your coffee break without bringing it out to his enclosure.

Poor Ino was dumbfounded when you laughed off his confession, watching you sip your stupid coffee like he was just a child performing at a family event. Like you didn't know the filthy things he wanted to do to you, the ways he would make sure that you never thought of another man again.

swift!takuma who had no choice but to simply take you up to the sky and show you.

Your scream tore through the sky as his wings pushed up, up, up until you were almost at the very top of the enclosure, close enough that you could see the outlines of the metal bars clearly. "PUT ME DOWN!"

"What if I don't want to?" He stuck his tongue out at you, arms wrapped tightly around your waist. Your back pressed against his chest incessantly, as if you were scared that if you leaned forward a bit too much, you would fall to your demise, which was literally true. "Now do you want to be my mate?"

"No!" You retorted angrily, though it was more in fear. You should have probably thought wiser than to make the person who was carrying you hundreds of feet up into the air upset.

Just to piss you off, Takuma started to do aerial tricks, spinning around in the air with you in his arms. Summer saults, flips, you name it, you were pretty sure that you were going to be sick.

"I'm going to dive," he spoke cheekily over the wind blowing against your ears deafeningly. You didn't even have time to shout in dismay before he pulled his wings to his body and dropped.

No scream escaped your lungs; all the air was sucked out of them. We're going to crash, you thought to yourself as you approached the trees, the sheer speed at which they were approaching terrifying. I'm going to die, I'm going to die I-

Takuma spread his wings just a second too late, scratching against the upper branches of the trees, but still giving you an astounding rollercoaster ride. Your clothes ripped as the branches caught onto them, one of your sandals flying away sadly.

"Don't complain, I usually make this smoother," he shrugged, feeling part of his own shirt tear as well. As he lifted you back into the sky, the two of you looked like you were partaking in some horrible 1970's porno, with the suggestively ripped clothes and wind-blown hair.

Well, this was also Takuma's main goal, at the end of the day.

"Have you ever experienced an air quickie?"

"What?"

The answer was no, you had not experienced an air quickie. But that was okay, because he was going to strike one more thing off your bucket list!

"You're going to have to- haah- find my clothes, y'know," you clung onto him for dear life, arms gripping his shoulders almost as tight as your pussy gripped his cock. Though your shirt was still on, the bastard had gotten rid of your torn pants in no time. His wings were spread open in all their ombre delight, causing the two of you to glide. You knew that he expected this to accommodate the usual speed he went at so that you could feel safer, but you weren't sure if he understood that nothing could ever find anything he did was slow.

That included his fucking style as well, clearly. With the way he was thrusting into you like a goddamn jackhammer, it was only his insane strength that was keeping you from falling to your literal death. You weren't sure if you were slobbering because most of the tears in your eyes were getting blown away by the wind.

"I do want to say I'll just buy you new clothes," he whimpered against your neck as his balls clenched, thrusts turning sloppier and sloppier. "But we both know I can't afford that."

Trust him to try and make you laugh mid fuck. It worked, though, drawing a small giggle out of you before it morphed into a gasp at the feeling of his thumb reaching between the two of you to rub your clit. "You're going to fuh- I-"

"Ngh, you're so tight," He moaned, the glide of his wings leading you to a very slow descent, still high in the air. There wasn't a 100% chance you were going to be seen, but that just made it all the more fun. "I'm going to mm drop you? Do you really think so little of me?"

You bit at his neck as a complaint to his sass, wrapping your legs around him even tighter to absorb some more of his body heat. Nobody told you an air quickie was going to be so freezing. It seemed, however, that your bite just spurred him on, the smacks of his hips getting faster, if it was even possible.

"I'm gonna cum," he whined against your neck, sucking till it bruised. If you knew all it took was hopping on his dick to wipe away all his bad manners, you would have done it a long time ago. "Please please let me cum inside you, please, you'll make such a good mate please-"

He was just rambling on now, and you could feel the way his cock strained against your insides that he really was trying to control himself this time. "I've been such a good boy please, please please please please-"

Lucky for him, you were also close to your high, and the post-nut clarity would hit later. That was for the future you to consider. Also, you weren't sure how he was going to pull out mid-fucking-air. Your nod was all he needed before he shoved himself as deep as he could go, spurting hot streams of gooey seed against your walls. The white dripped down the crevices of your hole, mixing with the white froth of your already passed orgasm. You shuddered, not knowing whether it was from the cold or from quite possibly the best creampie you'd ever had in your entire life.

"Please let me down now," you whimpered, post-nut clarity hitting like a fucking truck.

"With what pants, baby?"

KENTO NANAMI

Age: 27

Scientific Name: Strigidae

Information: Has been on best behaviour for the kitchen section in the enclosure, likes to cook when not in his burrow.

Mating: Owl hybrids see food as an important part of courtship. While wild owls bring dead prey, domesticated owls may use neater methods.

"Oh, Kento made it for me! The one I'm currently in charge of, he's just the sweetest, don't you think?"

Your coworker proceeded to spit out her drink, choking. You patted her back violently, slightly worried. "You good?"

"The owl hybrid made it for you?"

You nodded, confused. As far as you knew, there wasn't any animosity toward him among the scientists. "Yeah, what of it?"

"…"

"…"

"…Oh, honey."

You were then educated on the reason why owl hybrids gave food to humans in the first place.

You returned to Kento's enclosure later than you usually did that night, cheeks burning with not only embarrassment but strange flattery. He always had dinner ready for you in the past month you'd been taking care of him, and you thought little of it than his appreciation. Now, however, you didn't know how to react to the simple meal on the table.

"Oh, you're back," he smiled at you, sitting down on his rickety wooden chair, pushing up his glasses. The feathers around his neck seemed softer, as if he'd had more time today to groom them. "How was your day?"

owl!kento loved cooking for you.

Ever since the day you'd accidentally eaten one of his cupcakes, his feathers had ruffled, and his eyes had dilated, looking at you like he was a frozen statue. You'd noticed his behaviour and quickly apologized for taking one by accident, but he had returned to his normal demeanor in no time, smiling at you and asking if you'd liked it. You'd nodded, and he'd spend the entire night baking a fresh batch for you.

After all, in his mind, you were already his mate. After the countless meals you'd eaten, you couldn't possibly be anybody else's. owl!kento thought you remained his caretaker as a courtesy, that you simply searched for other mates for him because you didn't know that owls were strictly monogamous.

"It was nice," you answered absent-mindedly, playing with the spoon in your bowl. He caught on immediately.

"Is everything okay?"

"Am I your mate?" You blurted out before you could stop yourself, watching his expression turn puzzled. He looked at you as if you'd asked a dumb question, but with enough patience to make you feel guiltier.

"Of course you are, what kind of question is that?" He blew on a spoonful of soup, and you traced his Adam's apple as he swallowed it.

"Well, the thing is," you were already cringing at the thought of confronting him on something so serious. "I didn't know that accepting your food would make us mates."

"Oh," he frowned. "Do you… not want to be my mate?"

"No! I mean, yes, but no-" You stumbled over your words, watching him approach you from around the table. Sure, he was probably the most attractive man you'd ever met, but he was also the hybrid you were supposed to take care of! Not only was it incredibly unprofessional, but it was also very ethically wrong when you thought about-

"Kenn!"

The cool part of the counter under your back was starting to become warmer. Nanami's hand was firm against your abdomen, keeping you pressed down upon the kitchen top at his whim.

"Hmm… how about this?" While his hips kept their maddening pace, he reached over your body to one of his kitchen shelves, pulling down another pastry. His fingers traced your mouth, pulling at your lip. "Say ahh"

"Aahh," was all you could manage before a bite-sized piece of cinnamon roll was shoved between your lips. You chewed on it the best you could with a fucking 7-inch dick grinding into you, choking on the dust a little.

"So?" owl!kento cocked his head, glasses slipping off his nose slightly. "What do you think?"

"A-As much as your, fuck!" He hit a spongy part inside of you, causing your toes to curl and your legs to tighten around his hips. "As much as your pastries are delicious, I can't be your ma-mmm." He shut you up by pushing another piece of pastry onto your tongue, leaning forward slightly so his cock could hit deeper spots.

Your eyes rolled back at the change of angle, hands gripping his shoulders as he moved to lick your bottom lip, lapping up the remnants of the chocolate cake he'd just made you swallow. Unfortunately, it was quite marriage-worthy material already without the 10 out of 10 dick.

"Mm, that's really good," you moaned out, though unsure whether it was for the luxurious cake which melted in your mouth, or the way your impending orgasm was closing in on washing over you.

You let out a shamefully long whine before your vision went white, cumming unexpectedly with an arch of your back. Your jaw went slack, hazy eyes watching Nanami say something you couldn't quite process. All you did was nod mindlessly, waves of pleasure crawling up your body and making you heady.

"Mm, finally agreed, did you?" He smiled down at you like he knew exactly how much he was rearranging your insides. His head tipped back as his hips stuttered, the coarse hair of his happy trail rubbing against your clit deliciously to prolong your pleasure. You didn't know what you agreed to, really, but if it meant that it kept his hips moving at such a pace, you didn't mind. Especially when he was pulsing inside of you, strings of gooey cum kissing your cervix.

He pulled out of you slowly, watching the white liquid leak out wantonly on the counter. He dipped a finger into it, bringing it up to his lips and sucking generously, before giving you a bit too. Your tongue hung out eagerly, waiting for a taste.

"Maybe I should make icing with this next time."

SUGURU GETO

Age: 24

Species: Cygnus olor

Information: Usually stays in the pond enclosure, and is very soft spoken. Scientists are puzzled as to why there is no mate present yet.

Mating: Swan hybrids mate elegantly and slowly, mirroring each other's movements. Mute swans especially have the capability to purr in contentment.

REDDIT AITA (21F) for falling for the cunning schemes and wooing of a swan hybrid (24M)? Comments - LMAOOOOOO WHO TF IS THIS -----unfortunately I can't tell you or I might lose my job - I mean, is he hot? -----fuck yeah - There's only ONE hybrid facility big enough to have a dumb scientist falling in love with a specimen, I'm going to report you! -----oh, fucking cry about it

Here was the problem: Suguru Geto was hot in a way that wasn't describable enough with just a "fuck yeah". No, he was beautiful in a way only swan hybrids could be, dark wings on his back and long, long hair that floated around his face whenever he came up above the surface of the water. Came up to give you that stupid sly grin, one that always made you wonder whether he really needed another hybrid as his mate.

He would tease you, smiling when you came too close by the pond, dipping your ankles in the water, and leaning against the sand. You would close your eyes, feeling at peace for a few moments before feeling a sneaky hand try to tug you down, jumping up in panic and glaring at the swan.

And before you'd been asked to help find him mates, you were just his normal caretaker. Feeding him, writing down stats, just spending time with him, since your facility had no other swan hybrids, and they never liked to be alone.

However, the moment you'd told him that he'd need to find a mate soon, something in him changed.

swan!suguru had lasted two years through mating season without another female. He was far better at controlling himself compared to those other beasts in the facility. A few handjobs while staring at you from the furthest side of the pond was enough to keep him satisfied throughout the period, including the incessant teasing. Who could blame him? He loved to see your poor flustered expression, the way you would march away indignantly just to come back an hour later with his dinner.

But now, you were gone more hours than you usually were, likely in another enclosure debating with hybrids to come mate with him. Actually, it wasn't much of a debate- most of them were already eager to meet him. It was he who would scare them away whenever you weren't present, telling them oddly unnerving things till they got uncomfortable enough to leave.

You noticed the change, of course, you did. His flirtation meter had gone up by more than a few nocks, refusing to eat until you hand-fed him his fish and staring at you from the bay. You knew something was up when he pulled himself up to the sand for the first time, lower body still in the pond. He fluttered his black wings, droplets flinging over your face until you told him to stop. He just shrugged with his usual smile, lying on his front to watch you.

You weren't stupid. You knew Suguru didn't want a mate, and you knew just how many times he got himself off to you, the telltale sign of his shoulders tightening right before he came into his hand. But unlike him, you had courtesy for the rules and stayed a good distance away from him whenever he got too… needy? That, however, was quickly changing with the way he was treating you like you were already his wife.

swan!suguru, too, was not stupid.

It was entertaining, to say the least, to see the way you would stare longingly at him when you thought he wasn't watching, staring at his hair or bare shoulders. That only fueled his ego further, knowing that you wanted him just as much as he did.

This time, when he pulled your ankle to drag you into the pond, he succeeded.

"Mph!" Your mouth was muffled by his hand, swan!suguru started undressing you with care that a kidnapper shouldn't have. He gave you a pointed look before removing his hand, moving to your shirt.

"Be quiet, pretty." Suguru wouldn't have removed your shirt if you didn't let him, and you knew it. His fingers traced the bottom of your shirt for a good ten seconds, observing your reaction. Only when you gave him a slight nod did he lift your shirt over your head, throwing it somewhere on the sand along with your other clothes before drifting you to the centre of the pond.

"Let's see if you remember your training," he hummed, lifting the two of you onto a rock till he fully emerged, revealing muscles rippling across the expanse of his tanned skin, and of course, the deliciously long cock that slapped against his stomach. "How do swans like to mate?"

"Uhm," you stammered out, your skin turning pink wherever he touched. His long, wet hair brushed against your collarbone as he leaned over you, tracing your entrance with his fingers. "Like, mirroring each other?"

"Good girl," he pushed two fingers inside of you, watching your back arch. You watched him through lidded eyes as he arched as well, nipples brushing against his chest. It looked as if he was feeling your pleasure through you, scissoring his fingers so that your entrance stretched out. "Which means you can't squirm, got it?"

You nodded, watching him pump his cock in his hands a few times, precum leaking off the mushroom tip before pushing it inside you in one thrust, groaning. You squealed, gripping onto his arms so tight that your nails formed half moons. You flinched as he did the same, digging into the soft flesh of your upper arm.

Instead of fucking you at a speed you wanted, he pushed off the rock till you were both submerged in the pond once more, warm water lapping around your collarbones. You instinctively wrapped your legs around his waist for support.

Suguru swung his hands behind your neck lazily, languidly starting to grind inside of you, hitting spots that made you see stars. "Mirror me."

You followed his actions, hands resting behind his neck as he pulled your body flush against his, meeting your lips tentatively. His cock continued to grind in tight circles against your cervix, his veins kissing your walls just as well as he was kissing you right now. The soft kiss quickly turned messy, tongue fighting with yours for dominance. He thrust his length further in to make you gasp, using the leverage to push his tongue inside your mouth eagerly.

Each slow roll of his hips caught against your clit, pleasure building and building until you felt like you were about to collapse. You'd never have thought something so slow could have brought you to an orgasm so fast. Just the feeling of being so full of him had already gotten you halfway there, but the precision with which he rolled his pelvis against yours was making you dizzy. A slight purr has started resonating from his throat, filling the noise between the sultry kissing.

He pulled away from the kiss to press his forehead against yours, breath mingling above the water. "Come for me, pretty."

You didn't have to be told twice, cumming with your eyes shut, letting out sounds he was surely going to mock later on when he had the chance. You were pretty sure he was going to try, knowing the way his mouth had curved up slightly in a smirk, but he cut himself off with a moan as you tightened around him, spilling into you just a second later.

You rested your head on his shoulder as your afterglow crept up your body, leaving you giddy. You felt his cheek hit your shoulder right after, biting at the lobe of your ear.

It was only after quite a few minutes of remaining in his embrace and deep breaths that you finally started to process the deep rumbling coming from his chest. Your eyes opened in surprise, hand moving to stroke his hair and feeling the rumble get louder. "…Are you purring?"

"Shut the fuck up."

MEGUMI FUSHIGURO

Age: 20

Species: Calyptorhynchus banksii

Information: As parrot-type hybrids are allowed to roam free in the facility due to their social needs, this specific hybrid is always at the side of the assigned caretaker.

Mating: Cockatoo males are one of the few that can use tools to make music to woo their female counterparts. Cockatoo hybrids are also notorious for needing constant attention, and some types may even feel emotions like jealousy.

cockatoo!megumi really fucking hated that parrot.

Who the fuck did he even think he was? It wasn't like you were his caretaker, so why was he always talking to you? He would sway his green hair around, the spiky mohawk far more impressive than Megumi's black spikes. His wings were larger too. Instead of just black like his, they were green with yellow undertones.

Fuck this parrot.

And don't even get him started on his goddamn caretaker, this pervert! He was so sure he'd caught him staring at your ass at least three times; both the parrot and the man didn't deserve to be anywhere near you. Not like he did. Especially not with the way they always joined you for lunch, taking up his time to talk to you. So what if you were doing most of the talking? He still wanted to listen! As long as you were talking to him.

So, could you really blame him for snapping one day? Hugging you from behind the moment he saw that perv with you, and to you it seemed like his normal clingy behaviour, but the man in front of him could see his dark look. It wasn't a glare, no, he didn't even deserve that- it was something promising a public humiliation ritual if he ever spoke to you ever again. The parrot, wiser than his master, chose to flee before he did.

You caught on just as fast as he expected you to.

"What is wrong with you?" You burst at him the moment you went back to his nest, sweating from using the rope to climb, since of course this picky bitch chose the highest branch on the tree.

"Nothing is wrong with me!" He looked irritantingly cool, clearly because he had wings to fly up here. "They don't need to talk to you!"

"I was making friends!" You groaned, feeling your way across the bark of the tree in the moonlight to reach his nest properly, searching for the cavity in the bark. "I need coworkers as connections. He was going to help me find mates for you!"

"As if I need any of those," he scoffed at you. Even in his sulky behaviour, he still reached out to grab at your hand, holding onto your skin. "When I have you."

"No, we have talked about this before," you argued with him, jerking your hand back and earning a hiss from him. "You can't mate with me, so stop trying to scare away other males like you have any right to." The wooden whistle he'd given you dangled around your neck.

"I have every right to," he walked closer to you, all up in your face and cornering you against the hard, carved-out bark of the giant tree. "Do they get to eat with you every day? Do they listen to you talk for hours while drawing patterns on your skin? Do they get to see you change before bed? No, they don't! Because I do, because you're my mate. I've already marked you, and there's nothing you can do about it."

You stayed silent throughout his monologue, feeling annoyance bubble up in your chest. No wonder every time you tried to take on an extra hybrid for money, they would turn you down. The bastard must have done something to you, and you never suspected a thing. Your annoyance turned to fury at the look in his eyes, the way he was still trying to feel your skin.

He wanted to mate? Fine.

"Fuh-" Megumi's eyes rolled back as you rode him, hands resting heavily against his chest for leverage, hips working overtime. "Slow down, please-"

"Shut up," you slapped him, actually slapped him, swivelling your hips in tight circles. His feathers were pressed against the twigs at the bottom of his cozy nest in a way that was almost painful, yet it was turning him on so bad. He threw a hand over his eyes as he tried to buck his hips upward to meet you, but you immediately stopped, causing him to let out a choked sob.

"Why?" He whined, reaching up for you but getting his hands swatted away. Your phone lay beside you, the recording app on, catching every lewd squelch and moan. You were going to play this back later for him, showing him how pathetic he was.

"Who told you that you could move?" You snapped at him, sitting perfectly still on a load he was about to bust. He could feel his orgasm dying down in dismay, yet his cock remained rock hard.

"Just move!" cockatoo!megumi groaned, cheeks heating up from the position he was in. This was the most embarrassed and simultaneously the most aroused he'd ever been in his entire life.

"Apologize."

"For what?!"

"For not listening to my commands."

"…" Radio silence from his part just pissed you off more, and you scoffed, moving to get off his cock. "Okay fine then, since you're so adamant-"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry," he threw his pride away, lifting his neck from the ground just to look at you better, and actually started to beg. "Just move."

"What's the magic word?" Your hand reached around to play with his balls, feeling them soaked from the way your juices had slipped onto them.

He whimpered at the sensation, eyes rolling back. "God, please move, mommy."

Stunned for a second, you blinked at your bratty hybrid being so pliant in your hands.

You were only going for "please", but the freak had other ideas, clearly. You guessed it counted, starting to move again with a new fervor, wanting to cum as well. As much as you had done this mainly to spite him, you also realised that the way he split you open was far too good to be a one-time thing. "Aw, you're gonna be mommy's good boy?"

"Yes yes yes yes I will," He nodded desperately, his hands moving to grip your thighs that bracketed his hips without realising. You would have chided him if this was ten minutes ago, but you decided to give the poor guy a break. You'd been edging him for over half an hour now, and he looked like he was actually going to start crying. "Yes, I promise, I promise I'll be such a good boy please let me cum-"

You clenched around him tightly on purpose just to watch him fall apart, moaning loudly as he spilled into you, somehow managing to keep his hips from bucking upwards. You rubbed your clit hastily to cum at the same time, bowing towards his frame as your orgasm crashed upon you. You kept moving just for the sake of it until he started to cry from the overstimulation, begging you to stop.

Your bodies were sticky as you lay against each other, breathing heavily into the night air. Some poor neighbour cockatoo was about to move to another nest. You turned on your side, exhausted, when you felt cold fingers creep up your collarbone and to your necklace.

You opened your eyes just a crack to see cockatoo!megumi fiddling with the whistle, subdued, before blowing into it carefully and making a pretty tune. It was quiet enough that only the two of you could hear it, the small, high-pitched sounds accompanied by his breath into the instrument.

I'm sorry, was what the action translated to.

You sighed, hugging him close to you and snuggling up against his chest. "Apology accepted."

"That means you won't talk to them again, right?"

"I have audio proof of you calling me mommy and yourself a good boy-"

"Point taken."

yeah... i got carried away 🥰

perm tags: @iconicisa @yoonsucks @lilithkleia @masvrecords @axoplayzyt @saestshi @v4mp1r3b4tzz @hearts2vivi @ve1oura @sukunafirstandlastwife @satorusonlygirl @yorikae

taglist open!!

plagiarism is not allowed, all rights reserved to xchosos-wifex ♡

[awkkwardblkgirl]

when i'm reading an anime x black reader fic and an asian man is calling me "ma" and using the n word

[mikaiswolfsbane]

the concept of a japanese anime character using the pet name 'ma' will never not be funny to me😭

[princess-angel-23]

When you're a black girl in a mostly white fandom

[warmfrequency]

hinge

captain john price x fem!reader

summary: the lads make john a hinge profile against his will, and to everyone’s surprise, he matches with you within ninety seconds

cw: mdni, fem!reader, age gap (30/43), idk how hinge actually works tbh, john price the feminist, alcohol, insecurities, fluff, smut, oral f rec, piv (14.4k)

John has been irritable for months and it's getting worse.

He knows it the way you know a tooth is starting to rot from the inside, tongue prodding at it every hour. 

On Wednesday, he reamed Johnny out for being three minutes late to the briefing. It was the kind of reaming that had everyone's eyes turned down into their coffees and files while Johnny stood in front at attention, toes squared, ears hot.

John went on and on, red-faced, telling him that his 'admin's a disgrace', and that he'd better 'get a fuckin' grip before you're explaining your timings to your old CO'.

Somewhere in the middle of it — around ‘disgrace’ — John heard himself.

He finished the dress-down anyway. Ending on a firm threat of a year-long inventory assignment.

It was rough enough to watch that when the room cleared out, Simon hung back. He stayed in his seat, leaning back with his arms folded, eyes following John as he aggressively organized his paperwork at the front of the room,squaring stacks that were already square.

"You need somethin', Riley?" John asked, never looking up.

Simon's mouth was twisted beneath his balaclava as he weighed his options. He wasn't especially eager to be John's second victim of the day, but it'd been miserable for weeks with no stop in sight. In the end, he decided to be straight—

"Y'need'a get laid, boss."

John's hands immediately froze.

That unyielding anger came up his chest right on schedule — insubordinate, out of line — and then couldn't quite find his footing in it because the truth was a trapdoor just under him.

His eyes flicked up and across the room, ears warming up just like Johnny's had an hour ago.

"Bloody ornery, you are," Simon went on. "'ave been."

Simon wasn't wrong, John knew that.

The work winds them all too tight — adrenaline that can't be spent, images that don't erase, choices made under duress that keep them questioning at three in the morning. And everyone's got a valve that lets the steam out. Johnny shouts his out at the football. Kyle has somewhere to be lately that he's cagey about, and Simon has whatever Simon has, no one asks.

And John drives home, shuts the door, and the house is quiet, his walls holding all the built-up pressure.

Ten months since his usual I'm-Home-Hookup found herself a steady bloke and stopped answering his calls. He'd told himself the whole time it was casual right up until it ended, when he learned it had actually been load-bearing.

And was that affecting his mood? Maybe.

His eyes narrowed on Simon and his jaw ticked at the hinge. He threw his chin toward the open door.

"Fuck off out've my briefin' room, Lieutenant."

Simon's chair scraped across the linoleum when he stood, sighing through the cloth over his face.

"I jus' think—"

"OUT."

The door clicked shut behind him, and John stood in the silence for a moment.

Then he squared the stacks again.

——

Johnny never volunteers to bring the beer, yet here he is at half seven with a box of glass bottles rattling on his shoulder, grinning under the porch light. Behind him, the headcount runs long by one. Three men when John only agreed to two. Kyle with a canvas bag full of crisps. Simon at the back, hands sunk in his pockets.

"Thought it was just you and Garrick?"

"Aye, well." Johnny shoulders past him into the hall, close enough that their shirts drag. "Simon heard there was football."

"Simon doesn't care about football," John retorts as the rest of them push their way inside.

"I care 'bout football," Simon lies through a simper no one can see, wiping his boots on the mat.

Unfortunately for John, his team is undoubtedly adept at what they've trained in and he doesn’t always catch when there’s fuckery afoot.

Under his nose, in his very own home, Johnny distracts him with talk about the match while Kyle lifts his phone from the side table just beside his elbow. Simon waits an appropriate amount of time before slipping away to the kitchen to guess the passcode, which he manages in one go.

"Gonna have to talk to him 'bout that…" Kyle mumbles as he swipes to the App Store.

"He textin' anyone?" Simon cranes his neck over Kyle's shoulder. "He used t’see tha’ one bird… wot was her name…?"

"Leah," Kyle answers flatly. "Laura?" he second-guesses as he thumbs in the passcode again to approve the install: Hinge Dating App. "M'not lookin' at his texts, mate. Be lucky he doesn't RTU us just for this. Plus, I think he said she started seeing some—"

"—y'know, Cap," Johnny's voice cuts through, a warning for the men in the kitchen. "I can get ye another beer, y'don't have…"

Simon and Kyle glance up from where they've leaned against the counter and freeze when John appears in the doorway, face screwed with suspicion. His eyes flick between the phone in Kyle's grasp and the faces lit behind it.

His initial thought is that the phone's got a nice, durable case, proper practical. His second thought is to start patting down his pockets with his free hand — which all turn up empty.

The room's gone still, a collective held breath to see which way the tension'll break.

"That's my phone."

"It is," Kyle agrees carefully.

Johnny appears at John's shoulder, squeezing past into the kitchen. "Cap, before you start—"

"When'd you nick it?" His eyes accurately settle on Kyle, the slickest of the bunch.

"Doesn't matter when, sir. We just—"

"It matters to me." John puts his empty beer bottle on the table and uses both hands now to pat down his pockets a second time, not quite believing his own team got the drop on him. "Professionally speakin',” he mumbles. 

"Wot really needs addressin' is your passcode," Simon grumbles. "0-0-0-6?"

"Christ," Johnny snickers.

John chooses to ignore them and holds his hand out, palm up. But Kyle doesn't fork it over. Instead, he looks back at the screen and watches the progress ring around the icon close in on itself.

"What're we doin' right now?" John presses, stepping closer.

"Jus' take a seat, boss," Simon suggests, gesturing to the kitchen table just as Johnny yanks a chair out, beaming something mischievous.

John looks at the chair, then looks at Johnny.

"Think I'll stand."

"Suit yourself," Johnny spins the chair around and drops into it, arms folding over the back.

Kyle checks the screen one more time before turning it around. A new little white icon sits on John's home screen, Kyle points at it. John squints to read the little letters beneath it.

"What's Hinge?"

"It's a dating app," Kyle answers and places the phone on the table.

A dating app….

Grown adults sorting through each other like they're shopping. Swipe, tap, Add to Cart. He's heard the lads chat about it for years — the 'ghosting', the games — and always thought: thank god that's not me.

Under the simmering contempt, the idea of typing hello to a stranger who might simply never reply (left on read, whatever ungodly hour of the soul that phrase was invented in) shoots something cold through him.

There's a beat of hesitation before his eyes snap to Simon, the scowl on his face carrying the weight of Wednesday's interaction.

"This is you, then?"

"Team effort," Simon corrects without a flicker of shame.

"It's no' the dodgy kind of app, it's for relationships," Johnny explains. "Says so in their slogan: 'designed to be deleted'. You make a profile, upload a few pics, answer some—"

"I know how online dating works, MacTavish."

Johnny squints. "Do ye, though?"

"You've been rank for months, sir." Kyle tells it plainly. "Whole teams sayin' it."

John feels like he’s been put on a rinse cycle in the wash. His nostrils flare as he snuffs his irritation back down his chest lest he prove them right in his own kitchen. 

"So that's what all this is? A Friday night welfare check?"

"It's no' a welfare check," Johnny defends poorly, voice cracking at a pitch too high.

"It's a bit of a welfare check," Kyle shrugs.

"Right." John reaches for his phone. "Well, thanks for the concern, lads. Truly. Warms the heart."

Kyle slides it just out of reach. "Just give it a shot, sir," he implores. "Try it for the weekend. If you still hate it, I'll delete it and we'll never bring it up again."

John's chin tucks to his chest and he glowers at him from under his deeply furrowed brow. "You'll delete it now," he orders, except these men have never listened to him off the field.

"I could," he agrees, wrestling a smirk. "And you can keep spending your Friday nights with us."

It's meant as a joke. It doesn't land as one.

Because John looks around at the three of them and knows in a few hours their engines will fade down the street and that hulking quiet will pour back in, the one he keeps calling peace. 

So… he pulls out a chair.

Simon pushes off the counter and Johnny's grin pulls wider.

"Go on," John surrenders, falling into the seat with a sigh. He does not look at any of their faces because whatever's on them’s going to make him cross. 

Chairs scrape and Kyle settles down at John’s arm, Simon looms over them from behind, all crowded around the one screen.

The basics go quick — name, age, pronouns. Kyle finds his rhythm working through the questions.

"Drinks? Socially. Smokes…?" Kyle seesaws his head a bit. "We'll say no."

"I smoke cigars," John protests.

"That's a personality trait, not a habit." Kyle scrolls. "Height?"

"Six-two," Johnny says immediately.

"He's six-foot," Simon corrects.

"Aye, and on the app he's six-two."

Kyle selects 6'. "Occupation?"

That one hangs in the air a bit longer than the rest, and John doesn't quite know why. His hands turn palm-up on the table with the question.

"Consultant," Simon offers.

"Civil servant," Kyle tries.

"Military," John answers irritably off the edge of a scoff.

Three sets of eyes come up off the phone — Johnny's eyebrows go high, Kyle's mouth opens to argue, Simon tilts his head just enough, as if to say: if you say so.

"It's not a state secret that I serve," John says, eyebrows pulling close with confusion.

Kyle types it despite whatever he's got hanging on the tip of his tongue. And in the little silence afterward, the obvious question finally comes to mind.

"What've you lot got on yours, then?"

The simple question sends a tidal wave of overlapping chatter and excuses over the table.

"Ah, well—" Johnny starts.

"I actually—" Kyle says, at the same time.

"Different app," Simon adds, under both of them.

"—see, it depends," Johnny goes on, trying to gain volume over the others, "I like to keep the profile fresh. Rotate the pics, the bio—"

"—don't have one," Kyle is saying over the top of him, "because me and Amara are— well, it's not official-official, but it's a thing, so—"

"Been usin' Feeld," Simon finishes.

When the wave recedes, the full picture comes into view: Johnny reinvents himself on a cycle, Kyle has Amara, mentioned now for the first time ever. And Simon—

"What's Feeld?" John asks.

"No," Kyle says before the question has its punctuation, quick and stern, head whipping back and forth. “Absolutely not. We'll talk about that another time."

"It's not for you," Simon adds.

"Right," he mumbles, taking a pull of his beer, settling back against the chair. He inhales and looks off at the window. "M'glad it's amateurs running my love life."

"Enthusiasts," Johnny corrects.

The rest goes quicker.

"What kind of connection?" Kyle reads. "Options are: Long-term. Short-term. Short-term, open to long. Long-term, open to short."

"Short, open to long," John answers without hesitation.

Johnny opens his mouth but Simon glares at him just as quickly through his ragged eyeholes, and he closes it without a word.

His profile photos have to come off the lads' phones since John's camera roll offers nothing but screenshots of maps, car parts, and three random pictures of the K9, Xena, from another unit on base (he’s been trying to snatch her for his own team for months).

He watches the photos of himself go by and it's a strange census, seeing a year of himself entirely through other people's eyes. Makes him queasy, so he takes another bitter gulp to wash the feeling out. 

There's a short argument about the proper order the pictures should be presented, Johnny wins.

After, Kyle starts explaining what a good prompt does, how to choose one. He hardly gets any words out before John's holding his hand out the same way he did half an hour ago.

"I'll do these myself."

This time, Kyle hands the phone over.

The lads drift to the far end of the table to finally give John the space they've neglected to all night. 

Fresh beers are cracked open and a bag of crisps demolished as they fold into their own conversations. The match they’ve been ignoring comes first, then Amara, whom Kyle spends five minutes refusing to elaborate on, and somewhere in there Simon mentions an oddities shop he’s been meaning to stop by.

John sits with his reading glasses on, typing slowly, brows low in concentration.

When he finally sets the phone down, all three of them quickly move behind him.

"So, their profile comes up on screen," Kyle reaches over to demonstrate. "Have a look, read the bio. If you wanna chat to her, tap the heart. If you don't, hit the X, and you'll never see her again. Simple."

The first woman is on a beach holding a cocktail the size of a fishbowl. X.

"Okaay," Kyle drawls, mouth pulling straight. "Sure. Was there a reason, or…"

"No."

The next woman is at a festival covered in glitter and feathers. X.

So is the one after. X.

A woman in her work scrubs. X.

A woman holding a child. X.

A woman in a bikini on a lake (his eyes linger). X.

It's not that they're not lovely. Some of them probably are. But every picture is a performance — arms out, teeth out, look how much fun I am. Advertisements.

"The fish," Johnny mourns as another goes down, a woman on a small boat holding a big trout up. "Cap, she was fishin'. You love fishin'!"

"Wasn't her fish," he grumbles under his breath.

"Whose fish d'you reckon, then?"

"Bloke she cropped out," Simon says, and John tips the neck of his beer toward him.

"Give me criteria," Kyle pleads, both hands on the back of John's chair, gripping with restraint. "I can work with criteria."

"He's calibratin'," Simon says. "Let 'im work it out."

Simon's giving him too much credit. He's not calibrating. He's not reading these women, he's not even really looking at them. Each X is just the whole premise being declined, proof accumulating that he was right about the app all along, and if the profiles run out, well, he tried. Right? The lads witnessed it. He can get back to his peace with a clear—

His thumb stops and hovers, then pulls back to the outer edge of the phone case.

Huh. 

There you are.

Up a trail somewhere, hills of green grass rolling behind you, hood half-blown off, one hand trying to catch it. You're laughing at whoever's taking the picture, smile wide.

John's not sure he's ever seen eyes twinkle before, but that must be what yours are doing, shimmering even under overcast.

You're very pretty.

For the first time, John taps the profile open.

30. Executive Assistant. 4 Miles Away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.

Executive Assistant, so you likely work too much. That's familiar to him, something he understands inside-out. 

There's a photo of you in office clothes at what looks like a retirement party, smile an edge more saccharine than the one on the hill.

Another of you criss-cross on the floor, a black and caramel cat stretched out and content in your lap, belly-up. Shirt low cut, cleavage to feast on. He is sixty percent gentleman about how long he looks at it.

And at the bottom:

The best way to ask me out is by: using words.

I recently discovered that: I'm better in person than I am on here.

John huffs an amusement through his nose. He spent more time on his profile than he thinks you spent on yours. Seems like you're tired of the same things he's already tired of, one night in.

Behind him, the lads have gone silent, holding their breath.

John taps the heart and his screen goes bright with a wash of confetti, both your photos ringed together:

IT'S A MATCH!

"Oh, shit, she already matched with you," Kyle cranes his neck closer to inspect.

"Gimme that." Johnny plucks the phone from John's hand. "No way," he scoffs. "Fuckin' fit. A bit young for you, Cap, aye?" He looks at John, then back at the screen like the two won't reconcile in his brain.

"Careful," John warns mildly.

Johnny hands the phone back, muttering something in Scots only Simon could translate.

John doesn't hear much of it anyway. He's already looking at your photo again.

Better in person.

Yeah. He'd bet you are.

"Right, sir," Kyle says. "Now we wait. Midday tomorrow the earliest. Message her any sooner and it reads keen."

"It'd be accurate," he deadpans.

"There's rules, Cap," Johnny says. "No messagin' straight away, no double-textin', keep a wee bit of mystery."

John turns in his chair with a scowl to look up at the three of them.

"So, you're tellin' me a woman says she's interested in you and you… make her wait?"

Silence.

"I mean, when you put it like that…"

"Yeah, s'a bit fuckin' rude, innit?" John derides, turning back around.

He's already typing, screen tipped away.

"Sir," Kyle pleads. "At least let us read it."

"This is a two person conversation, not a five piece."

He presses send and quickly pockets the phone.

——

Four miles away, a phone lights up…

——

Your windows are open to the last of a long evening, warm air breezing through the sheer curtains. You’re finally on the couch. Shower taken, its heat still damp in your skin. A glass of off-dry riesling teeters precariously on the arm, cold from the fridge and sweating through its stemless glass.

Twix is a puddled tortoiseshell furnace against your thigh, one paw twitching through a dream, her purr winding down as she drops deeper. And on the telly, Last Christmas is on. You've seen it a dozen times, that's why you leave it — it's mindless.

The second glass goes down easier than the first, tart on your tongue, blooming warm in your belly and over your cheeks.

Somewhere in the lull, your thumb opens Hinge, a reflex to being bored. You don't really expect anything from it anymore. 

A man holding a fish, sunglasses on. X.

A man whose photos are all group shots. X.

A man who is 6'2" and it's his entire personality. X.

Your thumb knows the rhythm without you.

The next profile slides into view and you pause, thumb hovering.

He's handsome in that sort of rugged, classic way. His beard is salted at the edges, lines beside his eyes creased deep, cheeks faintly rosy. He's mid-laugh at what looks like a Christmas party, red and green tinsel drooping off the beams behind him; head slightly tipped, one heavy hand flat on the table. He's not cackling, you can tell it's more reserved, but it's probably still more than he usually offers.

John. 43. Military. Four miles away. Short-Term, Open to Long-Term.

The one thing you should know about me is: I'm gone a lot for work. But when I'm home, I'm home.

Most men bury the catch in the fine print, but he's leading with it.

You don't know yet whether that's honesty or efficiency. You suspect that with him they might be the same thing.

His second photo is of him on the tailgate of some enormous vehicle, fatigues taut over his thighs, thumbs hooked through his bulky khaki plate carrier, looking up from under the brim of his hat.

Two truths and a lie: I've never seen Star Wars. I have a lie-in every Sunday. I've had tea with a warlord.

The sky is pink with the morning in his third picture. He's thigh-deep in a lake, turned away from the camera entirely. (You're noticing it's a common theme that he does not look at the camera for any photo.) The sunlight catches the breadth of his back and shoulders, cotton molded around muscle.

Don't hate me if I: call instead of text. It's quicker.

You giggle just enough that Twix's ear rotates toward you in reproach.

It's kinda cute when older men put more effort into their profiles.

But the alarm is already going off somewhere in the back of your skull — too good, probably old photos, probably has a wife — it has never once failed to ring. But you're two glasses in, and the heart really costs nothing even if the conversation seems off.

You tap it, and put the phone facedown on your thigh.

On the telly, Emilia Clarke is busy falling for a man you happen to know has been dead the entire film. You mouth one of his lines along with him, not really invested, wine warm in your chest, Twix breathing slow against your leg.

Then your phone buzzes against you once, and you ignore it, because you have rules about lunging for male attention. But then it buzzes again, and, well, you just turn it over to have a look. Maybe it's your mum, you don't know!

HINGE: You and John matched!

HINGE: 1 New Message

You open it.

Evening. Not much good at using the app, but I really wanted to chat to you. How's your Friday night?

You hum to yourself curiously. Not an innuendo or emoji in sight.

i actually volunteer helping the elderly with technology, happy to walk you through it.

friday's been average. wine and a movie on the couch. how's yours?

You put the phone back down and focus on the film, but his reply comes within the minute.

Ouch. Friday's alright. The lads invited themselves round for the match. Still here, unfortunately.

you're messaging me with guests in the house? terrible host.

They invited themselves. Hosting rules don't apply.

What movie are you watching?

You glance at the telly where a dead man is mid-song and weigh lying about it.

You could be watching anything. You could pick something more interesting, something with a deep lesson, educational, historical, something niche to come off cool and worldly.

you're not allowed to judge me.

Judging is sort of my life's work, but I'll do my best.

You snort. Twix relocates to the far cushion in protest.

it's called 'last christmas'. i don't know why it's on in july, but i've probably seen it twelve times. it's good background noise.

The reply takes slightly longer this time. You picture him all big hands, small phone, and then stop picturing him, because that's how it starts.

Twelve times? Must be decent.

it's objectively not. the love interest is dead the entire film lol

Dead?

it's a twist. it's festive!

You and I have very different definitions for "festive". I've got a few questions. But I'll save them.

You smile.

so, your lake photo. did you catch anything that day?

Not a thing.

hours in freezing water for zero fish?!

The fish aren't the point.

do tell, what's the point?

The mist off the water. The quiet. The no one expecting anything from you.

It's the first real answer a man has given you on this app in, like, six months. 

You feel oddly like you've been handed something and should keep your hands still so it doesn't spook.

that actually sounds really peaceful.

i've never been fishing, but i do love nature in the mornings. i have a trail by me that i like to trek early on weekends.

That the trail from your photo?

it is! my best friend actually made me go that day, i wasn't in the mood. complained the whole way.

Doesn't show.

Good photo of you.

Beautiful, actually.

You stare at the screen and feel warmth tickling your nape, sliding lower, molten and slow. 

Every instinct you have reaches for deflection.

oh! thank you. the wind did most of the work lol

No it didn't.

— and he just takes the deflection off you, like being returned something you've dropped. You press the cool curve of the wine glass against your cheek and remind yourself, sternly, that this is a stranger on the internet.

well, for the record your photo's not bad either. handsome smile.

Somewhere past ten, you notice the conversation keeps not ending. 

how long have you been on hinge?

It's my first night, actually.

first night???

Profile's about two hours old.

yikes, so i'm just the practice woman then, huh?

Practice implies I'm planning to do this again.

——

John's still at the kitchen table, reading glasses pushed up into his hair now, beer gone warm at his elbow. The lads have migrated to the living room doorway — close enough to monitor, far enough to pretend they aren't.

He knows they're watching, and he's been watched by better.

What he can't seem to manage is his fuckin' face — it keeps doing things beyond his control, and every time your reply comes he has to reel it back to neutral, and he can tell by the quality of the silence behind him that he's not reeling nearly fast enough.

"He's smilin' again," Johnny murmurs, elbowing Simon in the ribs.

"Shameless," John mumbles, without looking up. "All of you."

He's typing when the floor creaks jus to his left. When he glances up, Johnny has drifted to his shoulder under the pretense of collecting empties.

"Need another, Cap?"

"I need you three feet back, MacTavish," he replies, thumbs tapping away.

A minute later it's Kyle from the doorway, "If she asks about hobbies, don't lead with the cigars. They poll badly amongst females."

"'Females'?" John grimaces, face down, thumbs still at it. "Say it with me Garrick, 'women'."

Then Simon, who hasn't moved or spoken in twenty minutes, asks, "Wot's she sayin', then?"

John rolls his eyes and sets the phone face-down, pushing himself up out of the chair.

"Time to go, lads," he says with an obviously fake smile, gesturing his arm out towards his front door. "Goodnight."

"It's no' even eleven oclock!" Johnny complains.

"Then the night's still young. Go on, fuck off."

They go — bottles gathered, snacks cleaned up, Simon herding Johnny down the hall as he’s still negotiating.

Then their engines fade down the street, and the quiet pours back in, right on schedule. Except tonight it arrives and there's a phone lit on his kitchen table with your name on it, and the quiet — for the first time in a long while — has to wait.

He locks up, kills the TV, then drops into his armchair with the phone already unlocked.

did the football finish? who won?

He glances at the dead telly. Hasn't a clue. 

Couldn't tell you.

omg lol you had ONE reason for guests tonight!

I got distracted.

by what? 😇

I think you know by what.

Nothing comes back for a minute. He pictures you on your couch, that cat beside you, deciding what to do with it — and it occurs to him, mildly horrifying, that he's enjoying this. The wait. The little emoji with the halo, transparently unrepentant. He finds himself smiling at the ceiling like there's something written on it.

anyway!

Anyway.

He'll allow it: retreat granted. There's no rush.

The cat in your photo. Yours?

yes! that’s twix. she's a menace.

Good name.

she prefers men that ignore her.

Then we'd get on fine. I'm very good at ignoring cats.

It goes on just like that: easy.

You ask if he's a morning person and learn he's up at five most days by choice; he learns you consider five the middle of the night.

He talks about the Brecon Beacons — the actual Beacons, the ones he loves, not the ones that nearly killed him at twenty-two. You tell him you've always wanted to go, and he catches himself already planning the route he'd take you. Then quickly chastises himself. 

How's the average Friday held up?

certainly improved

Mine too.

He puts the phone on the arm of the chair and sits in his quiet house, and for once it doesn’t feel so desolate.

——

The following morning he's up at five. He starts drinking his coffee at the counter, looking out the window over the sink, the sorbet summer sky bleeding morning.

He thinks of you before he can stop himself. Asleep, presumably, five being the middle of the night and all. Then he takes the coffee out to his back step for some fresh air.

He wonders if he was any good with the messaging last night. It's the longest he's ever sat with his phone in his hand, period. Let alone chatting with someone. There's no debrief for it, that's the trouble. No one to tell him whether ‘I got distracted.’ read as charming or desperate.

He runs the entire two-hour exchange back over and over and finds no actionable errors, but remains unconvinced.

He goes for his run at six. The route climbs uphill around klick seven, and somewhere on the hill he thinks about your photo, your smile, your mouth. He wonders what you smell like, what you sound like when you're being sarcastic. 

By noon he's under the Land Rover draining the old oil, and he catches himself pondering what you might do on a Saturday. Whether you slept in properly. Whether the cat allows it; he grew up with one himself and knows how demanding they can be when they're ready for a feeding.

He hasn't messaged yet and neither have you.

He couldn't say exactly why he's held off. Something the lads said about being keen, and rules, and mystery lodged somewhere he can't reach to dig it out. He's not normally a man that takes doctrine from Johnny MacTavish, and yet… here he is. 

It's a stupid fuckin' rule.

The afternoon goes long and gets quiet in the old way.

The house at four o'clock has a particular acoustic he knows down to the plumbing, and today, for the first time, he notices himself noticing it. It never used to be so obvious. Years of Saturdays like this one and it took his phone going quiet for half a day to show him the loneliness so plainly.

By the evening he's got Chinese takeaway at the kitchen table, eating it straight from the carton, chopsticks shoveling fried noodles down his gullet while he does the crossword from the morning paper in his head.

That's when his phone lights up for the first time all day, buzzing three times in succession — he absolutely hates how quickly it's in his hand.

spent six hours wedding dress shopping with my best friend. i need a glass of wine and a lie down.

thought of you on the tube home

He reads the second message again.

Thought of you. 

He’d been drafting the same admission since noon and something in his chest going catastrophically hot.

are you still up? i know sundown is bedtime for your generation.

And there's the sarcasm. 

Outside the window, the sun is — he checks — still up. Barely. He's got that going for him, at least.

Just in time. Was about to take my dentures out.

Thought about you as well.

He types the second line fast before he can be a coward about it. If you can say it, he can say it. Fair's fair.

I do have a question now though. It's not your wedding we're shopping for, is it? That'd be proper inconvenient for me.

lol no! maid of honor. today was purely supervisory.

don't really see myself getting married anyway.

the dresses were stunning though!

He’s picking up on a pattern. Three messages arriving like one exhale — the vulnerable thing said flanked with distraction. 

Nothing wrong with that.

Successful trip then? Or is there another six hours coming?

successful! she found it. there were tears and champagne.

what about you, how was your saturday?

He’s had a day spent purposefully not doing the one thing he wanted to do.

Quiet. Nothing worth typing.

hm. sounds like you should ring me then…

He looks at that one for a moment and blinks, the inside of his cheek finds itself between his teeth.

For all their blabbering, the lads did not warn him about this bit. Not that he can't speak on the phone, he prefers it. You're essentially quoting his profile back at him. But he's been thinking about something since roughly the fourth time you crossed his mind today, and a phone call isn't the ask he's been building up to.

Could do.

Truthfully, though. I was just working up the courage to ask you for a drink.

Courage. He's used that word in citations, for men who ran toward gunfire, heroes. Now he’s using it to describe the act of asking a woman on a date, and the genuinely undignified part is that it's regrettably accurate.

Your reply takes a minute. He watches the dots start and stop, and start again. God, he's been shot at with less suspense.

Then your message comes through and it's just a number. Ten digits. It buzzes in his hand once more.

for logistics.

He stares at it for a beat and then he's up out of his seat. Takeaway abandoned, at the fridge with his phone still in one hand, snapping the cap off a beer on the lip of the counter, and then he's out the back door into the garden where the evening's gone navy and the air’s still warm from the day.

He saves your number first. Then he stands there a moment, beer sweating in one hand, thumb over the call button in the other.

——

You’ve just tipped the bottle over your glass when the phone starts buzzing against the counter.

Unknown Number. Local.

“John?”

“Evenin’.”

Fuck. 

His voice lands an octave lower than you were braced for. A honeyed gravel that seeps into your ear and slides thick over your spine, pooling somewhere behind your ribs.

You set the bottle down before you drop it.

“So you actually do ring,” you manage.

“Said so on the profile, I think.”

“I half thought it was a bit.”

“I don’t really do bits.”

“No,” you say through a grin, picking up your glass and drifting toward the couch. You drop your voice into a gravelly impression of him: “You’re a very serious man.”

The laugh that comes down the line is quiet — more breath than sound, warm at the bottom of it, like you’ve caught him somewhere he doesn’t usually go.

“That meant to be me?”

“It’s uncanny, I know.”

The line goes quiet a moment — the good kind, neither of you rushing to fill it — and in it you catch the sounds of his side: a whirl of breeze, the faint ring of a glass set down on iron. He’s outside. You picture a tidy yard with tall dark hedges, a big man pacing slowly with a beer.

“Am I interruptin’ the wine?”

“The wine and I are happy to share the time.”

“Good.” There's a pause that you can hear his smile in. “I have a beer out here. Seemed only fair we’re both suffering the same.”

“Are we having our drink right now? Is this it?”

“No,” he says immediately, unamused even — which is very amusing for you. “This one doesn’t count.”

The speed of his reply sends something fizzing under your sternum. You tuck your feet up under yourself and take a slow sip.

“No?” you tease.

“I had imagined I’d see your face.”

“Been imagining, have you?”

You are very glad he cannot see your face right now. Cheeks warm and strained, you press the cool of the wine glass briefly against them in turns

“Nothin’ mucky if that’s what you’re gettin’ at.”

“Mm, no, 'course not. You’ve been a proper gentleman. Haven’t even thrown me a cheeky pick-up line.”

“I could workshop somethin’ for you if you’d like.”

“No thanks,” you giggle into your glass. “It was a relief when I opened your first message and it wasn’t a riddles-three about your dick.”

You can hear his scoff and recoil on the other end.

“Is that what it’s come to?”

“Unfortunately.”

There’s a short silence you’d swear is him coming to terms with the modern world, and you bite down on a smile.

“Right,” he says, and there's a controlled shift in his voice. “My question...”

Your stomach does a free-fall, nauseating and fluttery, fifteen again on the Detonator at Thorpe Park.

“Mm?” you hum around a sip, deeply casual, a woman entirely unbothered, curled so tight around the phone that Twix doesn’t have a leg to lie on.

“There’s a pub about halfway between us, Lamb & Flag. I’d like to take you for that drink tomorrow. Will you come?”

Then you remember what tomorrow is and sigh, immediately irritated with your whole family.

“Ugh, I want to say yes,” you sulk. “But I’ve got Sunday dinner with my family tomorrow. My mum would hunt me for sport if I flaked.”

“Fair. Wouldn’t want that on my conscience.”

“I could do a weeknight? After work?”

There’s a pause on his end.

“I’d rather not promise you a weeknight,” he admits. “I rarely get away on time, and I’m not startin’ this by standin' you up.”

You go quiet for a beat, you were ready for the usual ‘ahh, well, we’ll figure something out’. But instead got a man mindful of your time; a unicorn, really.

“Also fair. And— and thoughtful.”

“Friday, then?” he tries hopefully, you catch the small lean in his voice.

“Friday’s perfect,” you agree. “It’s a date!”

“It is,” he agrees, smiling.

The conversation should end there but it doesn't.

You learn things no profile has a field for; that he talks slower than he types, that he hm's real low in his throat when he’s considering something, that when you make him laugh it rumbles, so rough at the bottom that you feel at the back of your knees.

Somewhere past the hour mark you stop scrutinizing the call for red flags and just talk, and you only notice you’ve stopped when Twix jumps onto the couch and you realize you’ve been lying down for a while, phone balanced on your ear like you’re seventeen.

Eventually, you yawn.

“Right,” he says, and you can hear him moving, standing up by the way he tries to muffle a stiff groan. “That’s my cue.”

“Aw, no! I’m fine, really.”

“It’s late, love. And you’ve got your family tomorrow.”

“True. And you’ve got… whatever it is old men do on Sundays.”

“Lie-in, according to my profile.”

“Ha!” you bark, vindicated alone in your living room, having forgot about his little 'two truths and a lie'. “That’s the lie, I bet. I don’t think you’ve ever had a lie-in in your life.”

A low sound of amusement rolls down the line. “Goodnight,” he says, declining to confirm.

“Night, John.”

You sit a minute in the amber shine of your lamp after the line goes dead, phone loose in your hand.

——

Sunday morning, you text him at 8:12 AM.

good morning. how was the lie-in?

Wouldn’t know. Been up since five.

the lie confirmed!

He doesn’t dignify it. You don’t expect him to. You grin at your phone while you wait for the kettle to boil.

Your mum will later describe you, over dinner, as ‘suspiciously cheerful’.

The day swallows you — the drive, the roast, your mum’s questions, your brother’s kids. It’s near ten when you’re finally home, shoes off, replying to the last thing he’d sent that morning.

survived. my mum sends her regards to whoever put me in a good mood. her words.

Regards received. Sleep well.

——

Monday morning, John’s at his desk with his coffee going cold because somewhere between the canteen and the walk to his office, his phone buzzed, and it was you and he hasn’t stopped looking at it. 

good morning :) big meeting today. does this say “promote me” or “she tried”?

[ PHOTO ATTACHMENT ]

You, in your hallway mirror — chin tipped, black short-sleeve blouse with a wide collar exposing the smooth skin of your upper chest and collar, grey pencil skirt stretched over the curve of your hips and thighs, one knee bent like you’d just been lowering your foot from fitting on your heel.

His eyes are stuck on the soft-looking flesh just above and between your knees when a rap lands on his door and forces a cough from his throat.

Johnny eases it open with Kyle behind him holding a folder, Simon's behind them both, holding nothing, not even a pretense.

His phone goes face-down on the desk at a compromising speed, shifting to sit up straigher.

Simon’s eyes go to John’s hand over the phone, then to his face before he leans in the doorway with his arms folded.

“Mornin’, Cap. Good weekend?” Johnny asks, falling into the side chair in front of the desk with a theatrical groan.

“Fine.”

“Aye? Do anythin'?” He smiles, waggling his eyebrows. “Anyone?”

“You’ve got thirty seconds to develop a work reason for being in my office, Sergeant.”

It's an empty threat and everyone in the room knows it.

Kyle sets the (empty) folder down and steps back behind Johnny. “How’s it going, sir? Did you have any luck with Hinge?”

John could make them work for it. He’d planned to. But all three of them are standing in front of him trying so hard to look casual it’s a wonder none of them have pulled something.

"Have a date Friday. Drinks."

Johnny is ready to blast out of his seat, but Kyle shoves him back down by the shoulders, digging his fingers into the pressure points on either side of his neck until he relents with a hiss.

"That's great. Same woman or…?"

"The same."

“Good, good, good,” Johnny says, and means it — John can hear that he means it, he can also hear the restraint he's keeping from unloading shite advice.

“We'll stop buy Saturday for the debrief,” Simon says, already turning around, and Kyle picks the folder back up like it had a purpose all along, and they file out the way they came.

"I'm not debriefing you on my date. Don't come!" John calls to them half-heartedly, but the door's already shutting on top of his words. 

He turns the phone back over.

Promote you, he types.

You look lovely.

Your reply comes before he’s picked his pen back up.

well now the meeting feels easy. thank you x

He gets on with his morning, but by noon he suspects he's looked at that damn photo a dozen times.

——

The rest of the week goes standard. Your Tuesday runs long and his Wednesday runs longer, and the messages carry throughout it all. His texts arrive before your morning alarm even sounds, your replies go mid-commute — nothing heavy, just remaining in each other's orbit of interest as Friday chugs slowly into view.

Thursday night, near nine, he rings you, having first texted to ask if he could, which you’re beginning to understand is just how he’s built. It’s a short call by your new standards with him. He only wanted to confirm you’re still on for the pub, but he had you grinning into your pillow until you fell asleep.

———

You leave work at five on the dot, and you’re in front of your open wardrobe by six.

The little black dress comes off the rail first. Goes back. Comes off again. Back. The floral one gets as far as your shoulders before you pull it off over your head and drop it on the bed, where Twix immediately sits on it.

The silky baby blue halter’s been hanging on the door since you bought it. You put it on like you hadn’t already decided and do the tie at the back of your neck twice before the bow sits flat and neat. You pull on some jeans and rummage the closet for your chunky heels. 

You press some strawberry perfume to your throat in the mirror and try to comfort the nerve-ridden woman in the reflection.

“It’s just a pub,” you tell her. 

She doesn’t seem convinced. 

———

The pub is exactly the kind of place you imagine he'd frequent — quiet, all old mahogany and low brass lamps, no telly anywhere. You claim a stool, hook your heel over the rung, and decide not to order anything yet simply because it just feels polite to wait.

You're fifteen minutes early which means you're left alone with your anxieties. 

The last of the sun lies across the bar top in warm stripes, and you trace one with a finger while you wait. 

You’ve done this before, and it almost never goes how the phone promises. There was the guy whose photos were six years out of date. The one who spent both drinks talking about his ex and then sent a payment request for half the tab. The one who, two hours in, hadn’t asked you a single question about yourself. And John has been too good to be true for a week, and you know how that saying ends. Tonight is where you find out how, find out he really is just a man between deployments looking for entertainment and a shag.

It felt good, though. All week. Being excited about something. You’d forgotten the feeling. 

You pick at the hangnail on your thumb until it stings.

You don’t have to wait much longer for him. 

He casts a shadow when he comes through the door. Broad. Tall. Smart olive polo fighting for its stitching across his chest and where it grips into his biceps. He’s tidied his beard in comparison to his photos, hair less kempt in a purposeful way.

He scans the whole room before he finds you and stops looking anywhere else. He smiles tight and restrained, pleasant, but like he’s pacing himself, and by the time he crosses to you, your tongue has gone dry and whatever you’d planned to open with has shriveled away.

“Hey,” he says.

“Hi,” you smile.

He smells clean, a bit like pine and amber, and faintly like there’s tobacco somewhere on his collar.

“You’re early,” he adds, almost pleased.

“So are you.”

“I’m always early.” His eyes drop to the empty bar top in front of you, then come back. “You haven’t ordered?”

You shake your head once, legs shifting to cross. “I wanted— I was waiting for you.”

The lines beside his eyes deepen and he holds out his hand, says your name for the first time, and his hand swallows yours — big and dry and calloused across the palm where yours is soft — and you hold on a beat too long. He doesn’t mention it. You add that to the list of things you like about him, which is getting embarrassing for something four minutes old.

“What’ll you have?”

“Uhm, whatever you’re having,” you decide.

He signals the bartender with two fingers and opens his mouth — and there’s a brief second where he looks at you first, and you notice for the first time that his eyes are blue, and you get stuck, and it seems so does he. By the time he looks back, he’s lost the name of the beer he’s drunk here a dozen times.

“Two of the, uh— the local,” he manages.

You pretend not to notice. He knows you did.

He pulls out the stool beside you, and more of his cologne wafts around you as he sits, turned to face you, legs spread, one knee pointing between yours.

The pints arrive wet from the tap, and for a second neither of you says anything at all. You trace a bead of condensation down your glass.

“Funny, isn’t it,” you offer, sheepish. “We’ve talked every day for a week, and the second we’re actually in front of each other…” You trail off, cheeks warming, eyes fixed on the fizz jumping over the rim of your beer.

“You’re nervous?” he asks, a cheeky lilt on it.

“A bit, yeah. Aren’t you?”

“Not at all.”

You squint at him. “I don’t know if I buy that.”

“Hm.” He takes a sip that lasts a little too long, and the tips of his ears have gone pink.

Your cheeks are doing about the same. You drink your beer — cold, hop-bitter, helping — and let him have his lie. It’s a generous lie anyway. It’s a lie shaped like a man trying, and you’ve been handed far worse shapes.

“So,” you start. “I haven’t asked why you’re even on Hinge. You don’t seem the type.”

“I’m not,” he chuckles, and offers nothing beyond it.

You wait. He just sips his beer. You hike a brow.

“That’s it? That’s your answer?”

“Well, it wasn’t my idea. The lads put me on it.”

“The lads — your guys from work?”

“Yeah.”

“They what, talked you into it?”

“No.” He turns his glass a degree. “They nicked my phone and made the profile behind my back.”

“And what made them do that?”

He takes a moment with that one. He could give you a cover story — you can almost watch him weigh one — but then he doesn’t.

“Their assessment,” he laughs to himself, “was that I’d been… cranky. Needed gettin’ out of the house.”

“Cranky?” you repeat, delighted.

“Their exact words were a bit different.”

“Hm.” You look at him — at ease, half a smile living in his beard, one arm resting along the bar. “You don’t seem cranky to me.”

“Yeah, well. Guess they were right, then.”

Your neck goes hot and you have to look away from him. “Well,” you manage. “They do good work, your committee.”

He huffs into his pint, and lets you recover.

“Okay, next one, then. Military.” You tip your glass toward him. “What do you actually do?”

He sets his beer down and you can see him carefully choosing which door to open. “What d’you want to know?”

“I don’t know. What’s your day look like?”

“Depends on the day. Paperwork, mostly. Meetings.” A beat. “Sometimes we go away.”

“Away?”

“Away.”

“For how long?”

“As long as it takes.”

“Doing…?”

“Whatever they need me to,” he says easily. “S’not me being mysterious. I’d tell you if I could.”

“That must be so strange, though. Having this whole— like, most of your life you can’t talk about.”

“You get used to it.” Then, because you’re still looking at him expectantly, not filling the space the way people usually do: “There’s loads I can say. Ask me what six weeks of rain in a jungle smells like. Or what a month in the desert does to your skin.”

“What’s a month in the desert do to your skin?”

“Nothing good, love,” he answers, shifting to face you better. “The beard’s load-bearing.”

You laugh into your beer, and it makes the next one easier to ask.

“Do you like it? Like, the whole life of it?”

He goes quiet on that one. Longer than he’s gone quiet on anything else you’ve asked. You can see him thinking on it. 

“It’s what I’m best at,” he says finally. And then, mostly to his glass: “It’s all I’ve known, really. Been doin’ it since sixteen.”

You turn that over. There’s a whole life folded up in that sentence and you notice you want to ask about all of it, which is not a thing you’ve wanted to do with a man in a very long time.

The second beers arrive, and the conversation stops keeping to lanes — his lads and your best friend, the wedding in October, the neighbor whose bins are apparently a whole saga. You’re midway through the story of your work feud when a birthday party arrives loud and glittering behind you, and John, without so much as glancing down, reaches down and hooks his hand under the edge of your stool, and pulls.

The whole thing drags six inches across the floor with you on it, your knee sliding neatly between his, close enough now that his voice drops to match the new distance. You’re looking up at him, pulse tapping somewhere that has your thighs pressing together. 

“Go on,” he encourages. “She said what?”

It takes you a moment to find your place, but you go on.

The bar only gets louder from there, the birthday table multiplying, and when a booth opens up in the back corner, John tips his chin at it.

“Go grab that,” he says, turning back to the bar. “I’ll get another round. Want the same?”

“Actually—” and you hesitate out of nothing but habit, out of years of a man’s face going tight when you complicate an order, “—could I do a vodka cranberry this time? I could get the round—”

His brows furrow with something akin to bafflement, brief and genuine. “You can have whatever you’d like,” he says, and suddenly you feel silly, your hand crossing to grip your elbow.

“No—I know. I just—”

“Whatever you’d like,” he repeats, gentler. “And—” he grimaces, like what he’s about to say pains him deeply. “Don’t ever offer to pay on a date with me again. Properly wind me up, that will.”

“S-sorry,” you shake your head, like you can rattle the habit loose.

“None of that either,” his eyes have gone crinkled at the corners, warm all the way through, and he raps two knuckles soft on the bar top like the matter’s settled. “Vodka cranberry. Go, sit.”

“Actually— I’m gonna go freshen up quickly. Two minutes.”

And you go, biting down on a smile, ears hot — embarrassed and looked after all at once, which is apparently a combination that works on you.

The bathroom is cooler than the bar and a quiet that leaves your ears ringing. You reapply some lipgloss and wash your hands and look at yourself in the dirty mirror, buzzing warm at the collarbones, eyes shiny, mouth half-curved.

It’s going well.

It’s going suspiciously well.

And every time it’s gone well before, this is exactly when you started hunting for the catch. So you dry your hands on the rough paper towel and leave before you can start.

He’s in the booth when you come back, settled against the wall side, the last of the evening gone from the windows and the lamp above him glowing gold over the table. Your drink is waiting — pink, iced, a lime wedged on the rim — set neatly across the table at the seat opposite.

You look at the seat opposite.

Then you slide in beside him instead. Your thigh a heated inch from his, reaching across to relocate your drink.

You don’t look at him, but you can tell John’s a bit curious of the arrangement. His arm comes up and settles along the back of the booth behind you, and it oddly feels like it was always going to end up here, his thumb grazing the bare skin of your shoulder. He picks up his beer with the other hand.

“Comfortable?” he asks, low, and with entirely too much satisfaction.

“I am,” you say, and the first sip of the vodka cranberry is cold and tart and sweet all the way down, blooming behind your sternum right where his voice has been landing all night.

The booth is easier than the bar, somehow — closer, quieter, the birthday party more muted — and the talk drifts wherever it wants, his low laugh arriving against your shoulder through the arm behind you. At some point the lull comes; ice softening in your glass, his thumb resting an inch from your shoulder. And maybe it’s the vodka, or the arm, or the running list of things you like about him that you’d need both hands to count now—

“How long ago was your last relationship? Like a real one.”

He takes a deep breath before answering. “Honest answer?”

“Preferably,” you giggle softly, and he smiles — most of it lost in the beard, enough that you wonder if there are dimples under there.

“Longer than what sounds good out loud,” he admits through the pull of it. 

“Say it out loud anyway.”

“I was thirty-two. So, almost ten years ago.”

“Ten.”

“Mm.”

“A whole decade.”

“You can stop countin’ the years to me at any time, love.”

“Sorry, sorry.” You’re grinning. He is too. “It’s just, quite the gap in romance.”

“It went quick,” he says, and it’s a joke, and it’s also not. “What about you?”

“Ended about a year ago, we were together four.”

“Mm.”

“It was fine. Amicable— mostly,” you shrug. 

“Mostly,” he repeats — not pushing, just setting the word down where you can see he heard it.

“Mostly,” you confirm, and leave it there.

The ice ticks in your glass. And the next question’s been sitting in your chest, so you take it out while you’re brave.

“Can I ask something and you not be offended?”

“Startin’ well,” he says, nodding on for you to continue. 

You settle further into the booth and your shoulders press against his warm arm behind you, his fingers brushing over your shoulder. You lean your head back, turned to his face. 

“What’s changed? Between thirty-two and now that you’re trying dating?” You mean just to ask the question, but you find yourself rambling on. “Because if the honest answer is nothing, and this is just— a-a hookup with, like, really good manners, that’s fine. Genuinely. I’d just rather know now.”

“Fair,” he says. “Asked myself the same thing this week.”

“Yeah? And what was the answer?”

“I’m tired of the quiet,” he starts, pausing as his eyes drift away in thought. They come back to you just as quick. “Used to come home to it like a reward. Now it just feels… empty.”

Something in your chest slides sideways.

“So, no. Not a hookup,” he continues with a breath. “But I can’t promise you’d be happy with the alternative either. I can be gone longer than I’m home.” His thumb brushes along your shoulder, once, like an apology.

“Guess I wouldn’t know unless I gave it a go.”

You say it lightly, and the exhale he lets out has a smile riding on it — and something in his shoulders comes down, some held thing you didn’t notice until it let go.

“No,” he agrees, low. “You wouldn’t.”

You’re suddenly aware of the distance between you — or the lack of it. Somewhere between sitting down and the vodka you’ve ended up awfully close: near enough to count the grey threaded through his beard, to catch the beer on his breath, near enough that the light between you has stopped reaching the space. Near enough that you can feel the heat coming off him, and your heartrate has picked up on it before the rest of you has.

His eyes flick down to your mouth. Quick — half a second, there and back — but you catch it, and it lands low in your stomach and stays.

Neither of you leans back.

And the pub carries on behind you — glasses clinking, the birthday table shouting, a till drawer slamming — all of it arriving from somewhere far off and dreamlike.

You move closer. Barely. Imperceptible. Your pulse is in your ears now, drumming out the last of your sense—

“You know,” you say, quiet, pitched for the six inches between you and nobody else, “you can kiss me. If you’d like.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Mhm,” you grin.

“Well,” he says, matching your volume, low enough that it lands somewhere below hearing, “I was going to be a gentleman about it. Wait til I walked you out.” His gaze drops to your mouth again, slower this time, no secret. “But if you’d rather have it here in the booth, I won’t argue.”

“I suppose I could be patient.”

“Mm,” he says, and doesn’t move.

Somewhere in the world, presumably, time is passing.

His jaw shifts. 

“I’ll go pay the tab,” he decides.

And you’re both up and out of the booth quick, and you watch him stand at the bar with his back to you, shoulders set, and you press one cool knuckle to your own cheek and find it burning.

You two make it out the door.

The night’s gone hazy and July-thick, and you get maybe four steps down the side of the pub with his hand a light at the small of your back before you glance up at him and he glances down.

Whatever was left of patient dies right there on the pavement.

He moves you.

One hand finding your hip, the other your jaw, and then your back meets brick, warm through the thin of your blouse and against your bare shoulders, and his mouth is on yours.

Whatever mindful version he’d planned for the end of his gentlemanly walk out must have been spent in the booth — this is the interest. The kiss opens on a low rumble out of his chest, one you feel travel through his ribs into yours, and his tongue slides against yours, all beer and him, and you grip the front of his shirt with both fists just incase the wall behind you vanishes.

He kisses you thoroughly, his beard catching along your chin, a chafe you know you’ll feel tomorrow. A thigh slots half between yours, not pushing, not touching, but it’s not any less inviting. You could bare down on it, get the friction your body is craving, he’d let you, but you restrain yourself. His thumb strokes a slow line along your jaw in obscene contrast to what his mouth is doing — and it blooms down through you, fervid, liquescent.

He pulls back just far enough to breathe — forehead near yours, both of you loud with catching your breath — and when you open your eyes his are dark.

“Very gentlemanly,” you croon.

“I walked you out first, yeah?” he says, unrepentant.

You giggle against his mouth, and he claims it for himself with one more gentle kiss, and then he steps back a seemly distance, hand smoothing once down over his beard, shoulders resetting, breath evening out, everything going back in its place except his eyes.

“Walk me home?” you ask.

“I drove. I’ll give you a lift.”

You look up at him, all vodka-warm and enjoying yourself. “Well, just so you know, I share my location with my best friend and she knows exactly what pub I’m at, and has your name and photo, so—”

“Good,” he replies, no hesitation. “Smart girl. Keep it that way.” He finds his keys, fishing them out of his pocket. “I’m taking you straight home. You have my word.”

He draws an X over his heart, your lipgloss shining at the corner of his crooked mouth. 

——

The car smells like-new — clean upholstery and faintly of engine oil, everything squared away, nothing rolling around in the footwells.

The drive is short. The radio murmurs. His hand rests easy on the gearstick a few inches from your knee — close enough that you spend two full streets aware of nothing else — and the streetlights slide over him in slow bars, catching the grey at his temple and the small satisfied set of his mouth. 

The kiss is still thrumming under your skin like a struck glass, low in your belly, at the back of your knees — and you catch yourself doing the thing you swore off doing: imagining forward. Him in your doorway. Him in your kitchen on the weekend. Him coming home from wherever away is and it being your door he— 

You look out the window. Four miles has never taken so long.

He pulls up outside your building and sets the handbrake, and the engine idles, and neither of you move.

The dashboard glow makes everything blue. 

You want to ask him up. That's not the question; that got settled somewhere around the second kiss in the alley, possibly earlier, possibly around the moment he walked into the pub, or whatever. But there's the other thing you can't evict from your head: do you really want to sleep with him on the first date?

"So," you say.

"So…”

You look at him — streetlight in the grey of his beard, arm along the wheel, he’s in absolutely no hurry to resolve you.

"Did you have a good time tonight?"

His head turns. There's a beat where he just looks at you, and you watch him physically decide not to make a joke of it.

"Yes. Best night I've had in a while," he says. 

"Would you—" and god, you're thirty years old and your heart is doing this anyway, "—want to see me again? Like this?"

"Was already plannin' to ask you to dinner." A small crease starts at the corner of his eye. "Was workin' out whether to do it now or ring you tomorrow, so I didn't seem overly—"

"Keen?"

"Keen," he confirms, gravely, like the word's been a burden to him all week.

And that lands warm and the relief does something reckless to your mouth, which is that it stops guarding it.

"Okay. Then I'm going to say something, but you can't look at me while I say it."

“Right.” He scrubs a hand over his twitching lips and looks out the windshield, obedient.

"I want to ask you up."

"Mm."

"And I'm having a whole debate about it."

"I can hear it," he says. "Been losin' to the engine for about a minute now."

"Just—,” you sigh, “—shut up." But you're smiling at the dashboard. "It's just— I spent all week wondering if this was a hookup thing for you. And you answered that, and I believe you, I do. But there's this small, paranoid part of me that's like, well, that's exactly what a man would say at the pub, isn't it? And then there's this other, stupider part that thinks if you come up, you'll—" you take a deep breath, your fingers hooking into each other on your lap, and make yourself finish it, "—think less of me. First date and all."

He's quiet for a second, lips pursing. 

“Can I look at you now?” he tries.

“Yeah.”

"You want to know where I'm actually at?"

"Truly just desperate for a man to be honest so I know what headspace to put myself in."

“Alright.” He shifts to face you, wrist still hanging over the wheel. “I want to come up. Badly, if you want some extra honesty.”

The badly goes straight between your thighs.

“Okay,” you manage. “Noted.”

“I haven’t lied to you once tonight. And I’m takin’ you to dinner whether I come up or not.”

“And, like— you wouldn’t think—”

“Think less of you?” He frowns, like the math’s not mathing. “For doin’ the same thing I’d be doing? Together?”

“When you put it like that…”

“For what it’s worth, I’m sat here havin’ a version of the same debate. Been out of this a long time. Didn’t want you thinkin’ that’s all I came for. So if you’d rather I kiss you at the door and drive home, I’ll do that and consider it a perfect evening.”

And maybe it’s the ease of him, the total absence of pressure you’re always braced for on nights like this, that settles it for you. 

“Would you like to come up?”

——

The stairwell smells of somebody's late dinner and warm dust, the day's heat still trapped in it, and you take the stairs ahead of him to the second floor.

John is a gentleman.

John has been a gentleman all night.

John gives himself the length of one flight of stairs off the clock — the sway of you in those jeans, the shift and give of you with every step, the smooth line of your bare shoulders under the halter's little bow — and by the landing he's a gentleman again, and if you felt his eyes like a brand on you, and by the half-smirk you throw over your shoulder you did, neither of you says a word about it.

Your flat smells like you — the perfume he got to know at the pub, but underneath it, clean laundry, a candle burned down sometime this week — and a blur of black-and-caramel bolts across the living room and vanishes down the hall before he can so much as get a look at her.

"That was Twix," you say, her paws still pattering away. "She'll start her background check and circle back."

"Sensible."

And then the two of you are standing in your living room with the whole car’s worth of honesty sitting in the middle of the floor, and you look at him, and look at the kitchen, and say:

"Do you want a drink? I have wine. Or, um. Tea? I might have a beer from—"

"I'm alright," his mouth pulls at one side. 

"Water? I'm gonna have water."

"Then I'll have water," he says like he’s surrendering. 

He watches you go — and he could laugh, not at you, but because he knows exactly what he’s looking at. The two of you agreed in plain English on why he’s standing here, and now you’re in your kitchen filling glasses neither of you want, and wiping down a counter that, from where he’s stood, was already clean. 

So he gives you room. Settles against the arm of the couch, takes a slow lap of your shelf with his eyes — you and a woman he guesses is the October bride, you on a hike somewhere sunny, you and Twix bravely on the balcony — and he wants you the whole time, low and patient, in his back teeth, but doesn’t move on it.

 Your pace. Your move.

You come back with the waters, and hand him his, and hold your own in both hands like you might drop it. He takes a sip, looks at you over the rim of it.

“You’re nervous,” he says.

“Not at all.”

“Mm.” He nods slowly, deeply unconvinced and taking a page from your own book. “Don’t know if I buy that.”

He watches it land, watches the laugh come up out of you before you can stop it, head tipping back, throat bare, and half your nerves seem to leave with it.

He likes that. 

He sets his glass down. Then, gently, he takes yours out of your mid-fidget hands and sets it down too — he tips your chin up with one knuckle, and kisses you.

Easy-like, cold from the water, cranberry still faint on your tongue, your breath catches once against his mouth and then lets go. Your hands slide flat up his chest and stop over his heart — which is going quicker than he’d care to admit, and he feels the exact moment you find it out, the little hum of discovery you make.

When you pull back to look at him, whatever nerves were left in you are gone from your eyes, and they’re twinkly a lot like the first photo he ever saw of you. 

You take his hand off your waist, lace it through yours, and guide him backward toward the short hall.

In your bedroom he finds the tie of your halter at the back of your neck and pauses with the ends between his fingers, silk warm from your body. One pull and it gives, the fabric sighing loose, and he follows it slide down with his eyes first, then his mouth — the slope of your throat, over your shoulder, then the soft skin below your ear that tastes of strawberry perfume and salt. His beard drags over your neck and a shiver flows through you so he does it again, slower. You shiver harder, fingers curling into the front of his polo.

Good.

You tug the hem of his shirt up and he reaches back, pulls it off over his head one-handed, and drops it somewhere he’ll look for later. He unhooks your bra just as easily, and when your palms spread into the coarse hair over his bare chest and down his toned stomach, the muscle jumps under your fingertips, he hears his own breath go rough.

“Okay,” you say, a little wonder in it. “Wow, yeah, that’s….”

“Mm?”

“Nothing. Just— I knew military, just didn’t realize… this much military.”

“Lodging a complaint?” he askes, amused.

“Definitely not.”

The rest goes gradually — his belt, your jeans peeled down warm thighs with his calloused palms flat against your skin the whole way, a hop and a giggle when the denim catches your ankle and he steadies you by the elbow — and then you’re bare in front of him, lamplight pooling gold along your shoulder, your hip, the soft curve of your stomach. He stops with his hands at your waist and looks.

“Say something,” you murmur, half a laugh, shy at last under the attention. “You’re oggling.”

“I am.” His thumbs press slow arcs into your hips. “Give me a minute. Been picturin’ this since Tuesday and I did you no justice.”

You pull him down onto the bed by way of an answer, and the mattress sinks with a soft complaint, and then it’s just skin — so much warm skin, soft everywhere he’s hard, giving under his hands, smelling of perfume and the clean sweat July dampens into everyone.

He stretches out alongside you, one heavy thigh over yours, and takes his time. The curve of your waist. The full weight of your breast, thumb dragging over your nipple until it peaks and your breath stutters. The inside of your thigh, where the skin is finest and the heat pools. You move under his touch the whole time, restless and rising, fingers in his hair, at his shoulders, and the small sounds you make land somewhere at the base of his neck and prickle there.

Then he shifts down the bed, kisses the soft of your stomach, the plush crease of your hip, and looks up the length of you.

“Can I?”

“You— yes,” you breathe, trembling feebly. “Yes, obviously, you don’t have to a—”

His mouth is on you before the sentence ends.

You’re sweet and slick against his tongue, already so wet the first slow lick slides easy, and the sound you make is high and caught somewhere low, thigh twitching against his ear, one hand flying to his hair. He hums — feels you feel it — and settles in. No rush. Long soft strokes of his tongue until your hips learn the rhythm and rise to meet it, then his lips close warm around your clit, sucking gently, and your whole body pulls tight.

“Oh my god— okay— okay—”

“Mm.”

“Don’t be smug—” and your voice climbs off the end of the sentence as he slides two thick fingers into you, curling them, tongue still working, and whatever the rest of that scolding was, he never learns it.

“Could do this all night, sweetheart,” he murmurs against you, and feels the words land in a shudder. Your breathing changes. Your thighs start trembling, your hand fists in the sheets — and he keeps the pace exactly the same until you’re pulling at him. Hair, arm, anything you can reach.

“John— John— come— I want you. Now,” you whine, “Please.”

He comes up the length of you slow, mouth mapping stomach and sternum and throat on the way, and settles over you on one forearm—

"I should've said this in the car," he starts, eyes on yours. "I don't have a condom. Wasn't assuming tonight would end up here."

"I don't have any either. I actually checked the drawer before I left tonight." You push his dampening hair back off his forehead. "I'm on the pill, and I trust you. But I'd still feel better if you pull out. Is that okay?"

He nods assuredly. "Then I'll pull out," he says flat and plain. "You have my word."

"You and your word—" but you're smiling, and then you're not smiling, because he's already moved and taken himself in hand and dragged the head of his cock through your folds, coating himself in you, and notched against your entrance, and the smile falls open into something much, much better.

He pushes in slow, watches your face the entire way — he couldn't look elsewhere if a grenade went off — your brows drawing up, your lips parting around a breath that doesn't finish, your nails biting little crescents into his forearms — and fuck, the feel of you: scalding, soaked, tight enough that he has to stop twice, jaw clenched, sweat sliding at his temple, feeding you his cock an inch at a time and pulling back, then giving you more; the slick easy give of you around him unspooling something in his stomach.

"Talk to me," he murmurs, gravel-low. "Alright?"

"Yes." Your voice has gone breathless and small and blissed. "You're— god—"

"Christ, you’re snug," he exhales shakily, eyes finding yours. “Relax for me, baby. Breathe.”

"I am breath—oh. Oh—shhit—"

John’s seated all the way, hips flush to your backside, and both of you go quiet — a shared beat of stillness, you fluttering around him hot and full, his body coming down, forehead dropping to yours, ten months of silence pulling a sound up out of his chest that he couldn't have stopped if he knew it was coming.

Then you shift your hips, experimental, a slow grind up against him, and that stillness is over.

He moves slowly; long level strokes dragging all the way out so you both feel every hot stretch of the return, your breasts pressing soft against his hairy chest. Your heels slide up the back of his thighs and he budges his hips closer, holding deep and pressing the head of his cock into your furthest wall. Your hands squeeze the meat between his shoulders and his neck as he pushes a small squeal out of you. 

"Right there—right there—right there, don't—"

"I won’t," he murmurs against your jaw. “I won’t move.”

"—okay maybe move a little—"

He breathes something restrained through a smile. "Make your mind up, darling," he grunts. 

“It’s hard to— mmm—think like this,” you half-moan against his cheek. 

“Don’t think, then.”

It’s all your talking that undoes him more than anything, he realizes distantly. He’d forgotten there was a version of this with laughing in it; a version with a woman eagerly gripping him and grinning against his cheek in the second before a moan carries her voice away — and every time you say his name, breathed and broken, something in his chest cinches another notch tighter.

He draws back and drives home again, and whatever you’d been about to answer with comes out as a punched huff.

You don’t think.

He feels the difference in you immediately — your body dropping the manners, hips rising to meet him harder than he’s giving it, heels dragging him in by the thighs on every stroke, a low frustrated sound building in your throat when he keeps the same controlled pace. You’re not asking for anything. You’re taking it in inches, greedy and unaware of yourself, nails dragging down the small of his back, pulling—

“Harder?” he asks against your ear. 

"Yes, please."

He hooks your knee up over his hip and opens you wider—“So polite.”—and gives it to you deeper, his weight behind it, your headboard cracking against the wall. You go loud and lovely underneath him, clutching, slick heat and plush skin and your nails scoring lines down his back that he hopes, viciously, will last long enough to admire.

He works a hand between your bodies, thumb finding your clit, riding the motion you’ve bkth created.

"That's— John— You’re gonna make me come," you sob. 

"I know. I feel you. Squeezin' me like— Christ. Go on—fuck."

He watches it arrive before you do, a shiver running ahead of the wave; your spine arches up off the bed, your cunt clenches around him in long pulsing, aching, waves —  it takes you under, and you pull him with you.  

He holds you, murmuring filth and praise in equal measure against your ear—

How good—

How gorgeous—

You’re mine now, you know that? Hm?—

It’s watching you eagerly nod along with his babbling that finishes him. He lasts maybe ten more strokes on borrowed time, heat gathering alacritous and irrevocable at the base of his groin — and he rears back onto his knees, pulling out of you with a growl that tumbles from his throat, fist working his cock over, soaked with you, spilling hot across your stomach and hip in thick ropes, head hanging, shoulders heaving, your thighs still bracketing his knees.

When he lifts his head, you’re already looking at him.

Glowing down to your chest, lips parted and kiss-swollen, wearing him low on your stomach — and neither of you says anything. Neither of you looks away either. His chest is still heaving. Your knee presses in against his side, and the corner of your mouth starts to curl, and his does too, helpless about it.

He comes down on his side, careful of the mess he’s made of you, one arm heavy across the pillow above your head. The curtain breathes at the window beside the bed and the night comes in and cools the sweat on his back, and he can see your heartbeat going hard at your throat, the rise and fall of your stomach not yet settled. He gently fits his thumb against your pulse, just to feel it going. 

He kisses you, your mouth lazy under his, and then your temple, and the crown of your head, and you make a low, boneless sound and turn your face into his hot neck, and the two of you just lie there breathing each other in, tangled and settling, your finger drawing slow shapes on his forearm.

"John?" Small, against his throat.

"Mm?"

"Would you mind grabbing me a cloth? Bathroom's just across the hall."

He's up before the sentence finishes, annoyed at his own carcass the whole three steps to the door, ten months out of practice and it shows, he used to know this part, the part where he takes care of you before you have to ask.

You bathroom is small and smells of your shampoo, fruity, herbal. He runs a flannel under the warm tap, wrings it out, catches his own eyes in the mirror over the sink — wrecked hair, beard ruined and shiny with your lipgloss. He turns, craning his neck spotting a blooming red scratch coming up nicely at his shoulder.

He comes back and cleans you up properly, kneeling on the edge of the bed, one hand steady at your hip while the warm cloth moves over your stomach — thorough about it, frowning slightly the way he does when he’s concentrating — and you watch him do it propped up on your elbows with an expression he can't quite read and doesn't need to. It's warm, whatever it is. And it’s aimed at him, so.

"You're staring," he says, not looking up. 

"You're tidying me."

"Should've done it before you asked." He folds the cloth, sets it on the nightstand, and stretches out beside you again, this time gathering you into his chest. "Out of practice."

"I'll allow it," you say, magnanimous, settling your cheek against his pec. "The rest was very in-practice."

He huffs into your hair.

Your fingers trail idle through the hair on his chest, down over old pinked scars, and you ask him about them — whether the jagged line at his shoulder hurt, what caused the puckered one under his ribs — and he answers more honestly than he means to, your weight settling heavier against him as the adrenaline drains.

There's a soft thump from the hallway, then, and a moment later a small shape appears in the doorway — sits, tail wrapping her feet, and surveys the wreckage: the trail of clothes, the stranger man in the bed, you draped over his ribs.

She stares at John.

John stares back.

"We have an audience," he says.

You look over him to see your cat, "Twix, John. John, Twix."

Twix holds his gaze a moment longer, supremely unimpressed, then steps delicately over his discarded shirt and exits the way she came and he feels you giggling before he hears it, the shake of it against his chest.

"That went well," you say, overly pleased. 

“Yeah?”

“Mhm.”

"Well, consider me chuffed."

Some comfortable minutes later he feels you surface a little out of the drowse, feels your breathing change, going careful; feels your face arrange itself against his skin before you speak. 

"You don't have to stay, by the way." Light. Smooth as eroded stone, polished by use, he imagines. "If you'd sleep better in your own bed. No pressure either way."

And there it is — the same maneuver from your texts, the honest thing dressed up so you can't be caught caring — except this time he can feel your heartbeat while you run it, quick against his ribs, betraying the whole performance from inside. 

He keeps his hand moving on your arm, slow, so you know nothing's landed wrong.

"I'll head home," he says. "Not because I want to," he clarifies.

“No?” you ask. 

"Believe me. This is about the last place I want to leave." His hand doesn't stop, slow up, slow down, steadying you through it. "I'd like at least one proper dinner between us before I go makin' a habit of your bed."

You lift your head off his chest and look at him — hair wrecked, eyes searching his face for the trick — and he lets you look as long as you need to because there's no trick to be found. He meant it. 

“Alright," you agree. 

“Yeah?”

“Yes. Dinner sounds nice.”

"Mm," he hums, contented. He presses a kiss into your hair and untangles himself, face scrunched with visible reluctance, and dresses while you watch from the bed with the sheet gathered loose around you.

At the door he stops. 

"C'mere."

You come to him in the sheet, and he kisses you properly, one hand cupping your face, thumb at your cheek. You go languid against him. He takes his time. Long past politeness. Long enough that leaving starts to look renegotiable, and he breaks away before he starts. 

"G’night," he says, low, still holding your face.

"Goodnight."

"I'll ring you about dinner tomorrow."

——

The flat is quiet. But it's a different quiet than the one you left this morning and you stand in the middle of it grinning.

Twix reappears at the edge of the counter and stares. 

“I don’t need the lecture, I’m grown,” you tell her and start walking back to the bedroom, you hear her little jump to the floor and her feather steps catching up with you, “I can have sex. I deserve it, even.” You drop into your bed with a sigh. “You’d understand if you still had ovaries.”

[tays-writing]

Satoru Gojo x Reader

Eight months have passed since your breakup with Satoru. So why was he still thinking about you?

CW: NSFW. Dry humping, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, dirty talk, praise kink, multiple orgasms, sexual overstimulation. Jealousy, mutual pining, light angst w happy ending. Fluff & smut.

10.9k words

Before you even suggested the breakup, he’d been thinking about it too. After a year together, university had pulled you too far apart. There was no more time for dates, movie nights, or mornings spent eating breakfast together.

You told yourselves it was for the best — that love wasn’t enough if you didn’t have the time to enjoy it. You were adults; you were going to move on.

Or so he thought, until he saw you walking a little too close to another guy.

He was making you laugh, and Satoru noticed you lean in slightly, playfully punching him in the arm.

Satoru frowned. It’s fine. You’re not together anymore. It was for the best. 

But then the idiot guy put his arm around your shoulders — too comfortable, too familiar, too intimate to be friendly.

Satoru clicked his tongue and looked away. He wasn’t jealous. He refused to be jealous. 

You were free to date whoever you wanted. You’d agreed to break up. You were adults. Mature. Rational.

So why did it still feel like you were his, even when you weren’t? Why did his heart feel like it had just been sucker-punched?

He glanced again — because he was just that masochistic. The guy said something else, and you laughed again. Louder. The exact sound Satoru had spent months trying to forget.

Oh, come on. That’s not even a good joke. You used to laugh WAY harder at mine.

The guy leaned in like he was going to whisper something in your ear — your ear, the one Satoru used to nip at just to hear that pretty sound— No. Nope. He does not need to think about that right now.

Then the guy’s arm slid from your shoulder to your waist, too natural. Too practiced.

How long had this been going on? Did you think about telling him? Did you even think about him at all? Did he have the right to ask any of that? No. Of course not.

He could leave. He should leave. That would be normal. Healthy. Responsible. 

But his feet didn’t move. In fact, he somehow found himself drifting closer.

He was simply being… civil. Right? You didn’t end on bad terms. You could have a nice chat.

Satoru adjusted his sunglasses, forced a smirk, and strolled forward with a confidence he definitely did not feel. Whatever. No one had to know.

You were mid-laugh when you finally noticed him approaching. Your smile dimmed just slightly — surprise flickering in your eyes— and he hated how fast he caught it. Eight months apart and he could still read you like a damn book. 

“Hey, you” he said, voice smooth as ever, hands shoved casually in his pockets. 

The guy — whose stupid hand was still comfortably resting on your waist — blinked, clearly confused by his intrusion.

“Uh, hey” you said, clearly fighting for a neutral tone.

His gaze flicked down to the guy’s arm again, then back to your face.

“You must be her friend?” the guy said, stepping forward with his free hand raised. 

“Ex,” Satoru corrected instantly, painfully calm. “I’m her ex.”

You closed your eyes like you wished the earth would swallow you.

Satoru continued, all sweet politeness dipped in poison. “But hey, don’t worry. I’m super chill about it.”

You shot him a look that screamed stop it, which he gracefully ignored.

The guy quickly removed his hand from your waist. Satoru felt a warm, petty satisfaction bloom in his chest.

“Oh,” the guy mumbled, realization dawning. “I’m gonna go grab us something to drink. You two… catch up.”

He gave you a look that silently asked, Is this okay?

You gave him a tiny nod.

The second he was out of earshot, you glared at Satoru. “What the hell was that?”

He lifted a shoulder. “Me? Being civil. I thought I could have a nice chat with my ex-girlfriend that I haven’t seen in a while.”

You narrowed your eyes, and he could practically hear your unspoken question: Why are you doing this?

Because I saw someone else touching you like I used to, and I realized I’m not over you at all.

But he had too much respect for himself, for you, for what you had  to say that. So instead he asked,

“So, is he your boyfriend?”

Your jaw tightened. “Satoru.”

“What?” He smiled lightly, deceptively harmless. “It’s a simple question.”

“It’s none of your business.”

For someone who towered over everyone, he suddenly felt very, very small.

Then you sighed, looking at him with a sad, familiar expression “Satoru… don’t misunderstand me. I’m glad to see you. I’m always…” You paused, searching for either the right word or the right boundary. “…happy to know you’re doing well.”

“I’m not doing well.” Shit. Why couldn’t he shut up?

You shook your head. “This isn’t fair. It’s been eight months. We both agreed on this. You even told me you were thinking about it before I put it on the table.”

He flinched — barely, but you caught it. He shook his head, forcing a breath out and sliding a hand through his hair 

“You’re right,” he said. “I just saw you and thought — hey, go say hi. I didn’t plan on…”

He gestured vaguely toward where the guy had gone off to. “…whatever that was.”

You crossed your arms. “You were jealous.”

Satoru swallowed “Jealous?” he echoed with a soft scoff. “No. I’m Satoru Gojo. I don’t get jealous.”

You held his gaze. Quiet. Patient. Unmoved.

Before either of you could say anything else, before the tension could turn into something more dangerous or more honest, the guy returned with two drinks, looking cautiously between you.

“Everything okay here?”

You stepped back from Satoru, and he watched the space open between you like it physically hurt him.

“Yeah,” you said, offering a small, polite smile. “Everything’s fine.”

Satoru pressed his lips together “I’ll get going,” he said, voice almost too casual. “It was nice seeing you.”

He turned before either of you had to pretend any harder. And you hated that something inside you was hoping he’d turn back around with some stupid joke, something to break the tension the way he always used to.

But he didn’t.

He kept walking, slipping between bodies and fading into the crowd. And maybe that’s why it stung — because you’d already lived this goodbye before.

It was ridiculous. Eight months, and nothing about the way he affected you had changed.

“So that was Satoru Gojo,” Kentaro said, pulling you back to reality.

You blinked. “Mmh.”

His eyes softened. “You good?”

You nodded. “Yeah. Sorry. That must’ve been weird for you.”

“I get it,” Kentaro said with a shrug.

You didn’t realize you’d been holding your breath until you let it out.

Kentaro wasn’t dramatic. That was part of why things with him were easy. He’d shown up one night at a party, at a moment when your heart felt too heavy and too empty. It had started as a distraction — one you hadn’t been looking for — and instead of fading, it had softened into an easy friendship. No expectations. No pressure. Just two people keeping each other company while figuring their own shit out. 

You knew he wasn’t Satoru — and you never once fooled yourself into thinking anyone could fill that space; but you hadn’t been trying to replace him. You were just trying to breathe without your chest hurting. And from what you’d heard, Satoru had been doing the same. That’s how real relationships end sometimes — not cleanly, not neatly, just two people trying to survive the absence of the other. That’s the messy truth about real breakups.

“You’re not over him at all, you know that, right?” Kentaro said.

Your lips tightened. “Is it that obvious?”

He smiled, not mocking — just kind.

“I just… didn’t expect to see him today,” you admitted.

“I know,” he said. “And he definitely didn’t expect to see me either.”

You let out a weak laugh. “He was just jealous. Men things, I guess.”

“Mmh.” Kentaro raised a brow. “I’ve been in love once too. Trust me, that was not only jealousy. That boy was yearning.”

You stared down at your drink, fingers tightening around the cup.

“Yearning,” you echoed, like the word didn’t quite fit. “I don’t think he—”

“He was yearning,” Kentaro insisted, calm but certain. “I’m a guy. I know the face. If the world hadn’t gone silent for a second when he saw you, he deserves an award for acting.”

Your stomach flipped painfully.

“We ended things for a reason,” you said quietly. “Things weren’t working anymore.” You closed your eyes. “Shit Ken, I’m sorry. I’m such a downer.”

“Hey,” Kentaro said gently. “We’re friends, aren’t we?  You don’t owe me anything.” He nudged your shoulder lightly. “But… maybe you owe yourself a bit of honesty.”

You looked up at him.

“You still love him.”

The words didn’t stab, they just settled. Heavy. Familiar. Painfully true.

You exhaled, shaky. “I—”

“You just don’t know what to do with it” Kentaro finished

Silence stretched between you.

“And for what it’s worth,” he said, “I think he’s going to try.”

Your heart skipped. “Try what?”

Kentaro tilted his head.

“To win you back.”

You opened your mouth, but nothing came out.

And as the two of you walked away, you couldn’t tell if the hollow ache in your chest was the ghost of an old relationship… or the quiet realization that you never stopped waiting for Satoru to come back.

“When are you going to stop being miserable, Satoru?” Suguru called from the kitchen, the sound of a blender whirring behind him while he made himself a protein shake or some other gym-rat abomination.

Gojo slumped deeper into the couch, long legs sprawled out, and a caramel macchiato with extra caramel, extra cream, extra everything, clutched in his hand. At least his brain was getting the glucose it needed to make up for today’s humiliation.

“I’m not miserable” he muttered, even though he very much sounded like it

“Satoru, you came home with the emotional stability of a wet paper bag”

“Suguru, you’re being a little careless talking like that to a man who just saw his ex with a guy. A very touchy-feely guy”

“It’s not like you took a vow of celibacy the day you broke up” Suguru shot back, closing the fridge with his hip as he walked over.

Satoru scoffed. “No. You don’t get it” His voice dropped “That asshole was clinging to her like a parasite. She was laughing. Leaning into him like—” He cut himself off, jaw tightening. “She looked comfortable” he paused “and happy” 

Suguru sat down beside him, shake in hand, a sigh leaving him through his nose. “You’re allowed to feel like shit, but..”

“She made a decision,” Satoru cut him. “I seconded that stupid decision.”

“Then make a new one,” Suguru said, calm but firm. “Because pretending you’re fine stopped working months ago.”

“I’m not a homebreaker. If she’s happy with her stupid new boyfriend, there’s nothing I can do. I shouldn’t even be—” he waved a hand helplessly “—thinking about it. She deserves to be happy.”

Suguru arched an eyebrow. “Boyfriend?”

Satoru rolled his eyes. “I asked. And she said — quote — ‘it’s none of your business.’”

“Which you translated as: yes, he’s my boyfriend.”

“Exactly.”

“I think you need to figure out if that’s actually true” Suguru said. “We both know her. I don’t think she’d jump straight into a new relationship.”

Satoru let out a sharp, humorless laugh. “You didn’t see them.”

“That’s exactly why I’m saying it.” Suguru took a sip of his shake, never taking his eyes off him. “You saw what you wanted to see.”

“I swear to god I did not imagine his hand glued to her.”

“You’re spiraling,” Suguru said simply. “You’re like this when it’s about her. You aren’t thinking straight”

Satoru dropped his head back against the couch, a long breath leaving him in one heavy exhale.

“Satoru,” Suguru said quietly, setting his shake down. “you two didn’t break up because you stopped loving each other. That’s why it hurts like this.”

He didn’t respond — he only frowned slightly, his gaze drifting toward the window.

“Before you assume she moved on… consider she might just be trying to cope.” He nudged Satoru’s arm lightly. “Same as you.”

He closed his eyes, letting himself feel the truth pulsing under his ribs: He never really stopped being yours.

Not even in other beds, the ones he looked for the shape of you, the ones he never stayed the night in. Not even in moments meant to distract him. Not even when he pretended he’d moved on.

He was always yours.

You were standing between his legs, your hips brushing his knees where he sat on the tall bar stool by the kitchen counter 

“Whose pretty boy is this?” you teased, holding a strawberry just out of his reach.

Satoru leaned forward, hair falling messily over his forehead, eyes bright with that stupid softness he only ever had for you.

“Mmh,” he mumbled, mouth full once you finally let him take it from your fingers, “Yours.”

You laughed “Cute”

He licked a smear of juice from his lip “Only cute?” he complained, looking down at you with that boyish pout that contradicted the heat in his eyes. “I’m being extremely handsome right now”

You rolled your eyes, but lifted another strawberry anyway. He leaned forward, nipped it from your fingers, and this time he didn’t let your hand go. He caught your wrist gently, pressed a slow kiss to the inside, then another higher, his lips warm and deliberate against your skin.

Your hand found his hair, carding through the soft white strands. He leaned into your touch instantly, like your fingers were gravity.

His fingers slid to the back of your thigh, caressing the skin softly. You felt the warmth of his palm, the lazy circles he traced there—mindless, possessive.

“Satoru…” you warned, though it came out a little breathless. “We have classes in thirty minutes.”

He dipped his head, lips ghosting over the side of your neck.

“Mmh,” he murmured, his nose brushing your skin, painfully slow. “We don’t need that much time.”

Your breath hitched.

He smiled against your skin and bit your earlobe—soft, teasing—as his hand tightened on your thigh.

You whimpered. “Satoru,” you said again, but this time it sounded like a plea.

He pulled back only slightly, eyes half-lidded, pupils blown wide. His fingers trailed up your waist, slow enough to make your skin prickle.

“Tell me I’m only cute again,” he murmured, voice a low rumble.

You couldn’t even roll your eyes properly. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love it.”

You cupped his jaw, thumb brushing the corner of his mouth, and he looked at you like you were something sacred he didn’t know how to deserve.

“There’s a party next weekend. You should come.”

Satoru blinked, his friend’s voice pulling him out of his daydream. A nice daydream, actually. He could still feel it — your fingers in his hair, your voice saying his name. Eight months, and nothing had replaced that.

Yeah. He needed alcohol.

“Where?”

“At Rin’s.”

He turned to his friend, frowning. “Rin, as in the friend of the person who’s the reason for my entire existential crisis?”

Suguru rolled his eyes. “Yes.”

Satoru scoffed. “Do you hate me, Suguru?”

His friend laughed  “Sometimes”

He let his head fall back against the couch, the caramel macchiato long forgotten on the coffee table.

“Is she going to be there?” he finally asked, as if the answer wasn’t obvious.

Suguru raised a brow. “What do you think?”

He let out a humorless sound “Then clearly I should stay here”

“You’re acting like a coward. This is dramatic. Even for you”

Satoru clicked his tongue “Fantastic. I’m being bullied in my own home.”

“What are you exactly scared of?”

Satoru exhaled through his nose. “I just… I don’t want to show up and— I don’t know. Complicate shit.”

Suguru crossed his arms. “It’s already complicated when eight months have passed and neither of you has clearly moved on.”

Satoru’s jaw tightened. “We broke up for a reason.” That’s what he’d been telling himself every day since that night.

“Exactly,” Suguru said while standing,  hands loose at his sides. “You two didn’t have time. You both saw it slipping, and instead of dragging it out and letting it die slowly, you made the smart, painful decision to stop. Even if you don’t want to admit it, that was the right call.”

Satoru let out a humorless laugh. “Right. That doesn’t feel like the right word when it leaves me staring at her like an abandoned puppy.”

Suguru shrugged. “Sure, it hurts. But that doesn’t mean it’s over. That doesn’t mean you can’t… go back to being what you were. Do it the right way this time.”

Satoru dug his hands into the couch cushions. “And what if she’s moved on?”

Suguru raised an eyebrow, voice calm but sharp. “Perspective, genius. Do you really think she’s in love with someone else already? No. I’m sure she’s not. She’s probably just as confused, just as ridiculous as you are, and laughing with someone else doesn’t mean she’s in love with them. That conclusion? Stupid.”

Satoru stared at him, blinking. “Stupid?”

“Yeah, stupid,” Suguru said, mock severity in his tone. “You both are so stupid it’s giving me a headache. So stop being miserable and deal with your feelings like a big boy. You’re better than this.”

Satoru let out a long exhale. He wanted to argue, to insist, but… deep down, he knew Suguru was right.

“Think about it,” Suguru said, smirking. He started walking toward the door. “See you later”

Satoru watched him leave, the sound of the door clicking shut behind Suguru echoing in the apartment. Alone, he let the weight of his own thoughts settle over him. 

Eight months. Eight months of trying to convince himself that you had done the right thing, that stepping away before it all collapsed was smart, necessary even. And it had been. He knew that. Every rational thought told him so. 

But it had been enough time apart. He needed you. And if you needed him just a little, well… he was going to cling to that possibility.

He let himself feel it—anxiety, longing, frustration, and something sharper beneath it all: anticipation.

Fuck it. Fuck that stupid parasite boy. Fuck civil. Fuck smart, adult, mature, rational.

He was going.

Tonight could actually be fun, you repeated it again while fixing your hair in the mirror. And God, you needed it. After a week of your brain torturing you with Satoru’s face, replaying a thousand memories you really didn’t ask for, a party—alcohol and your friends—felt like the only reasonable cure.

Even better, it was just Rin’s place: small, full of familiar faces. Nothing out of the ordinary. And definitely nothing that involved him.

Your ex-boyfriend would never show up here. Not at Rin’s. And that was fine—safer, even.

You didn’t worry about the possibility of bumping into him. Why would you? He wouldn’t come.

So you didn’t think about him while getting ready. 

You slipped on your boots and checked your phone one last time before grabbing your jacket and stepping outside into the cool night. 

By the time you reached Rin’s house, you could already hear voices echoing down the hallway. You knocked once and let yourself in. The living room was dim, lit by fairy lights. People waved at you, someone handed you a drink before you could even take off your jacket. 

You let the noise drown out the week you’d had. You let your shoulders drop.

You didn’t think of him. Not until your brain decided to betray you in the one quiet moment you found—leaning back against the kitchen counter, your gaze drifting toward nothing.

It hit you then.

The last time a night like this didn’t feel fragile was before everything cracked.

The rain that night felt heavier inside your apartment than outside. 

Satoru stood in the middle of your room, hoodie half-zipped, shoulders curled inward, hair a mess.

You both looked exhausted. 

His classes, your internship. His tutoring job, your lab hours. Schedules that didn’t align. Everything was pulling you in different directions.

“We can’t keep doing this,” you said quietly, sitting at the edge of the big bed you bought just so the two of you could fall asleep comfortably together. Your fingers twisted the sheets. “We need to stop before we ruin this. Before we ruin us.”

Your voice barely rose above a whisper, but it landed with the weight of a confession neither of you wanted to make.

He closed his eyes like hearing it spoken aloud physically hurt him. 

“I know,” he murmured, almost soundless. The admission felt defeated. He’d been thinking about it for a while. It didn’t make the ache in his chest any less sharp. “I just… didn’t want to be the one to say it. Didn’t want to accept it.”

You didn’t mean to sob. It slipped out before you could swallow it, and the sound tore something open inside him. He swayed on his feet, chest tightening. He crossed the room in three steps and sank to his knees in front of you.

When he cupped your face, his hands were warm but trembling. His blue eyes—usually bright, teasing, full of summer sky—looked dim. Clouded. Like he was shoving every tear back where it came from because he didn’t want to make this harder for you.

You saw him do it. You saw the exact second he forced the pain inward, because that’s just who he was.

Your forehead touched his for a second, his breath shaking against your mouth. His fingers slid to your jaw, tracing you like he was memorizing every angle.

Your lips brushed once and his cologne, his shampoo, the faint caramel-sweet scent of his favorite coffee—all of it wrapped around you one last time.

When you pulled back, his hands lingered a second longer, reluctant, like they didn’t understand why they had to let go.

“I love you” he whispered one last time, his voice barely holding together.

Then he stood, turned, and walked out of your apartment. And you stayed there, heart in your hands.

When you finally snapped back to reality, you finished your whole drink in one go. Kentaro and Rin must have noticed your absence, because a moment later they were opening the door. You forced a small smile and lifted your hand in a half–wave

“Hey, why are you hiding over here?” Rin asked.

“I’m not hiding, I just came to get a drink” you said, half-true

“Sure. And I came here to major in economics. Let’s go, it’s better outside.” Kentaro said 

You rolled your eyes, set the empty cup aside, and let them guide you back toward the living room. The door swung open, and a wave of laughter and chatter spilled out. 

You were halfway down the hallway when Kentaro suddenly stopped.

Rin did too, so abruptly you nearly bumped into her. She lifted an arm in front of you, blocking your path.

“Okay,” she said too cheerfully, “you know what? The kitchen? Great vibes. Incredible vibes. We should definitely go back.”

“…What?” you said, confused

She didn’t answer. Kentaro didn’t either.

They exchanged a look— one of those wordless, loaded, oh-no looks.

You leaned between them and saw him.

He was there, leaning casually against the wall, looking like reality itself bent to accommodate him, like the space around him retreated before his presence. Tall, broad-shouldered, hair falling into his eyes with that infuriating, effortless perfection. A girl was saying something beside him—too close, too eager—but he wasn't listening. His gaze was fixed on you.

Rin whispered under her breath “Shit.”

“Told you,” Kentaro muttered. “That’s the yearning face” 

Your pulse jumped so suddenly you felt a pain in your chest. Seeing Satoru Gojo twice in seven days shouldn’t have been allowed — not for your nervous system.

Nothing could’ve prepared you for the way he still occupied a room. Or the way he was looking at you now.

Not startled. Not smug. It was different from the look he gave you a week ago. 

It was focused. Like in a room full of people, he’d found the only thing he came for. 

You couldn’t take it—not this time. So you were the one to break the stare, your gaze slipping away first.

“We should go,” you said to your friends, and they didn’t argue.

The party kept spinning around you. You tried not to look again. You really did. But your eyes kept drifting across the room like they had a mind of their own. And every single time, Satoru was already watching you.

You grabbed another drink.

Then another.

Then maybe another.

Eventually, the noise got too loud, your thoughts too messy, and your heart too aware of every shift in Satoru’s direction. You slipped away, weaving through the crowd until you found an empty room at the end of the hall.

The door closed softly behind you.

You weren’t sure why you were there — to breathe, maybe. To steady yourself. To stop feeling like he was seeing through you, like he could read your mind.

You heard the door click open behind you.

You turned.

He leaned back against the door, cheeks flushed from alcohol. His eyes met yours and your throat tightened. 

He was the first to speak

“I told Suguru I didn’t want to make shit complicated.”

He moved away from the door and stepped closer, slow, deliberate “You’re making that impossible.”

Words were stuck in your throat. Maybe the alcohol, maybe because he was looking handsome as ever, maybe because he was wearing that cologne that drove you crazy

“Are you dating him?” The question sounded ripped out of him.

“Satoru—” You knew he meant Kentaro, once again

“I know I don’t have the right to be jealous. But I am. Answer me and put me out of my misery, please” he begged

“No” you said “I’m not dating him”

His shoulders dropped in a silent exhale — relief he wasn’t able to hide. Then, his voice softened — dangerously, intimately:

“You’re not dating him” he repeated, more to himself than to you.

“Why are you here?” you asked

“Because you were looking at me.”

You blinked, but you didn’t look away. Not even when he stepped closer. Not even when his chest nearly brushed yours 

“Do you even know what you’re doing to me?” His voice was low, truth loosening every word.

Your eyes flicked down — just for a second — to his mouth.

“Fuck,” he breathed, eyes dropping to your lips. “don’t look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Like you want me to touch you.”

Your breath caught, sharp. But you didn’t deny it. And he saw that— the hesitation, the alcohol-softened truth, the pull you were both trying to ignore.

You didn’t even have time to think. He was the one who surged forward, his mouth crashing into yours with a kind of pent-up desperation that nearly made your knees buckle.

Your back hit the dresser with a soft thud as his hands gripped your hips. You gasped, and he swallowed the sound greedily.

You tugged at his shirt — the moment your fingers brushed his skin, he groaned, low and dark, pulling your leg up around his waist. His thigh pressed between your legs, and your hips jerked forward on instinct — his breath caught, sharp and obscene.

“Shit— I missed you,” he murmured between kisses “You have no idea—”

His hands slid under your shirt, slow but confident, fingers spreading over your waist like he was memorizing the shape all over again.

His head dropped to your neck, leaving wet, hungry kisses before he caught your earlobe between his teeth—just like he always used to.

You whimpered. He pressed into you, desperate, grinding just enough to make your knees shake.

Then—

Knock, knock, knock.

The sound yanked you out of the moment.

Fuck.

What were you doing?

The realization hit like cold water, your breath stuttering as the room tilted. This wasn’t right.

What were you two even thinking?

You tore yourself out of his grip so fast his breath hitched. You didn’t look at him—just turned, crossed the room in a rush, and pulled the door open before your mind could catch up. 

“Woah—” a familiar voice said as your shoulder hit a solid chest.

Suguru blinked down at you, surprise flickering across his face.

He opened his mouth—maybe to ask something—but you were already moving past him, fast, barely offering a rushed “sorry.”

You didn’t look back. You just kept going, down the hall, out into the cold air.

Your pulse was still erratic, your skin still trembling where his hands had been, and your thoughts a mess of what the hell you two were doing.

You flagged the first cab you saw and slid inside, breathless.

—

Satoru was still staring at the doorway where you’d just disappeared. His hands were in his hair, his breath unsteady.

“I fucked up,” he muttered to his friend.

“You just jumped straight into making out without even talking about your damn feelings first, didn’t you?”

Satoru shut his eyes, jaw clenching. “I’m an idiot.”

“Go.”

His eyes opened. “What?”

“Go after her, you dumbass.”

He didn’t waste another second. He bolted. 

He reached the entrance, swung the door open— Nothing.

“Shit” he breathed

Of course you were gone. Of course you ran.

He didn’t stop to think. 

He hurried out to the street, where his car was still parked, yanked the door open, slid into the driver’s seat, and headed straight for your apartment.

You hadn't been there long when you heard him on the other side of the door. A rough, uneven breath— like he was trying and failing to get himself under control. Then the knock, sharp but shaky, and—

“Please.”

Soft. Unsteady. Broken.

Your hand was already on the doorknob before your mind caught up.

You opened it.

He stood there with a crease carved between his brows, mouth parted, chest rising too fast — like he’d sprinted the whole way and then forgotten how to breathe. 

He didn’t step forward. Didn’t try to come in. He just looked at you, and something inside him snapped open, raw and unfiltered.

The words came immediately, spilling out faster than he could think them.

“I can’t— I can’t pretend that didn’t happen,” he said, voice rough, every syllable tumbling out in a rush. “I can’t act like it was some impulse or— or nostalgia or the alcohol, or whatever bullshit people say when they’re trying to downplay something that meant everything.”

You stayed by the door, fingers curling at your sides 

“I haven’t been okay. Not for a long time.” A breath, shaking. “Fuck— I don’t think I’ve been okay since that night.”

Your chest tightened, a slow, warm ache blooming beneath your ribs.

“I never moved on,” he said. “I don’t think I ever even tried to. Everyone tells you that’s what you’re supposed to do, right? You go out, you work, you laugh at the right moments, you pretend you’re fine. And it works— until suddenly it doesn’t.”

He shut his eyes, breathed hard through his nose, and when he opened them again, something sharp and wounded flickered there. Satoru didn’t cry, but this was close— painfully close.

“Last week,” he said quietly. “When I saw you with him.”

Your heartbeat stuttered.

“I thought you’d moved on. You looked happy. You were smiling, laughing. And I just—” His voice cracked, barely but unmistakably “I went home and stared at my ceiling, trying to convince myself it was fine. That you were allowed to be happy with someone else.” He shook his head, jaw tight.

“And then I talked to Suguru. And something lit up in me. A stubborn, stupid hope that maybe— maybe you felt even a fraction of what I’ve been feeling all this time.”

You stepped closer, drawn in by a pull neither of you could fight.

“And then I kissed you.” He laughed once, thin and humorless. “Like my body decided it didn’t give a damn about common sense or self-respect or the fact that we’re supposed to have boundaries now.”

He swallowed, throat bobbing. 

“But what actually wrecked me was that you kissed me back.”

He kept going, voice tripping over itself, desperate to outrun the panic rising inside him.

“Because when you kissed me back, I felt—” His mouth struggled around the word. “I felt like I had you again. Even if it was one fucking second, I believed it.”

You inhaled slowly. Your lungs felt too small. He stood rigid, arms stiff at his sides, as if touching you too soon would burn him.

“And when I saw you run away from me,” he whispered, “I knew I fucked up.”

You parted your lips to speak, but he shook his head sharply.

“Please let me finish.” Not demanding — pleading.

“We broke up because it was the responsible thing to do. Because life was too loud, and neither of us could breathe under it.” he blinked hard, steadying himself. “But I— I can’t be responsible anymore. I can’t pretend that kiss didn’t feel like oxygen after months underwater.”

Your throat tightened, your fingers slowly curling again at your sides.

“I’m not asking for anything,” he said, voice trembling on the edge of breaking. “I just—”

He exhaled shakily, then let everything go in one helpless, frantic burst:

“I needed you to know that I never stopped loving you. Not for a single fucking day.”

The room went utterly still.

“I love you,” he said, voice raw. “I’m so pathetically in love with you.” 

His eyes searched your face like he was bracing for an impact he wasn’t sure he’d survive. “I’m sorry.”

Your heart slammed once, painfully hard. The words in your chest were too heavy to force through your throat. Inside you, everything trembled — because every piece of his pain mirrored your own.

The months pretending. The sleepless nights. Waiting for something inside you to quiet that never did.

He loved you.

He still loved you.

And the overwhelming truth thrummed through every part of you.

You drew in a slow, steady breath and stepped closer—small, deliberate steps—until you were standing right in front of him.

Your hands rose to his cheeks, guiding his face down until his eyes were locked on yours. His breath trembled under your thumbs, but you didn’t hesitate.

“Satoru,” you started softly “I didn’t run away because I didn’t want you. I ran because everything came back at once. The feelings, the ache, the weight of what we were .. and what we lost”

You swallowed, but your voice stayed steady.

“I wasn’t okay either. All this time I kept telling myself to move on, to forget. That it was the mature thing to do. But it wasn’t maturity. It was fear.”

Your thumbs brushed the curve of his cheekbones, grounding both of you 

“We thought leaving was the right choice back then. And maybe it was.”

A breath.

“But not anymore.”

His breath hitched—sharp, undone.

You leaned your forehead to his, your voice dropping to a whisper.

“I’m scared of losing you again. Terrified. But I’m more scared of pretending I don’t want this.”

You drew in a slow breath, a decision settling in your bones.

“So I’m choosing you. Fully. No excuses.”

His eyes widened— stunned, wrecked, hopeful at all once. 

And then you said it, steady and certain:

“I love you.”

His entire body reacted — a violent, shuddering exhale as he leaned into your hands like you’d just given him something he’d been starving for.

Every wall he’d built collapsed in a single, devastating instant.

A soft, broken sound escaped him— relief, disbelief, longing — everything he’d been holding back for months. 

“I love you, Satoru” you repeated, firmer, because he needed to hear it—and because you needed to say it.

And then you kissed him—slow, deep, sure—

A kiss that didn’t run away from the fear, but walked straight through it.

He melted into it with a shudder, his hands sliding to your waist and the back of your neck, pulling you in like he’d been waiting months for this exact moment.

You kissed him again, deeper this time, your fingers curling into his hoodie—and he answered with every part of him— like you were something he’d lost and finally, finally gotten back.

You didn’t break the kiss when you dragged him deeper inside, one hand tangled in his hoodie, the other pulling him by the nape. He followed blindly, stumbling a little as you tugged him toward you.

He kicked the door shut with his leg, not breaking the kiss, not even breathing properly. His hands tightened on your waist, then your back, then your hips — like he couldn’t decide which part of you he needed to hold just to believe you were actually real.

“Satoru—” you whispered against his mouth.

He groaned softly and kissed you again, deeper this time, his hand sliding up your spine like he couldn’t get you close enough.

By the time you reached the couch, your pulse was hammering. You pushed him back onto it and he fell with a soft grunt, looking up at you like you were the only thing that had ever made sense.

You pulled your shirt over your head, letting it fall somewhere behind you, leaving you in just your black lace bra as you stepped closer.

He slid his hands to the backs of your thighs and drew you toward him until his nose brushed your lower stomach. He kissed you there, warm and slow.

“You’re perfect,” he murmured against your skin.

You smiled down at him and slipped off your skirt and matching black panties, his hands releasing you only long enough to let you strip.

“Take it off,” you told him, eyes flicking to his shirt.

He obeyed immediately, tugging it over his head, breath unsteady as his gaze returned to you.

Then you started to lower yourself between his knees, but his hand shot forward, cupping your jaw before your knees even touched the floor.

“No,” he said instantly — not harsh, but desperate.

“Not tonight.”

Your brows lifted as you slowly rose, and he took both your hips, turning you around and pulling you back until you were seated between his thighs — your back aligning perfectly with his chest.

“Just like this,” he murmured, his hands sliding to your waist.

You settled into him, breath shaky. His legs spread wider behind you, and you bit your lip when you felt him against your ass, hard and already straining against his pants.

He kissed your shoulder once — slow, warm — then ran his hands down the length of your thighs.

“Open your legs for me,” he whispered against your ear.

Your breath stuttered.

“Let me touch you,” he added, voice cracking, “please”

You parted your legs. Sitting like this, your feet didn’t even touch the floor; you were completely in his hold — and he knew it.

Satoru inhaled sharply and rested his forehead against your shoulder for a moment, like he needed a second to steady himself. You were spread open on his lap, warm and exposed, and he looked a second away from losing his mind.

His fingers slid up your inner thigh, slow and warm, drawing soft circles that made your breath catch in your throat.

“Easy…” he whispered, lips brushing your neck, one arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you flush against him.

His other hand moved higher until his fingers brushed the heat between your legs. The light touch made your hips jerk, a soft gasp slipping out of you before you could stop it.

“Fuck, baby—” Satoru moaned quietly into your skin. “You’re so wet for me.”

The tips of his fingers glided through the slickness easily, your hips reacting before you could hold them still. You felt his breath falter, his chest pressing harder against your back as if the feel of you was too much.

He dragged his fingers through you again, slower this time, spreading the wetness over your skin. Your head fell back onto his shoulder, a shaky inhale rattling out of you each time his touch circled deeper, firmer, slipping over your clit perfectly. He knew you so well it didn’t surprise you—he found the rhythm you needed almost instantly.

Your eyes rolled back and you clutched at his forearm. 

“Satoru—” you moaned.

“Hm?” he hummed, kissing your shoulder, then your neck, then the edge of your jaw. “Let me hear you.”

A soft whimper escaped you, and you felt his smile against your neck a split second before he slid two fingers inside you—slow, careful, deliberate.

Your whole body arched.

He held you tighter against his chest, curling his fingers inside you with devastating precision.

“That’s it… just like that,” he murmured, his free hand sliding up to cup and squeeze your breast, his thumb brushing your nipple through the lace in slow circles. “Let me take care of you.”

You were trembling now, unable to keep your breath quiet. He brought his hand to your throat, holding you gently as he licked and softly bit the side of your earlobe, his fingers inside you never losing pace—if anything, they grew more focused, more sure.

“You’re beautiful,” he whispered against your ear. “So, so beautiful.”

You grabbed his thigh beside you, nails sinking into the fabric of his pants for something to hold on to.

“Satoru— I’m—”

“I know, baby,” he said, voice low and steady, lips brushing your ear. “Let go for me.”

His thumb pressed against your clit at the exact moment his fingers curled deeper, and your body melted back into him—heat flooding through you, aftershocks trembling through your thighs as a soft cry slipped out of you. He murmured your name into your skin, kissing along your neck as you came undone in his hand.

He kept holding you, grounding you, and when your breathing finally steadied, you slowly pushed yourself up, only to turn and straddle him.

You cupped his face, your thumbs brushing along his cheekbones, and kissed him —slow and deep, a kiss that pulled a low groan from the back of his throat. Then you trailed your lips down his neck, along the line of his jaw, to the hollow beneath his ear. 

Your fingers slid into his hair and tugged lightly. His breath stuttered; his eyes fluttered; his hands finally moved, traveling up your sides like he couldn’t stop himself.

You pulled back just enough to look at him. He was flushed, lips swollen, hair deliciously messy. Pupils wide and desperate. Completely undone.

“Lie back,” you whispered.

He obeyed instantly, sinking into the cushions like he was offering himself to you.

“You have no idea,” he murmured, voice hoarse, “how much I missed you”

You smiled, letting your weight settle on his lap, feeling the hard length of him press against your exposed cunt  “I think I do.”

A broken sound tore from his throat, something between a gasp and a curse. His hands clamped around your hips, fingers digging in like instinct, like he needed to hold on to something before he lost himself completely.

“Jesus—” he moaned, head falling back against the couch, chest rising in a sharp, trembling inhale.

You shifted just slightly—barely—and his whole body shuddered beneath you. His thumbs stroked your hips as he pressed his forehead to your collarbone, breathing you in like he needed it.

“Tell me what to do,” he murmured, voice low. “I’ll do anything.”

You dragged your hands down his chest, then lower, trailing until your fingers brushed the waistband of his pants and boxers.

A silent instruction.

His fingers moved fast, hooking into the fabric and shoving both his pants and boxer down his thighs, breath hitching when he freed himself. You bit your lip at the sight and reached behind your back, unclasping your bra.

The straps slipped down your shoulders, the lace falling away, and his reaction was immediate.

“You’re—” His voice cracked, eyes drinking in every inch of newly exposed skin “–too perfect for me”

You leaned in slightly, and he caught you by the hips, gentle but firm, desperate to keep you still.

“Don’t move yet,” he whispered, voice fraying. “Give me a second—just a second.”

His hands held you softly, reverently, fighting to hold onto the control he was already losing.

Then, wrecked as he looked, his gaze flicked up.

“Wait—” He reached blindly toward his discarded jeans, searching for his wallet.

But before he could even touch the fabric, your hand closed around his wrist

“We’re good,” you murmured, breath warm against his lips. “I’m on it. And I need you raw, please”

His pupils dilated so fast it looked like the air had been punched out of him.

You kissed him again, your hips rolling just slightly, enough to make his breath catch and his hands clench at your thighs.

He let out a low, desperate sound against your mouth.

“Fuck—” he whispered “You’re gonna kill me.”

“Not planning on it,” you said, lips brushing his jaw. 

Your hand slid between your bodies, wrapping around him, and his hips were already twitching into your touch. You lifted your hips just slightly, guiding him to your entrance.

You moaned when his tip brushed against you, and with his fingers digging into your hips, you began to sink down onto him

“Holy—” He cut himself off with a strangled moan, his head snapping back against the couch, eyes squeezing shut  “God, you feel— fuck—”

“Satoru…” you murmured against his ear, your breath hot on his skin. “Look at me while I ride you baby.”

His eyes fluttered open—pupils blown wide, half-lidded, worshipping you like you were the only thing keeping him alive. 

God, he wanted to keep his eyes closed—just to survive you. But you smiled, and tugged his hair, dragging him like you owned him. And fucking hell… you did.

“Good boy.”

He tried to speak, maybe say something cocky, something clever—but the moment you started bouncing on him, every slap of your skin against his thighs knocked the thoughts clean out of his head, making him stupid for you. His mouth fell open, his chest rising fast as he failed to swallow a moan.

“Tch—fuck…”

You rolled your hips slow and punishing, and everything in his mind burned white.

His grip on your hips tightened, desperate, fighting not to fall apart. You were guiding the pace and he let you—god, he wanted you to. He wanted to give you every bit of control with his body, the same way he’d already handed you his heart.

He whispered I love you into your mouth over and over like it was the only truth he knew.

Your pace quickened, heat coiling low and heavy between you, pulling both your bodies tighter and tighter—

“Satoru,” you gasped, nails sinking into his shoulders.

He cupped your face, kissing you like he was falling apart.

You moved harder, deeper, both of you unraveling, kisses turning messy, hands grabbing whatever they could reach.

You felt him stutter beneath you — his body tensing, breath breaking apart —

“Baby— I’m— fuck—”

You kissed him hard, swallowing the noise that tore from his throat as he came inside you, his arms wrapping around you like he was afraid you might vanish if he let go.

Your own climax followed in a wave, heat crashing through you as you buried your face in his neck, shaking against him while he held you through it.

And then the world softened. He kept you pressed to his chest, kissing your shoulder

“I love you so fucking much,” he breathed, voice wrecked “Please don’t go”

“I won’t” you whispered, “I love you” 

—

Satoru brushed his fingers up and down your spine, the soap slipping warm and gentle over your skin as the steam curled around both of you.

The shower was quiet except for the water hitting tile. His touch was slow, careful—nothing like the desperation from minutes ago.

“You okay?” he asked softly, kissing your forehead.

“Yeah,” you whispered, your cheek resting on his collarbone. “Are you?”

He let out a small, breathy laugh.

“I am now.”

You cupped his jaw, your thumb brushing his cheekbone, and gave him a tiny peck.

He blinked once—slow— a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

When you stepped out of the shower, he wrapped a towel around you and dried you off before even bothering with himself.

He stayed in just his boxers, grabbed his hoodie, and held it open.

“Arms up,” he commanded.

You obeyed.

He pulled the hoodie over your shoulders. It swallowed you whole—warm, soft, smelling like him.

“Perfect,” he muttered under his breath, almost annoyed at how much he loved the sight.

You tugged gently at his arm.

“Come to bed?”

He hesitated only because he was staring at you like you’d just handed him the sun.

“Yeah. Yeah—‘course.”

Then he slipped an arm under your legs and another around your back.

“Satoru—” you squeaked, surprised.

“What?” he said, already carrying you toward the bedroom. “You think I’m letting you walk after that?”

You buried your face against his neck to hide your smile, but he noticed anyway.

He set you down on the bed carefully, then climbed in beside you. He lay on his back and opened an arm in silent invitation.

You moved instantly—curling onto his chest, your head rising with each steady breath he took. His hand slid into your hair, thumb brushing your scalp, while his other arm wrapped around your waist, keeping you close.

Your legs tangled loosely with his.

He pressed one last kiss to your hairline, sleepy and soft.

“I love you,” he muttered.

“I love you too, love.”

His hand squeezed your waist—barely there, already drifting into sleep.

And for the first time in months, sleep came easy—for both of you.

You opened your eyes slowly, still half-asleep, and the first thing you felt was Satoru’s large hand resting over your waist. His hoodie was warm around your body, and the faint morning light spilled beautifully across the sheets. A smile tugged at your lips.

At some point during the night you’d ended up as the little spoon — not that you were complaining.

He seemed to be asleep, breath steady and his chin resting on your head, so you didn’t dare move too much. But then, out of the corner of your eye, you noticed your phone on the nightstand.

Rin and Kentaro.

Your eyes flew open. Oh god. You’d run out yesterday and completely forgotten to text anyone.

Trying not to wake the heavy, white-haired menace behind you, you reached carefully for your phone.

Rin: Where are you? Rin: Are you alive? Rin: Nevermind, I found you. Rin: Thank god for Find My app, idiot. Rin: ARE YOU WITH GOJO, YOU LITTLE SHIT?? Rin: ANSWER ME Rin: Suguru already told me. Take care, lovebirds. Text me when you wake up hehe.

You rolled your eyes and typed a quick reply before switching chats.

Kentaro: heyyy Kentaro: you good? did you make it home? Kentaro: Rin told me ;) take care

You were about to type a response when a warm hand suddenly snatched the phone right out of yours.

You gasped and twisted slightly in his arms.

Satoru didn’t even try to hide that he’d been awake the whole time. His chin slid onto your shoulder, warm and heavy.

“Who,” he muttered, voice thick with sleep, “are you texting this early in the morning?”

He squinted at the screen. “Huh.”

“Satoru—” you reached for your phone.

“Don’t ‘Satoru’ me.”

He kept the phone out of reach, his arm caging you easily. “I wake up holding you, and the first thing I see is that parasite boy on your screen.”

“Parasite boy?” you frowned.

“Yeah. Your clingy friend.”

You rolled your eyes and tugged the device gently from his hand. “You can’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad,” he murmured—though the gravel in his voice suggested otherwise. His fingers slipped under the hem of the hoodie you were wearing—his hoodie—gliding slowly across your bare waist. “But I wake up with you in my arms, and then I see him on your screen.”

His palm flattened on your hip.

“And you were about to answer him,” he added quietly. “Before even saying good morning to me.”

“That’s not—”

He cut you off without raising his voice, lips brushing your neck.

“That does things to a man.”

You turned your head toward him, meeting heavy, possessive, half-lidded blue eyes.

“You’re jealous again,” you whispered.

“Maybe,” he admitted without shame.

“But also…” His gaze swept down your body, slow and deliberate, then back up. “I know exactly how to get over it.”

Your lips parted, but he leaned in first, murmuring against your ear:

“I was a good boy yesterday, wasn’t I?”

His hand slid up your side, over the hoodie, fingertips grazing your ribs.

“Now put the phone down,” he whispered, voice dropping into something dangerous.

His hand clamped around your hip, pulling you fully back against him—and that’s when you felt him. Hard. Thick. Pressed right against your ass.

“And be a good girl for me.”

Heat flooded through you.

The phone slipped from your fingers onto the mattress without resistance.

Satoru smirked—slow, satisfied—and lowered his mouth to your neck.

“Good girl.”

His hand trailed down your thigh, guiding it forward, parting your legs just enough. Then the warmth of him shifted behind you—his hand leaving your waist for just a moment—

—and you felt the soft rustle of fabric as he pushed his boxers down.

A second later, the bare length of him brushed against your backside. Hot. Heavy. Wanting.

“You feel that?” he whispered, reverent. “That’s what only you do to me.”

His fingers hooked the side of your panties and dragged the fabric aside—not off, just enough.

Just access.

You were already embarrassingly wet, and he felt it.

“So needy,” he murmured, one hand returning to your hip, grinding himself slowly into the curve of your ass.

You inhaled sharply, hips shifting on instinct—

And his grip tightened instantly. His hand slid down to your thigh, holding you still.

You tried again.

He didn’t let you move an inch.

“Stay still.”

A command. Soft. Absolute.

“You’re punishing me,” you breathed.

He hummed against your neck. “Not trying to.”

Your gasp slipped out the moment the head of his cock slid between your folds—no penetration, just the thick, deliberate drag of him gliding through your slick. The friction jolted through your entire body.

Satoru exhaled shakily behind you.

He rolled his hips once. Slow. Controlled.

His length fit perfectly between your thighs, dragging right over your clit in devastating pressure.

Your hand shot back to grab at his thigh, nails sinking in.

“Satoru—”

He thrust again—smooth and heavy—grinding the length of his cock along your soaked cunt. Your legs trembled.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “You’re doing so good, baby”

Your hips jerked involuntarily.

He wrapped an arm around your waist, pinning you exactly where he wanted you.

“Be a good girl,” he breathed. “Take it slow. Let me make you come like this.”

You choked on a moan, clutching at his forearm.

His lips brushed your throat, teeth scraping lightly.

Another slow roll of his hips—harder, deeper—and the friction shot straight through your spine.

“Satoru—” you gasped.

He chuckled softly. “I remember my beautiful girl having a filthy mouth when she’s horny. So say what you really want to say, honey”

“Fuck. I need your cock inside me now. Fuck me stupid, cum inside me—give me your fucking babies.”

You felt him twitch violently.

“Shit,” he groaned, voice breaking with the effort of holding back. “I will. I’ll fuck you exactly how you want.” he said, voice deep and sinful against your skin.

Your breath caught.

“But first,” he continued, his lips dragging up your neck, “you’re going to come like this.”

His hand slipped between your legs again, slow and knowing.

“And then I’m going to take you from behind, and you’ll come again.”

His hips pressed forward, deliberate, teasing.

“And after that…” his voice dropped to a growl, “I’ll fuck you while looking at your pretty face, and make you come a third time.”

He rocked into you with devastating rhythm

Your breathing turned uneven, your body tightening around nothing, the ache unbearable.

Your hand clutched his forearm, trembling.

“Come for me,” he whispered against your skin, voice ragged. “Soak me.”

You fell apart.

Your knees tightened, your breath hitched, and pleasure ripped through you in sharp waves. Satoru held you through every tremor, whispering your name, steadying you until your body finally eased.

When your breathing steadied, he was already kissing your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth.

“You okay?” he murmured.

You nodded, dizzy and spent.

He shifted behind you— and you felt him again. Still hard. Still throbbing. Still very much not done.

“Good,” he said, turning you gently onto your back.

“Because now,” he whispered, settling between your legs, eyes dark and hungry— “I’m gonna give my girl what she wanted.”

You barely had time to breathe before he tugged his hoodie off your body in one smooth pull. Then his fingers hooked into your panties and dragged them down your thighs and tossed them somewhere in the room.

He flipped you gently onto your hands and knees, pulling your hips up to meet him.

Your breath tangled in your throat as his palms spread you open, thumbs pressing softly into the swell of your hips.

“Look at you,” he murmured, voice thick and already wrecked. “You’re the most beautiful thing my eyes have ever laid on”

His palm slide up your spine in one slow stroke and your stomach tightened.  “Arch your back, baby.”

You did—instantly—and the sound that tore from his throat was almost feral 

Then he lined himself up and he slid into you, slow at first, then all the way, filling you completely. The pace he set was relentless, devastating.

“You’re gonna ruin me.”

Every thrust dragged fire through your body, the pleasure coiling fast, too fast. You were slipping into that overstimulated, desperate edge again.

He pulled out almost entirely, then slammed back in—deep, heavy, claiming.

A cry tore from your throat. Your arms trembled.

“I can’t— it’s too—”

“You can,” he groaned, thrusting harder. “You’re already close again, aren’t you? My girl is so fucking sensitive this morning.”

You whined, your body shaking.

“You like it like this?” he rasped, fucking you deeper. “Me behind you, holding you open, fucking you until you forget your name?”

You nodded—too frantic to speak.

“Use your words.”

“Yes—” you gasped, voice breaking. “I love it—I love you—”

His hips faltered for a split second. Then he cursed under his breath, the sound raw and disbelieving.

“Say it again.”

“I love you.”

He groaned, head dropping to your shoulder blade as his pace turned messy, desperate.

“Come” he demanded, pressing a hand to your stomach “Give it to me again, please”

Your second orgasm slammed into you, shaking you apart from the inside out.

He held you through it—guiding you down onto the mattress with one hand on your back, the other squeezing your hip—keeping the thrusts deep and steady as you rode the aftershocks.

When your breath finally steadied, he slowed, pulled out of you with a quiet frustrated groan, and guided you onto your back.

He hovered over you, settled between your legs—hair messy, pupils blown wide, chest rising too fast. He looked wrecked. Beautifully, painfully wrecked. He was so hard it almost hurt just to look at him; he was holding back so much to make sure you came again and again. 

You cupped his cheek and kissed him softly, your thumb stroking his lower lip.

“You’re so good to me…” you whispered against his mouth. “My sweet boy.”

His breath stuttered, hips jerking forward just from your voice.

You brushed your fingers over his eyelashes, tender and slow.

“You have the most beautiful eyes in the world.”

He let out a soft, broken whimper.

“I love when you look at me when you’re smiling…” you said, kissing him again, biting his lip gently.

“And I love when you look at me when you’re on top of me… when you’re inside me.”

His hand fisted the sheets beside your head. You wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him closer, guiding him in. He slid into you again in one slow, devastating thrust.

“You f— you f-feel too good,” he choked. “Baby, don’t— you’re gonna make me—”

“You fuck me so well,” you teased, voice warm, sultry. “So deep. So… right.”

“I don’t know how I survived these eight months without you.”

“No one compares to you. No one.”

“I’m so lucky… the most handsome man treats me so well… and ruins me so perfectly”

His eyes squeezed shut, a helpless groan ripping from his chest.

His hands framed your face as he kissed you—deep, messy, claiming—his hips moving with a pace he was barely controlling.

“I missed you,” he whispered into your mouth, voice breaking. “So much—so fucking much—”

You traced his jaw, your voice breathless “You’re perfect”

“D-don’t— say it like that—” he begged, thrust faltering. “Baby, I’m trying to last—”

“Why?” you whispered in his ear, kissing down his throat.

“I want to feel you fall apart for me. I want you to lose it.”

His hips stuttered violently.

“You’re so handsome…”

“So strong…”

“S–stop—” he gasped, the word falling apart in his throat, “I can’t— I’m gonna— I’m—”

You dragged your nails down his back, pulling him deeper, anchoring him to you.

“Come for me,” you whispered, breath hot against his ear. “Come inside me, Satoru.”

His breath hitched—his whole body tightening above you—and then the words spilled out raw, unfiltered, instinctive:

“I wanna marry you.”

Another thrust—deep, desperate, uncontrolled.

“Want you to be the mother of my children.”

His forehead pressed to yours, his voice breaking open completely.

“Wanna call you my wife— f-fuck— wanna wake up to you every morning, wanna fuck you just like this— every day— forever—”

You moaned, your walls clenching hard around him, pulling him in deeper.

“Satoru—”

“Come with me,” he begged, thrusting hard, messy, losing all control.

“Please—baby— come with me— I need it— I need you—”

You did. 

Hard.

Your orgasm hit like a shockwave, pulling his right out of him—

He groaned your name, long and guttural, and spilled inside you, hips pressed tight to yours as he came undone completely. 

You held him, kissing his cheek, his jaw, the corner of his mouth as he shook through the last waves. He collapsed onto you gently, breath hot against your neck, still inside you, still trembling. 

He dropped beside you a moment later, chest heaving, one arm automatically pulling you into him like his body didn’t know how not to.

“…Jesus Christ,” he muttered “I think I saw God.”

You snorted, half-dead. “I think you became God for a minute.”

“That’s right,” he mumbled, eyes closing, “worship me.”

You nudged him weakly with your elbow. “Shut up.”

He smiled — wide, blissed-out, boyish — and kissed your shoulder like he couldn’t help himself.

“Shower?” he murmured.

You groaned dramatically. “If I move right now my legs might fall off.”

“That’s fine,” he said, scooping you up with zero warning, “I’ll carry you.”

“Satoru!” you squealed, grabbing his shoulders as he lifted you bridal-style. 

He laughed all the way to the bathroom.

—

By the time you stepped out of the shower, your legs had finally stopped shaking. You threw on an oversized shirt, and ten minutes later you were flipping eggs, humming to yourself, when a pair of big, warm arms wrapped around your waist.

Satoru dropped his chin onto your shoulder like a dramatic koala.

“What are you doing?” you asked, smiling.

“Making sure my breakfast doesn’t run away.”

You snorted. “You ate me alive half an hour ago.”

“And I’m starving again,” he said, squeezing your hips.

You rolled your eyes, but your smile betrayed you. He kissed your cheek. Once. Twice. A third time just because he clearly had zero self-control.

“It wasn’t the heat of the moment.” he said suddenly

You blinked. “What?”

He repeated it, firmer this time. “It wasn’t the heat of the moment.”

You turned your head slightly, frowning. “What are you even—”

“I wanna marry you.”

You choked on air so violently he had to grab your elbow before you sent the pan flying.

He laughed, delighted. “Relax. I’m not proposing. I’m not a simple man. I wouldn’t do it in the kitchen”

You narrowed your eyes. “Of course you wouldn’t. You’d probably hire a marching band, a parade, a helicopter, and a drone show spelling ‘MARRY ME’.”

He pointed at you proudly. “Exactly.”

You nudged him with your hip.

“I mean it. I want to call you my wife someday.”

Your chest tightened painfully sweet.

“Okay, husband,” you murmured, “but first we need to graduate.”

He groaned like you’d stabbed him. “Ugh. Why would you bring reality into my love confession?”

“Because it’s true.”

He swayed slightly with you in his arms.

“Well,” he sighed dramatically, kissing your shoulder, “if the rest of life is with you… I guess I’ll survive till graduation.”

You turned in his arms, cupped his cheeks, kissed him slow.

“I love you.”

He smiled — soft, bright, wrecking.

“I love you more.”

And after eight long months, everything felt right.

this was my first ever finished and published Satoru fic!! It’s crazy how after this, I just couldn’t stop writing. Definitely not my best work, but it holds such a special place in my heart 🩷

reblogs are always appreciated!! <3 masterlist

[victorards]

cozy nite

[anasabdin]

<<

[ghiblin]

SPIRITED AWAY 千と千尋の神隠し 2001, dir. Hayao Miyazaki

[sixteensecrets]

“Still you rise, I guess.”

WHACK HIM AGAIN TRINITY!!!

[aeresha]

𐔌՞ ܸ.ˬ.ܸ՞𐦯 Sukuna Ryomen's ゛ ⸝⸝.ᐟ⋆ mumbling when he doesn't get his daily morning kisses .✦ ݁˖

The morning sun filtered through the blinds, casting long, golden stripes across the tatami mats. Usually, you would spend at least ten minutes entangled in Ryomen's suffocating, four-armed embrace, enduring his rough-textured skin and sleepy grunts. But today, you were late.

You slid out of the futon, throwing on a robe and tying your hair back in a rush. You didn’t notice the immediate shift in the room's energy—the way the heavy, oppressive aura of the King of Curses suddenly stirred.

As you paced around the kitchen island, frantically brewing coffee and packing a bag, a towering figure leaned against the doorframe.

Ryomen looked a mess.

His pink hair was completely wild, his yukata hung loosely off one broad shoulder, and all four of his eyes were narrowed into slits. He crossed his upper arms, while his lower arms rested on his hips.

Then, the mumbling started.

“...unbelievable,” he growled softly, his voice a deep, gravelly rasp that still carried the weight of sleep. “Brat wakes up, doesn't say a word. Walks right past me like I'm some common curse in the streets. After everything I tolerate...”

You paused, holding a spoon. “Ryomen, did you say something?”

He didn't look at you.

Instead, he stared intently at a spot on the kitchen wall, his lower jaw shifting as he continued to mutter under his breath. “I should dismantle this entire house. The audacity. A thousand years ago, men bled out in the dirt just for a glimpse of my face, and here I am, being ignored for a cup of bean water. Truly pathetic.”

A smile tugged at the corner of your lips.

You set the spoon down and turned to face him fully. “Are you throwing a tantrum?”

“I don't throw tantrums, human,” he snapped, though his eyes finally flicked to yours, burning with mock irritation. “I state facts. You lack discipline. You lack respect.”

He took a slow, deliberate step into the kitchen, his massive frame completely eclipsing the light. He didn't stop until he was inches away from you, trapping you between his chest and the kitchen counter. His extra hands came down on either side of you, effectively pinning you in place.

“Well?” he murmured, leaning his face down. His upper eyes were squinted shut in a pout he would die before admitting to, while his lower eyes watched your mouth. “Are you going to fix your mistake, or do I have to remind you who rules this domain?”

You laughed softly, reaching up to cup his jaw.

His skin was warm, and the rough markings beneath your fingers felt familiar.

“Good morning, Ryomen,” you whispered.

You leaned up and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to his lips. Instantly, the tense lines of his shoulders relaxed. Before you could pull away, his upper hands caught the back of your head, deep-fruiting his fingers into your hair to prolong the kiss, turning it into something possessive and deep.

When he finally let you go, a smug, satisfied smirk had replaced his scowl.

“Hmph...” he grunted, turning on his heel to head toward the porch, his yukata trailing behind him. “See that it doesn't happen again tomorrow. I won't be so lenient.”

© 2026 aeresha. All content is owned by @aeresha. Do not repost, edit, translate, or copy in any form across any platform.

[littlemartyr]

GOD PLEASE BRING OUR FAMILY BACK TOGETHER

[6x-x9]

-`♡´- Suguru makes love to you..! :: 18+ :: fem!reader ::

You lay on your tummy in the soft sheets, phone glowing in your hands as you scroll mindlessly. Suguru’s resting on your back, his big body a comforting weight that pins you gently into the mattress. He feels so solid and warm, his chest rising and falling against you with each breath, the room's quiet except for the low hum of the fan and the occasional tap of your finger on the screen.

"Should we order something for dinner?" he murmurs near your ear, voice low and smooth, "Or maybe I can make something just for you? Eggs the way you like them."

You smile into the pillow and nod, his hands starts to wander then. At first they're innocent, sliding along your sides, but soon his palms grow bolder and he slips them under your t-shirt, mapping the curve of your waist and the softness of your skin. His touch gentle yet sure, fingers spreading wide to feel more of your warmth.

A soft moan slips from your lips. It was quiet, barely there, but it made him shift and you felt it immediately. His cock begins to harden against your ass, pressing through his sweatpants as he moves, the more he rocks subtly, the more obvious it becomes... he's getting hard just from touching you like this.

"Are you getting hard right now, Suguru?" you tease, voice playful.

He sighs, a sound full of pain and want. "Fuck yes Princess. And you're such a brat for pointing it out."

Before you could laugh, he flips you over with ease. His strength always surprises you and now you lay on your back, staring up at his handsome face, dark hair falling forward, framing those sharp violet eyes thats looking at you with hunger and he traces his hands up your arms until he pins both your wrists above your head with one of his large hands. The other resting besides your face.

He leans down and kisses you. First came soft pecks, light and teasing against your lips, then the kiss deepens, his mouth claiming yours fully, tongue pushing inside to taste you. You moan into it, body arching up to meet him and he slots perfectly between your thighs, his hips settling against yours as if he always belonged there.

The grinding starts slow, his hard cock rubbing right against your pussy through your thin shorts, with each roll of his hips makes you wetter, the fabric growing damp from how much you want him, then his free hand roams down your side, squeezing your hip before sliding under your shirt again to cup your breast.

You tug against his grip on your wrists, not to escape but to feel the control he has and It sends sparks through you. Suguru notices and tightens his hold just enough to remind you whose in charge as his tongue tangles with yours, the kiss turns messy and hot, breathy sounds filling the space between you.

He breaks the kiss for a moment, lips brushing your jaw. "Look at you. Already so wet for me and I haven't barely even touched you properly, sweet girl." His voice husky and he grounds down harder, letting you feel every inch of his erection pressing against your plump pussy.

Your legs wraps around his waist instinctively, the pressure feeling so good, each movement drags cock right over your clit, making you gasp and he kisses you again, deeper this time, swallowing every little moan you give him, His hand leaves your breast and travels lower, slipping into your shorts to find you soaked.

Suguru groans against your mouth. "So warm and ready. My sweet brat." His fingers teases your folds, circling your clit with just enough pressure to make your hips buck and you try to move your hands but he keeps them pinned, forcing you to take the pleasure he's giving.

He kisses down your neck, sucking lightly at the sensitive spot that always makes you shiver. His hips never stopping their slow grind, even as his fingers explore you. Two thick fingers pushes inside your pussy, curling just right and the stretch feels perfect and you clench around them, moaning louder now.

The weight of him on top of you is everything. His broad shoulders blocking out the light from the lamp. His scent, clean and masculine with a hint of his shampoo, surrounds you, making you feel safe and claimed all at once.

"Please, Suguru," you whisper.

He lifts his head up to look at you, eyes dark with lust. "Please what? Tell me, baby." He adds a third finger, pumping them in and out slowly while his thumb rubs your clit.

You whimper... "I need you inside me. All of you."

He smiles, that lazy, dangerous smile. "Good girl for asking so nicely." Then he releases your wrists but only to pull your shirt off. His own clothes follows quickly and when he settles back between your thighs, his bare cock rests heavy against your slick pussy.

He takes his time rubbing the head up and down your folds, coating himself in your wetness. Every slide making you tremble, then he pushes in, inch by thick inch, stretching you open until he bottoms out, the fullness makes your head fall back against the pillow.

Suguru stays still for a moment, savoring how you pulse around him and his hands finds yours again, lacing your fingers together above your head and he starts to move, deep and steady thrusts that hit every sensitive spot inside you.

Your moans mix with his low groans. The bed creaks softly under you both, he leans down to kiss you through it, tongues sliding together in time with his hips and weat begins to slick your skin where you're touching.

He angles his thrusts to grind against your clit with every push, the pleasure builds fast and your legs tightens around him, heels digging into the small of his back. "Aaa— Close," you breathe.

"Come for me," he commands softly. "Let me feel it."

You shatter around him, pussy clenching tight as waves of pleasure washes over you and he keeps moving through it, drawing it out until you’re shaking. Only then does he let himself go, burying deep and filling you with hot pulses of his milky cum.

He collapses on top of you, still inside, his weight comforting once more, he presses soft kisses to your shoulder as you both catch your breath.

"Dinner in a minute," he murmurs with a smile. "And maybe round two after."

You laugh softly and nod, running your fingers through his raven hair. The night is still young, and Suguru is far from being done with you.

-`♡´- MAIN MASTERLIST-`♡´--`♡´-GETO M-LIST-`♡´-